Page 51 of Missing White Woman

“How?”

The name was the most obvious, but I wasn’t telling her that. She’d google her and be leaving Adore’s law firm bad reviews on Yelp ten minutes after we got off the phone. I finally went back to FaceTime. My mother’s face was stone. She wasn’t looking at the camera. She was looking back. Twelve years ago.

“Has she apologized? For what she did to you, Breanna.”

Not with words, no. But still. My mother kept on, though I tuned her out.

Maryland had voted to legalize recreational marijuana in 2022, the same year the president had pushed to grant pardons to anyone with a federal simple marijuana conviction.

I remembered how my boss had come to me on Election Day to tell me that she’d voted to legalize it because of me. I didn’t have the heart to tell her it didn’t matter. Making my record go away wouldn’t magically make my life any better. It wouldn’t take the shame away. It wouldn’t make up for all the things I didn’t do.

I never took the LSAT. Never moved out of my studio apartment. Never left the job I’d originally taken just for “spending money.” Never moved to DC to live in a fancy loft like Adore and I had always talked about.

I said none of this, though—just thought it for the millionth time—as I watched my mother work herself up, always wanting to blame Adore’s bad influence for what had gone wrong in my life. And that’s when I made the decision: there was no way I was going to tell her about anything that was happening. Instead, I just continued to tune her out, offering the occasional nod and “You’re right,” because that was all I could say when she got like this. I didn’t really tune back in until I heard my name.

“I’m sorry, Ma. What’d you say?”

“You need to come home.”

She was right.

Calloway wanted me to stay, but she couldn’t force me. It was time to finally go back to Maryland. I had family obligations, though I’d still want to go home even if I didn’t. Ty had sprung for a round-trip train ticket. First-class cabin. The return ticket was open, so I could go whenever I wanted.

And it was only then I realized I wanted.

“I’ll be home soon,” I finally said. “Hopefully today.”

We hung up and I checked the train schedule. Amtrak had a train leaving at ten. The good news was I didn’t have much stuff to pack. If I rushed, I could check out and hopefully find my way back to the train station in Newark in time.

I’d just thrown one dirty-ass sock into my carry-on and was desperately searching for its twin when my phone rang. Adore. I put her on speaker.

“Morning,” she said. “What are you doing? Figured maybe I could bring over breakfast.”

“I’m not super hungry. How long does it take to get to Penn Station?”

“Newark? Twenty minutes.” She paused, and then: “Why?”

The sock had crammed itself into my running shoe. I pulled it out, threw it into my bag, then sat down. “Just spoke to my mom. She wanted to know when I was coming back. I was afraid to tell her why I wasn’t home already. I told my boss I needed to stay longer, but she’s only going to be so patient. I need to get out of here.”

“Okay… Did you tell Calloway?”

I deflated at the name. “No. Why would I have to?”

“She asked you to stick around.”

“Right. Asked. But I’m not under arrest. I should be able to leave.”

The panic must’ve been evident in my voice because Adore’s words rushed out. “No, it’s fine. You’re right. But you should still just give them a heads-up. It might look bad if you don’t.”

I didn’t say anything. Just stared at my suitcase, my belongings just as jumbled as my brain.

“What time’s your train?” Adore said.

“Ten.”

There was a pause as if she pulled her phone away from her ear to check the time, then she spoke again. “Great. I’ll call Calloway. Let her know. And then I’ll come drive you. I’ll even stop by Dunkin’ Donuts.”

I hated her tone, like she was thirty minutes deep into negotiations with some petulant child about going to bed. But it was the adult in me who appreciated not having to do any of that myself. Adore would take care of everything. All I had to do was sit in a car and eat a Boston Kreme. “I’ll be ready at nine fifteen,” I said.

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