Page 111 of Missing White Woman

Eye to eye.

And that’s when she did it. She took off her sunglasses and the mask. Finally showed her true face. The one I’d seen on so many pink posters. So many tweets. So many TikToks. The one that looked so sweet and kind.

In person was a completely different story. There was a hardness about her. A bitterness. Then she smiled and it disappeared. A mask donned even though it wasn’t red and bedazzled.

I’d hoped for this moment for days now. For Janelle to be alive. But seeing her in person… I wasn’t impressed at all. She was still smiling, obviously taking me in too. And whatever she saw made her grin wider, like she was accepting some recognition.

Like she’d won.

After a moment, she put up her right hand, fluttering her fingers into a wave.

I reached into my pocket before putting my hand up too. Waved back. And then I put my other hand out palm up and opened it. Her smile faltered because she saw it and knew exactly what it was—the reason she’d killed Ty and Lori Stevenson. The reason she’d tried to break into Little Street. The reason she’d sent Billie to my hotel and called the cops on me.

The horn sounded again, and I could hear the train gearing up to move.

Then I stood up and walked away.

Behind me, the train took off, but it didn’t matter. My phone was already out. Calloway picked up on the second ring. I didn’t even let her say hello.

“I know where you can find Janelle Beckett.”

The conductor had said the next stop was Princeton Junction.

EPILOGUE

@Yassss87363 TikTok Live

1,347 Following 25K Followers 89K Likes

Yasmin Cole sits in front of the camera, brunette hair in a sloppy bun. Her makeup is flawless, perfectly lit, courtesy of an unseen ring light. Behind her is a white wall with photos of her favorite celebrities. When she speaks, there’s a Midwest accent. She’s reading comments and responding.

“Yes, Rae Rae, I did see that article about that domestic abuse charity getting a crypto drive mailed to them with no note. It had to be some rich lady who sent it.”

She reads some more. “You know I already got my tickets for Taylor’s new concert. Had to refresh like twenty times on the site to get them. Drop a note in the comments if you’re going.”

Yasmin pauses to read again. “Yeah, I figured that lawyer would get off for breaking into the house on Little Street. Agree—Breanna Wright looked good sitting in court behind her. Someone said they were best friends.”

She smiles at another comment. “Okay, we have a bunch of folks going to see Taylor too. Maybe we can do a meetup at the Birmingham show—”

She stops abruptly at another comment. Her eyes narrow. “There’s no way Billie Regan’s dead,” Yasmin says. “I know so many of y’all think it’s suspicious that she posted that hiatus message the same day Janelle Beckett got arrested on that train in New Jersey three months ago. That Janelle killed her like she killed Lori Stevenson and Tyler Franklin. But Billie’s not dead. And I can prove it. Give me a sec.”

She stares intently as we hear her tapping on a phone or tablet, as if she’s looking for something. After a moment, she smiles. “Found it.”

She holds up her iPad. There’s a blurry photo of a couple standing in front of the Eiffel Tower. Behind them is the back of a blond head. The ends highlighted pink.

“She’s in Europe right now, spending the millions of dollars that Janelle stole. And I’m gonna find her. If you spot Billie in Paris, let me know. My Instagram DMs are open.”