Page 75 of Missing White Woman

“I didn’t mention your name when I DMed Billie. There’s no way for her to connect us.”

“Unless one of her ‘police sources’ gives it to her,” I said.

“If they do, I hope it’s because she’s calling about Drew. She hasn’t posted a video—yet.”

I pretended like I hadn’t checked myself. “Good. Of course if you do need to change your number, I know exactly what to do.”

She didn’t laugh. “Call your mom, please. Tell her I passed along the message.”

I sighed. She was right. As much as I wanted to not talk to my mother until all this was in the past, I couldn’t avoid it. She had a right to know I was at least okay. I owed her that even if her comments would be the ones that hurt most.

Adore’s loft was beautiful but not exactly ideal for privacy. She must’ve noticed me looking around for a door because she spoke. “You can go upstairs if you want. Room on the left’s yours.”

I hadn’t been to the second floor yet. There wasn’t much to it when I got up there. Just a small hallway open to the rest of the apartment with two doors off it. Both were closed. I did as instructed and went left into the guest room.

Adore had downplayed it the other day, acting like it wasn’t as nice as a hotel. She was right. It was nicer, decorated in white with silver accents and a mattress so thick I’d probably need a step stool to get into bed. I could only imagine how she’d done up the room she actually slept in.

My mom’s cell was another of the few I knew by heart. But now I wished I didn’t. It took me five minutes to call, hanging up at least twice when I got to the last digit. I wasted time by turning on the television. Found CNN. But it was a commercial.

Finally, I ripped the Band-Aid off—hitting all ten digits, then waiting. Normally she was quick to answer, happy to launch into whatever complaint she had this time. Because that’s what the world was for her: one big complaint. Traffic. Work. Me.

All existing solely to make her life miserable.

But this time the phone just rang. And rang. And rang. And when it did pick up, it was voicemail. My message was quick and to the point. “Hey, Ma. Had to get a new phone. I, uh, lost mine.” I wiped my eye. “That’s why I haven’t called. This is my new number. I’ll try to call you back later.”

Another lie. I couldn’t do it, explain that I’d once again gotten myself into a mess. That I was once again being blamed for something I didn’t do.

I hung up, but not before I said a prayer my mother didn’t check her messages today.

Who knows how long I sat on the bed—and it wasn’t because it was so comfortable.

There was a knock. Adore didn’t wait for me to say, Come in. Just opened the door and said two words. “She posted.”

TWENTY-TWO

Finally.”

Adore and I were so close, her whisper sounded full volume. She held her cell so we could both see it as we sat at her kitchen island.

“Shhh,” I said, but it was gentle, not like the ones your grandma would give you at church two hours deep into service.

I wanted to hear what interesting news Billie was finally going to share. But first we had to hear about the vigil that night. Billie flew in from LA and was clearly posting from a hotel room. Others were coming from all over the US—and even at least one person from Canada.

Billie was planning to go all out—thanks to thousands of people who’d contributed to her GoFundMe. They’d found someone to donate candles, and everyone needed to wear pink. It was Janelle’s favorite color. Billie made sure to remind us it was hers as well.

Once she got that out of the way, she brought up the break-in. “Yes, I’ve heard about it,” she said. “How? Because someone DMed me saying it was my fault. That I have been causing hysteria and encouraging people to, quote, take the law into their own hands, unquote. Which we all know is the furthest thing from the truth. I’m just as upset as you all are that someone tried to break into a crime scene. Even the idea that one of my millions of followers would do that is simply heartbreaking. And I disavow it.”

Billie stopped to wipe away a nonexistent tear. “I get a lot of ridiculous DMs with really out-there information and accusations—and I do make a point to be careful with what I share.”

Beside me, Adore sighed. “She knows the break-in was one of the Billie Bunch; otherwise she wouldn’t be so triggered.”

I didn’t respond, too focused on the tiny screen.

“Now, let’s get back to this DM I got,” Billie said. “I almost missed it since it was from someone who’s never reached out before. But this one seemed credible. He obviously knew what he was talking about.”

He.

“What’s your Instagram handle?” I said to Adore. Maybe it was just initials. Billie could be making an assumption.

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