Page 86 of Missing White Woman

I’d underestimated her.

* * *

Adore was in the bathroom. It took me ten minutes to find her, and when I did, she had both sides of a porcelain sink in a death grip, staring at herself, barely blinking and not smiling at all. I’d never seen her this way.

I leaned against the sink next to hers and of course tried to lighten the mood. “If you were my lawyer twelve years ago, I would’ve gotten off.”

She just shook her head.

I spoke again. “I need to do this, Adore.”

“She tricked us. Me.”

“Yes, but she also told her millions of followers we’re going to talk tonight. If I bail, it’ll look like I’m trying to hide something.”

“Not if we go to a real outlet. Let you talk to them on camera. CNN. CBS. MSNBC. They’ll all want to talk to you. I just need to contact them.”

“And while you’re doing that, Billie’s ‘Breanna Wright has something to hide’ TikTok will gain a kabillion views.”

She made me wait before she gave her answer and then it was just one single word.

“Fine.”

We turned to go. “She was right about one thing,” Adore said. “You do look washed out. You can’t go in there looking like a mug shot.”

“She’s seen my mug shot.”

“I know. You actually look better in it.”

* * *

As soon as we went Live, I was reminded this wasn’t a regular interview. Billie had insisted we sit side by side—something about angles—like we were filming a YouTube reaction video instead of discussing the most talked about murder in the United States. We were so close I could smell Billie’s vanilla-scented perfume—as we stared at a tiny iPhone smack-dab in the middle of an oversized ring light.

It should’ve made me uncomfortable. Instead, it had the opposite effect: reminded me we weren’t in an interrogation room or on some morning show. Billie ran through her usual introductions (Hey, Billie Bunch) and purpose (#Justice4Janelle) before turning to me. Not literally, though. She’d already told me she hated the angle.

“Breanna.”

I immediately interrupted, turning to speak to her. “Only my mother calls me that. Please call me Bree.”

After a moment, Billie nodded. “Bree.”

She smiled, though her eyes didn’t crinkle. Then she reached out to rub my shoulder. I’m sure on camera it looked warm, like she was welcoming me. But in reality, she maneuvered me back to the angle she wanted.

“I want to thank you for coming on my channel,” Billie said. “It’s very brave of you.”

My laugh was soft. “I wouldn’t call it brave. I wanted to come on because you are the person who’s been getting justice for Janelle Beckett.”

Billie smiled at the compliment.

I kept on. “And having been there. Having seen what happened to that poor woman, I want justice served as much as anyone else.” I took in a breath. “Even if it means going through this phase, where people are calling me with death threats.”

Billie had the nerve to look shocked. “Death threats? That’s completely unacceptable—just like everyone blaming me for spreading rumors when we’re getting to the truth.”

I nodded. “And that’s also why I’m here. I wanted to share what actually happened that night…”

The hair. The hands. The jeans. The blood covering it all.

For once, I didn’t push the thought away. Instead, I focused on it. Janelle Beckett lying in a pool of her own blood. Beaten beyond recognition.

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