Page 97 of Missing White Woman

Watching the #BreannaWright interview. In tears at how a Black woman is once again being treated as a suspect and not the victim she is. #BelieveBreanna

It had over 80,000 likes.

And I couldn’t help it. I clicked the hashtag, expecting one or two more tweets. There were thousands. People all upset about how I’d been treated. How Billie and her Bunch had made me a scapegoat. And of course the hashtag had also been co-opted. Both sides going back and forth, throwing daggers 280 characters at a time.

Hundreds of thousands of folks had watched my conversation with Billie, and each and every single one of them had thoughts. Thoughts that sometimes had to be expressed with a meme here. An acronym there. There was many a Twitter thread. I counted one with 46 tweets. Even I didn’t read that one.

Once again, it was odd to see strangers with such strong opinions about my actual life. But this was what I wanted, right? Folks on my side. People willing to go to bat for me as others were ripping me to shreds. But now that I had the fan club?

It still sucked. I would’ve given anything to be anonymous again. For whoever that woman had been in the Little Street foyer—Janelle Beckett or Lori Stevenson—to be alive. Ty too. For us to still be arguing over him working on vacation.

I wanted it all to go away—and there really was only one way for that to happen.

I needed to figure out the real killer.

If Janelle was alive, I wasn’t going to just walk by her on the street. She’d had days at this point. She’d be long gone from New Jersey. My guess would be across the river in Manhattan. Millions of people, and they all minded their own business. It was the best place to be anonymous.

I was back on the main #Justice4Janelle hashtag, looking for anyone who may have seen her alive since her “disappearance.” But it was just folks arguing for likes and retweets. Throwing out theories about who was to blame: Me? Ty? Billie?

Maybe that was it. I’d be proactive. If Janelle Beckett was still alive, I could make it hard for her. I thought of what Billie had told me before our convo. Then my mind flashed on the Ty “sightings.” How internet sleuths had managed to come together to make it hell on brown-skinned Black men in hoodies. How it didn’t matter if it was South Jersey or the South of France, folks just knew Ty had traveled through their town. All because someone with a platform and a hashtag had put it out there that they should be on the lookout.

I thought it over. I had a hashtag of my own now.

And I had a platform.

@BreeThatsWright Instagram Live

1,423 Following 10.7K Followers

Breanna Wright stares at the camera in confusion. It isn’t well lit so you can barely make out most of her features. She leans in, then disappears out of the frame. We hear the scrape of curtains opening, and the room lights up. It’s only then we realize we’re in a hotel room.

After a moment, Breanna comes back into the frame and sits down. We can finally see what she looks like. She’s Black and brown skinned. Her kinky hair is up in an Afro puff on top of her head. She doesn’t wear a lot of makeup—a bit of lip balm and some mascara—but she doesn’t need it. Her skin is smooth and oil-free. Breanna doesn’t say anything at first, just glances toward the bottom of the screen. “Wow. Three thousand people in here already. Okay.”

She says nothing more for a moment, eyes still watching the number tick upward as more people enter the room. Finally, she shakes her head, as if waving off whatever negative thoughts are in there.

“Hello. I’m gonna be honest. I debated doing this. As I’m sure you know, after… Janelle’s death, I made my accounts private. I planned to keep it like that, but then I saw my phone log.”

She holds her hand up. “I should probably explain better. This was Saturday before… Janelle died. Ty and I were in Central Park. We’d spent the entire day together. Saw all his favorite spots in New York. And we ended up in the park. But he kept getting phone calls. And one thing about Ty. Never kept his phone charged. I don’t know if he even brought a charger. So his phone dies. And he needs to call someone back. A client.

“He uses my phone. The call was so quick, I forgot about it completely until last night. And only then because I saw it while looking for something else. But there it was. And I was curious. So I called it. Honestly, I thought maybe he’d called Janelle. That maybe they were planning some rendezvous after I left. And I don’t know why, but I needed to know if what everyone was saying was true. That he’d been lying to me and they were together.”

She shrugs.

“I call. No answer. Finally, the voicemail kicks in. A woman’s voice. But it’s not Janelle. The voice tells me who it is and she’s not in. I hang up, but I also think the name sounds familiar. It’s because she lives on Little Street. Right next door, actually.”

Breanna lets that settle before continuing.

“I have a friend who lives on the block. Knows all her neighbors. And she tells me no one’s seen this woman since before Janelle died. She’s disappeared. No one knows where she’s gone. Though her phone’s still on. I called it myself yesterday. And I don’t know what’s going on. But I can’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, her disappearance is somehow connected to Janelle dying. And I know it’s a long shot, but I figured I’d share this and see if maybe someone knows her. Maybe she’s not involved at all. But then maybe she is. Her name is…”

Breanna’s voice trails off. She wipes her brow before continuing. “Lori Stevenson.”

She looks down as if reading from an unseen piece of paper. “I don’t have a photo of her, unfortunately. But she’s got long blond hair. It kind of reminds me of Janelle’s in the photos I’ve seen. Probably around five foot six. One hundred ten pounds. If you know anything or have seen her, please contact the police. I’m happy to share the number.”

Breanna gives out the tip line number for Janelle Beckett’s disappearance. “And if you don’t feel comfortable, you can always DM me directly or tag me in a video. I’ve been chatting with the police—a lot. I’m happy to share this with them directly. I just… It’s just there’s been so much tragedy. And I just want it to stop.”

TWENTY-NINE

I asked the front desk to bring the luggage Adore had left to my room, then spent most of the day hiding in the living room, glued to my Instagram inbox. I didn’t even bother to open the curtains again, the only light peeking through cracks and coming from my phone. My iPhone Screen Time app would not be happy at the end of the week.

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