Page 62 of Missing White Woman

“So he walked ten to fifteen minutes.”

“Right. Along a path that’s literally right next to the Hudson River. I mean, it has that rail, but that’s what? Four feet high? It’s just there to stop kids and dogs from accidents. If you really wanted to jump into the Hudson, you could. Not to mention him hating water.” When we got to my floor, I exited first. “It doesn’t make any sense,” I said at last.

Adore followed close behind, her voice reduced to a hiss. “What doesn’t make sense is you trying to rationalize the thought process of someone who’d just beat a woman to death.”

I turned to face her. “But what if he didn’t?”

She took in a sharp breath. I could practically hear her counting to five in her head. “Ty couldn’t swim,” she said. “I haven’t been to Caven Point, but a lot of people like to hike there when it’s open. I looked at some pics online. Those paths are scary in the daytime. No handrails over the marshy bits. I can’t imagine how it must’ve been at night. Would’ve been easy for him to step off the boardwalk. Get lost. Fall into one of the pools of water. Not be able to get out.”

“Or someone could’ve pushed him.”

“Please, just let this go. Ty did it. He killed Janelle Beckett, then he freaked out, roamed around for an hour, and decided it was better to die by suicide than face the consequences of his actions. I’m just glad he didn’t decide to kill anyone else.”

My eyes turned to slits. Ty may have been a cheater, seeing Janelle again, and I’d have to deal with that, but he wasn’t a murderer. “Call Calloway. I want to talk to her.”

“It was a murder-suicide, Bree. Crime of passion. It happens every day in this country.”

“I’ll call her myself.” I pulled my phone out from my running belt. “Siri, what’s the number for the Jersey City police?”

“What are you gonna tell them? That you timed your morning run? You just sound like an in-denial and now guilty-feeling girlfriend. You’d need proof.”

I didn’t have a response to that because she was right. At least about the guilt. I’d let Billie and the rest of the internet convince me to doubt him. I’d been the one to give the tip that cemented him as the main suspect.

I walked to my room, trusting she was behind me. Neither of us said anything until we were both inside. She sat on the couch as I leaned against the lone desk, gripping the Dunkin’ cup. “Can’t we just talk to them, Adore? See if they’re at least considering it?”

“Just let it be a murder-suicide.”

“Why?”

“Because if someone killed them both, the first person anyone is gonna look at is the in-denial girlfriend. Also the only person in New Jersey who knew he couldn’t swim.”

She was right. And I knew firsthand that cops didn’t always give a shit if you were actually guilty or not.

“I didn’t do it, though,” I finally said. I wasn’t going to be passive this time. I had to fight—for myself and for Ty. “And if I didn’t do it and if Ty didn’t do it, then who did? You said it yourself. This was a crime of passion. Everyone’s been so focused on Ty, but who else in Janelle Beckett’s life might have done that to her? What if someone actually dangerous is getting away?”

Adore said nothing. After a moment, she took out her phone. Not the response I had been expecting. “What are you doing?” I said.

“Background check on Janelle Beckett.”

That was definitely more like it. “I’ll dig deep into her socials,” I said. “See if anybody was tagged who suddenly stopped making appearances.”

We worked in silence for the next hour. Thanks to A Brush With Billie, I had Janelle Beckett’s social media handles committed to memory. She’d used the same one for all her platforms. Her Twitter and TikTok weren’t much. She was clearly an Instagram type of person. The recent IG posts were much more curated. Lots of selfies and cute videos of dogs. I recognized the small brown dog belonging to Ms. Morgane in more than one.

But the more I scrolled back, the less filtered it got. The account had started in 2020, which was weird in itself, considering she was just a few years younger than me. A photo of the Manhattan skyline was her first post. Again, strange for someone from the selfie generation. She’d been fascinated with New York City architecture for a while. No photos of other people and no one even tagged. So I got to checking early comments. Unlike the most recent post with the space buns, the first year’s photos still had only five or six comments at a time. Guess no one wanted to go that far back to leave their RIPs and promises of #Justice4Janelle.

Adore’s voice sliced through my research. “Well, the good news is she’s not a sex offender. Or on any terrorist watch lists. No legal judgments. She hasn’t filed any civil cases. I also searched New Jersey, New York, and Maryland criminal records. No arrests.”

“I’m glad one of us can say that,” I said. I wasn’t too upset about it, though. It was what I had been expecting. “What about restraining orders?”

“I can’t find any taken out on her.”

“What about ones she took out?”

“That’s a civil matter. Wouldn’t show up. Any luck with her socials?”

I shook my head. “Unless it was a dog attack, then no. She wasn’t really the type to put all her business on social media. And if she did at one point, it’s now been deleted. I can check the folks she followed. Maybe comb Billie’s TikTok to see if she mentioned any personal stuff in comments.”

“Don’t waste your time. We need to talk to someone who knew her. Who’d know if she was having problems with anyone.” For once, Adore looked defeated. “But no one like that is going to talk to either of us. Even if we ask nicely.”

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