Page 61 of Missing White Woman

EIGHTEEN

My running shorts still smelled of Adore’s laundry detergent. It’d been only five days since I’d last worn them, but they still felt foreign. Like I was some kid playing dress-up in my mom’s closet. I laced up my black ASICS, threw my cell into my running belt, and headed outside. It was early, but it was hot for April. The air felt stifling, like all the oxygen had up and left—leaving us to deal with the carbon monoxide. But I wasn’t sure I could blame Mother Nature for that feeling.

I could make out the Manhattan skyline in the distance so I headed in that direction. Too fast. The first half a mile tricked me. Had me feeling way too comfortable. But then the exhaustion set in just as I got to the water. I kept going anyway, past Exchange Place and Hyatt House. Still pushing myself too hard—weaving past people out for a leisurely stroll on the waterfront’s walkway.

It took getting to Liberty State Park to remember that pain was a good thing. That there was something to be said for being so tired you can’t think of anything other than breathing in and breathing out. The stubbornness of my legs took me another mile, hugging the metal rails that separated the stone walkway from the Hudson River right next to it. Past two sets of parking lots and many more people. I kept going, not even bothering to wipe the sweat crowding both eyes. Past a pavilion and more grass. Curving to the left to pass some fancy silver two-story building and a narrow wooden bridge.

I kept going until, ten minutes later, I finally found the sign I’d googled the night before. The sign I’d thought about all night when I couldn’t sleep yet again, hugging my pillow because Ty wasn’t where he was supposed to be, next to me. The sign that said two words:

CAVEN POINT.

I paused more than did a full stop because I wasn’t alone. A handful of youngish-looking white kids had set up shop across from the roped-off entrance and empty parking lot. Each with their phones up. Taking selfies like this was the Grand freaking Canyon. They whispered to their phones as I passed, casually slinging the words “murderer” and “suicide” like this was some Netflix movie and not my real life. How many likes would their “on the scene” posts get—5? 500? 5,000? Would they go viral, be viewed millions of times? Or would no one really care?

They were gone by the time I got to Port Liberté and circled back, but two new people had replaced them. Same excited looks. Same iPhone models. Same whispered words hurled carelessly about. I said nothing, just went from a run to a brisk walk. Still not stopping, just occasionally glancing at the landscape until my running belt buzzed around the time I returned to that first parking lot. I pulled my phone out.

Adore.

“What’s up?” My voice was thick with exhaustion.

“Something tells me you’re not at the hotel.”

“I went for a run.”

“Good. I’m happy you’re trying to return to a routine. When will you be back? I can meet you at the hotel.”

I needed to check one more thing. “Give me an hour and a half.”

* * *

Adore had made a pit stop at Dunkin’. It was the first thing I noticed when I finally walked into the hotel lobby. I was hot and sweaty, but I also needed coffee. We met in the middle of the lobby and she handed me a cup as we made our way to the elevators. I pressed the Up button.

“How was the run?” she said.

“Gonna be sore tomorrow. Already sore now.”

“Nice. Where’d you run?”

“Caven Point.”

“Bree.” She glanced around as if the lone desk attendant all the way on the opposite side of the lobby could hear us.

“Technically, I only ran there. I actually walked back to Little Street. Well, a few blocks away. People are still camped on the corner.”

“Breanna.”

“Have you been there?”

“Breanna Grace Wright.”

“Caven Point. Not Little Street.” An elevator dinged. The doors opened and we got in. “Have you?” I said again.

Adore shook her head, resigned. “I’m not a bird person.”

I pressed the button for Four. “If you were, you’d know it’s closed during the spring and summer. Something about bird migration. Anyway, it would’ve taken him over an hour to walk there from Little Street.”

“So he took a car. Got dropped off.”

“Dropped off where? There’s one entrance. You can get to it from two directions. If you’re coming from the path on the other side, it’s through this fancy-ass gated community. Like a place that calls itself Port Liberté would let a bloody Black guy in a hoodie just stroll through in the middle of the night. Of course he could’ve come the other way, the path along the waterfront. But it’s still a good ten-to-fifteen-minute walk from any place he could have got dropped off.”

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