Page 94 of Missing White Woman

“He knew you were lying,” I said.

“Then that makes two of us.”

We got to the sidewalk, then headed to her house next door, her muttering the entire way. “What a miserable human being. That was him being nice. We all hate how he treats her. We all want her to leave him—though we’d never say that to her. She’s too afraid to leave. Especially with him ‘preferring’ for her to ‘not work and stay at home.’” She’d used air quotes as we walked up to her door. “Just code for ‘I want you to be completely dependent on me so you’ll be afraid to leave.’”

“Wouldn’t she get half?”

“He has to have a prenup. That’s what these rich folks do.”

She had a point.

I couldn’t see the woman Ms. Morgane described as a killer, though I could see her going outside her marriage to find the affection it lacked. And if there was one thing Ty had been good at, it was affection. Once again, I was surprised at the emotions that bubbled up. And just like I’d suddenly yearned to hear Janelle Beckett’s voice, I needed to at least see what Lori Stevenson looked like. “You have a photo of her?” I said.

Ms. Morgane didn’t seem to think it was weird, but then she wasn’t in my head. “I’m sure I do on my phone. There was a quick group trip a few of us went on last year when Jeff and Carl got married in Mexico. Come in and I’ll find it.” She looked me up and down. “And you can eat something.”

I nodded, more so for the photo than the food—though I still hadn’t eaten.

I followed her inside, ignoring Chelsea as she excitedly jumped up on us both. I was afraid Ms. Morgane would make me wait for the picture until she’d cooked enough food to feed an army. Instead, she casually motioned to the cell phone she’d left on her coffee table as she continued on to the kitchen.

There was no password and it didn’t take long to find her photo app. I didn’t have time or desire to be nosy—and Ms. Morgane mainly had dog pics anyway. I swiped as I walked, like I was horny and this was Tinder. By the time I made it to the kitchen, Ms. Morgane already had four eggs in a bowl. She was still mumbling. “The nerve of that man. But it would be him holding her hostage in her own house. I should call the police.”

I stopped when I saw a photo that looked familiar. Blond hair. Sculpted build. Red bedazzled face mask. Some random trees behind her.

Lori Stevenson.

“Think I found her.” I walked over and flashed the photo as Ms. Morgane stirred eggs. She glanced at it, then looked at me all puzzled.

“That’s not Lori. That’s Janelle.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

Ms. Morgane was right about having a photo of Lori Stevenson somewhere on her phone. I kept swiping until I found her—ironically in a set of photos with Janelle. The first was of just their faces and upper bodies. Up close and side by side, their features weren’t that much alike. Lori was all hard lines to Janelle’s soft edges. But their height and physique were similar and so was their hair.

I swiped again. This one was a group shot taken at a distance to get all four people. Ms. Morgane. Lori. Some woman I didn’t know. Janelle. They were all packed and ready to go, their luggage waiting patiently next to them. Again: the rose-gold suitcase.

It was next to Janelle.

The one near Lori was dark blue and patterned. I zoomed in. Alligator. Probably real.

Breakfast was so quiet we could’ve been eating in a library. Ms. Morgane ate at her kitchen sink, watching out the window the entire time, hand moving from plate to mouth like she was hooked to a conveyor belt.

I was more than fine with her being a bad host. Happy for the silence as I tried to make sense of it all—like looking at a blurred photo taking too long to load into focus. I replayed the things I knew for a fact.

Lori Stevenson was supposed to leave town with her husband on Thursday.

On Friday night, I’d seen a woman going into 108 Little Street like she owned the place. She’d had a key and a very distinctive face mask. One that looked like it cost more than my luggage.

On Saturday, Ty called Lori without letting me know.

On Monday, I found a body in the foyer.

Now Ty was dead, no one had seen Lori Stevenson, and I’d just discovered the person I saw on Friday night was a supposedly missing white woman named Janelle Beckett.

And if that was Janelle Beckett I saw on Friday… did that mean it was Lori Stevenson’s body I found just a few days later?

It scared me how much sense it made. It explained why the cops still wouldn’t commit to formally identifying Janelle as the victim.

Because she wasn’t.

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