Page 43 of Missing White Woman

I nodded. “It looked like the missing woman. Janelle Beckett.”

We stared at each other, daring the other to speak first. He lost. “What about the male?”

I shrugged, then chose my words carefully. “I didn’t see his face. You have something else for me to look at?”

I convinced myself that the questions were actually a good thing. They meant the hoodie hadn’t been in the house. Maybe Ty had taken it with him when he left yesterday morning.

If they needed someone to confirm that the person in the video was him, it wasn’t going to be me.

“Detective Randle?”

The voice sounded like it was used to interrupting, and for once I didn’t mind—happy for the respite. Randle stood back up, and from my vantage point, all I could make out was a set of white hands. A man.

“Sure am,” Randle said.

“I asked the officer blocking our street what was going on. He said I should talk to you.” The men shook hands. “Rod Stevenson.”

“You own 108,” Randle said. “We’ve been trying to reach you.”

“The wife and I went out of town for a long weekend. Just got back to find all these police cars. Someone was killed?”

Must’ve been a good trip if he hadn’t bothered to check the news. Though I didn’t say it out loud, I must’ve thought it loud enough that they both glanced at me. Randle spoke next.

“You mind chatting at your place? I’m happy to share as many details as I can.”

Randle didn’t give me as much as a head nod goodbye. It took a good ten feet before I could finally fully see who’d been talking. The rest of Rod Stevenson was as sturdy as his hands—like he went to the gym but didn’t spend hours there. The flecks of gray in his brown hair made me think he was in his forties, though his face had that smooth, well-rested look of a man who worked because he wanted to—not because he needed the money.

His voice carried back as they kept going. “My wife’s asleep so we can’t be too loud.”

I didn’t hear Randle’s reply.

THIRTEEN

Randle and the neighbor guy were long gone by the time Adore emerged from the police tent, my seventy-six-dollar Kenneth Cole carry-on rolling behind her. My Target handbag bounced off her hip like a cranky baby. Neither looked right on her. Not next to the designer four-inch heels or the expensive makeup and hair extensions. On Adore Smith maybe, but not this A. Kristine McKinley.

I didn’t get out to help her, just watched her make her way over. Part of me hoping she’d at least stumble a bit. Not because I wanted her to fall or hurt herself. Just so I’d know she was actually human.

But no, she maneuvered past the sidewalk’s nooks and crannies like she did this every weekend. And she probably did, jetting off here and there for the job that let her get expensive-ass linen business cards.

She smiled when she opened the back door and deadlifted my suitcase onto the seat. She probably did some fancy workout program like CrossFit. “I hope this is everything because I don’t think we should stay much longer. I’m sure some people got me on camera.”

“Are they giving you Ty’s stuff too?”

She shook her head. “I tried but ‘he has to pick it up himself.’” Her voice mocked Calloway’s peppy tone. “They’re ‘happy to hold it for him.’”

“That’s complete BS.” I leaned into the back and unzipped the suitcase.

She eyed the crowd off in the distance. “Maybe check it at the hotel. We can always come back.”

I ignored that, too happy to have my stuff. Yet any reassurance I felt about this reunion up and disappeared by the time I had the suitcase open. They’d haphazardly thrown my belongings in like it was a washing machine—not even bothering to separate lights and darks. It did at least look like they’d gotten everything—even the homemade moisturizer I’d stored in decade-old Tupperware. I grabbed my handbag and repeated the entire process, noting everything they’d gone through. My driver’s license was no longer in the first slot of my wallet.

But at least my phone was there and it still had plenty of battery power left. I tapped the screen, and there he was. Smiling at me. His arm casually slung over my shoulder as we stared up and at the camera. It was reassuring, even with his face covered by an onslaught of notifications. Proof at least that they hadn’t been able to unlock it. Though I was sure they’d tried.

My mom had texted. And called. And apparently texted some more. So had Amina from work. Alyssa too. I hadn’t even thought to tell any of them I wouldn’t be back today. But that was a problem for Future Bree.

Present Me just wanted to check one thing. I scrolled, and there it was, all the way at the bottom.

Darius Lovehall

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