Page 80 of Missing White Woman

We’d made it two steps past the entrance when the voice came. “Excuse me.”

It was clear they were talking to us. I didn’t stop. Neither did Adore. It spoke again. Louder this time. Closer. “You in the hat.”

It was followed a few nanoseconds later by a hand on my arm. It felt hot enough to brand me: Killer. It took everything not to wrench away. Instead, I just stopped. Slowly turned around to look at the woman. White with brunette hair in space buns, she’d written “#Justice4Janelle” across her cheeks.

“Excuse me?” Adore must’ve used her court voice. Strong. Self-assured. Not here for any mess.

It worked too because Brunette stepped back as if our breath stank. There was an awkward moment when none of us said anything as pink shirt after pink shirt eagerly wound past us. A dog barked a few feet away.

Finally, Brunette smiled, nervous but trying not to show it. “You two didn’t get your candles or balloons.”

My shiny armor disappeared. “Right.” I turned to Adore. “We need our candles.”

“And balloons. How could we forget?” Adore was all smiles now.

We followed her back—she was hurrying so we couldn’t walk next to her—until we were at the entrance. Original Brunette quickly grabbed a candle—then handed it to Brunette Part Deux, more than happy to let us be someone else’s problem. Part Deux smiled as she passed me my candle first. “We’re doing a balloon release, so you should wait until Billie gives the go-ahead.”

Despite the steady stream walking in, the park wasn’t as crowded as I’d thought. There were a lot of people, sure. But more low hundreds than thousands. And they all seemed to be taking selfies.

No one even gave me a first glance, much less a second or third. We kept going to the gazebo up ahead. Tonight’s stage.

I felt stronger with each step. More confident. These people weren’t here to hunt down a killer. They were here to tell people they’d come. And as long as I didn’t jump onstage and scream, “I’m Breanna Wright,” I’d be okay.

Fingers crossed.

“It’s like a cult.” Adore watched a group rush past us. “A clone cult.”

She was right. There was now just one problem. Everyone looked the same. White and pink and space-bunned, from what I could see behind their balloons. It made it impossible to figure out which one was Billie. They all had her carefully crafted aesthetic as if they’d watched and paused and rewound her makeup tutorials one right after another.

Grazing Adore’s arm, I whispered into her ear. “Which one is Billie?”

“Damned if I know.”

We did two loops with no luck, only a couple of false alarms. Adore wanted to start lap three, but I was tired and hot and had to pee.

“You still have the world’s smallest bladder,” Adore said.

“And you still love to give me crap about it.”

She rolled her eyes but was already heading in the direction of the bathrooms. It looked like half the crowd was in line. “At least I’ll have a good seat for the vigil,” I said. “It’ll be on the toilet, but still.”

Adore turned to me. “Race for the Cure sophomore year.”

The memory came back instantly. “Let’s do it.”

We both made our way to the men’s room on the other side of the building. It was empty except for a lone woman standing outside. She clocked us coming, then stepped protectively in front of the door like a bouncer.

“I’m sorry. Billie’s doing some last-minute prep for her speech. So you can’t talk to her right now,” she said as soon as we got within earshot.

She spewed it off automatically, like she’d been saying it over and over. She followed it up with more of the same. “She’s happy to chat as soon as the event is over.”

Adore and I exchanged a look.

“She’ll want to talk to us,” Adore said.

“What media outlet are you with?” the woman said.

“None, but she’ll want to speak with us.”

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