Page 89 of Missing White Woman

“I thought you were going to be okay,” she said.

“And when you found out I wasn’t?” I said, but she didn’t respond. I kept on. “At least now I know why you kept tabs on me. Why you suddenly appeared the other day, going out of your way to make amends. Being so sweet I felt like an asshole for being mean to you. You felt guilty.”

I gave her a once-over, taking in the Louboutins. The designer jeans. The Hermès holding the business cards touting a profession she’d never even wanted. “You ruined my life—and then you fucking took it.”

Adore’s head turned. When she finally looked at me, her face was stone. “I wasn’t the one who ran that light. Or resisted arrest.”

The words sounded rehearsed—like something she’d repeated to herself each night instead of counting sheep.

“Because those weren’t my drugs,” I said, not even wanting to think about how many times I’d blamed Domingo. He was still an asshole, but he hadn’t planted those drugs in my car.

“If you hadn’t mouthed off, you would’ve been okay,” she said.

Once again, it sounded like this was something she’d told herself a million times and had convinced herself was true.

“How would you know?” I said. “You weren’t there. During or after. Even if you didn’t tell the cops, you could’ve at least told me.”

“I can help you get your record expunged,” she said, as if that would erase the past twelve years.

She was back to not looking at me. I tried to calm myself down by attempting to take in air. It didn’t work.

“Fuck you, Adore.”

I took off running again.

* * *

I got all the way back to the light-rail before my body betrayed me, my breaths as ragged as a piece of old clothing. When I went to check the time, I saw Adore had texted. I was naive enough to still expect an apology. But I’d already forgotten this wasn’t Adore. This was A. Kristine McKinley, born the day she let me take the fall for her drugs.

Your stuff is still at my house.

She could burn it all for all I cared. I’d change my underwear once I got to Maryland. I just needed to figure out how to get there.

It was well after 1 a.m. I still had my return ticket, but the last Amtrak train was probably long gone, having departed back when I didn’t realize how deep my best friend’s betrayal ran.

The light-rail was deserted, not even a homeless person setting up shop on a bench. Suddenly I felt vulnerable. Being Black and a woman in someplace strange so late at night was dangerous.

That’s when I saw the sign for Hyatt House.

I took inventory of what I still had with me—even if my wits weren’t one of the items. Just the clothes on my back, my handbag, and my cell phone. I’d brought my debit card but didn’t have to open my bank app to know I didn’t have enough in my account to purchase a hotel room.

It was fine. I could find an all-night diner. Nurse a cup of coffee like I was on call at a hospital. But when I googled, the search came up empty. Only places that were still open were take-out. Blame post-pandemic life for the new operation hours.

So I did what I had to do.

My mom picked up on the second ring. “Breanna?” She made her voice sound tired even though we both knew she was a night owl. “You’re finally calling me back.”

“Mommy.” I hadn’t used that word in twelve years. “I need—”

But she cut me off. “Are you at the police station, Breanna? You’ve been arrested again?”

Her tone hurt worse than a blow to the stomach. I waited for the lecture followed by the onslaught of questions about Janelle Beckett and my involvement. Part of me wanted to scream out that she was right about Adore, had always been right. Adore was the reason I was arrested, so my mom could forgive me now. But I wasn’t sure she’d believe me. Still.

“No,” I said. “Because I didn’t do anything. I didn’t hurt that girl. Ty didn’t hurt that girl. And I’m going to explain everything to you soon as I get back home. But for now I just need your help.” I paused. “Not your judgment.”

There was a moment of silence. By the time she spoke, it felt like her words had walked all the way from Maryland. But then: “Okay, baby. What do you need?”

I exhaled. Maybe even smiled a bit. Okay. It was just one word. Two syllables. But it was exactly what I needed to hear. “A hotel room,” I said. “Hyatt House. Jersey City.”

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