Page 71 of Missing White Woman

“I know it’s the middle of the night, Billie Bunch, but we found her.” She’s so excited, she’s completely forgotten her normal intro. “Us. Not the cops. Us. The ones who just want justice for Janelle. The cops sure didn’t give a shit when she went missing. We were the ones who made them pay attention. We were the ones who practically handed them Tyler Franklin on a platter. If they’d just listened to us, he’d be alive right now in jail instead of getting to take the easy way out. Without us, there would be no investigation to even hinder.”

Billie takes a deep breath and tries to compose herself. “I got a DM last night. Not going to tell you from who, but as soon as I saw it, I immediately had to call them. They had information on Tyler’s girlfriend. The one who found the body but didn’t call 911. The one who’s the sole reason the police think our Janelle died when she did—though it was hours before the police were called. The one who’s been in hiding ever since.”

She gives the camera a look. “I always thought it was curious how she never came forward, but I’ll admit I was so focused on Tyler, I didn’t really pursue it. I assumed she was also a victim of his. But now that I know who she is, I’m not so sure.

“Apparently, the police think the same thing because they haven’t let her leave town. She’s been staying at some hotel a few minutes from where Janelle was murdered. They even spoke with her at the station last night—after my interview with Sarah and their brother revealed Tyler wasn’t in the Airbnb a couple of hours before Janelle allegedly died. After I spoke with my source and got the girlfriend’s full name, I went down a rabbit hole. I wanted to be sure of my suspicions. And you’ll never believe what I found.”

A screenshot appears behind Billie. It’s a mug shot of a brown-skinned, college-aged Black woman with a tangle of kinky black hair. She’s pretty despite the grim expression. “Let me introduce you to Breanna Grace Wright. Tyler’s other woman and a convicted criminal. This is from the time she was pulled over for erratic driving after running a red light. Police found a significant amount of marijuana in her car. And get this: she was charged with both possession and resisting arrest.”

Behind her the screenshot changes to a newspaper article. LOCAL WOMAN CHARGED AFTER TRAFFIC STOP. Billie glances back as if she can see it behind her. “Breanna Wright pled guilty. Was sentenced to three months in prison. Two years of probation.”

Billie is silent for the next minute, contemplating. “I can only imagine how she must’ve reacted when she learned Tyler and Janelle were still seeing each other. Were in love after all these years. You never forget your first love, right? There was no way this Breanna Wright could compare to our Janelle. What she could’ve done. I mean, look at her.”

The screen flashes back to the mug shot. Breanna Wright’s eyes look more angry now than scared. “I’m sure you’re just as shocked as I am. Asking yourselves the same questions. How was this woman, this Breanna Wright, not a suspect from the get-go? And was she working with Tyler—or was he also a victim?”

She lets that settle before speaking again. “I’ll be back as soon as I have more info—and possibly a pic of her at the Jersey City police station.”

TWENTY-ONE

It’d been so long since I’d woken up to a landline, I almost didn’t recognize the noise it made. I’d been asleep but not dreaming. It took three rings to cut through the haze and another two to realize what the sound was. I glanced at the alarm clock, wanting to know why the front desk was calling me so early. It was just past 7 a.m.

“Morning.” I made sure not to say “good.”

“Breanna Wright?”

“That’s me. Everything okay?”

“It would be—if you hadn’t killed Janelle Beckett.”

And just like that I was awake. Except I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even move. I just lay there, listening as the voice continued. It sounded young—probably a teenager, which made it even more horrible.

“You deserve to go back to jail—for life this time.”

Finally, I got it together enough to hang up. My first coherent thought was I need to talk to Adore. Immediately. My second was I, of course, have no clue where I left my cell.

I started with the bed, frantically tapping it here and there like I was trying to get its attention. I gave up after a couple minutes and decided to search the floor. It’d been known to fall in the middle of the night.

But there was nothing. So I went to the living room, flinching at the bright morning light. I was moving toward the couch when the landline rang again.

I paused practically midstep like they could see me. Then I stayed like that while the phone rang and rang and rang. I stopped breathing at five rings, stopped counting at ten. When I realized they weren’t going to hang up, I decided to do it myself. Walking over, I picked the phone up and immediately slammed it down. Then I breathed.

I was two breaths in when I finally saw my cell on the counter. I’d never been happier. I was about to rush over to grab it—when the landline rang again. This time I didn’t hesitate. Just picked it up. Slammed it down. Picked it up again, leaving it off the cradle this time. Ignoring its faint noise of protest, I walked over to my cell, but the notifications let me know they’d found that number too.

Crap.

I ignored the litany of missed calls, just like I ignored the litany of texts—people I knew interspersed with people who’d decided I was now America’s Most Wanted.

My hands shook as I tried to pull up Adore’s number, only to be interrupted by my phone app appearing again. This person was smart enough to hide their number. It came up private. I hit Ignore, then called Adore.

She picked up right away. “You’ve been doxed.”

“They’ve been calling the hotel nonstop. They know I’m here.”

“I’m two lights away. Meet you in the lobby.”

My knight. “I just need to pack.”

“What—”

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