Page 28 of Missing White Woman

WWTD?

He’d thank her and try to reach me. I started walking. “I appreciate you getting me out of there.”

She called out. “Bree, where are you going?”

To look for Ty. Just like he had to be looking for me.

The alley was narrow, nothing more than gravel and city-issued trash cans. There were two exits, but Adore’s car blocked the one to my left. So I went right.

I was at the cross street before I knew it. I looked left, then right, and that’s when I saw the crowd. There were enough people to fill half a high school auditorium. The police had put up crime-scene tape and barriers that people pushed up on like they were front stage at Coachella. All of them white. A few had cameras up, filming. Receipts to share with friends and post online that they’d been this close to an accident.

No.

A murder.

I hadn’t thought this through.

Luckily, none of them looked in my direction, still focused on the cordoned-off street.

“Breanna.” Adore came up from behind. “You can’t stay here.”

She was right. I felt exposed, but I couldn’t go back to the house. And it wasn’t like I could just stand in the alley hoping Ty would show up. “I’ll go to his job,” I finally said. If nothing else, I’d leave a note.

“Why don’t you just call?”

“It’s not his main office. No direct line.” I knew from experience.

“I meant his cell,” she said.

“I don’t have his number memorized.” I’d said it softly. Embarrassed, I waited for the sarcastic comment, like we were still in college.

But Adore surprised me. “I don’t think I ever had my husband’s number memorized—his cell or his practice—and we were married five years.” She sighed. “At least let me drop you off.”

“Fine,” I said. I had no clue where Ty’s Jersey office was and didn’t even have my phone to get an Uber.

I followed her back to the car.

I took a quick inventory as soon as I sat down. White leather seats. An iPad-sized tablet lodged next to a sleek steering wheel. Not a single piece of trash. It was as if she’d come straight from the dealer.

Adore threw me a tight smile as she pulled away. The inside was as quiet as a library. We turned left, slowly making our way through the crowd of people, everyone still focused on the crime scene.

I stared straight ahead, afraid that even the slightest movement would get their attention.

“You hungry?” Adore said.

Starving. “No.”

Out the corner of my eye, she motioned to her cell in the cup holder between us. “You need to call your mother?”

“You still have her in your contacts?”

There was a pause before she spoke and I hoped she knew exactly what I was referring to. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Then she smiled yet again. “I do, actually. It helps to never delete anyone. Even my ex-husband.”

I grabbed her phone. “Thanks,” I said, trying my best to sound sincere but also not caring that I had failed. I couldn’t deal with my mother. Not this time. She’d find a way to blame me for what had happened. The number I dialed was my own. At least I knew that one by heart. It rang and my breath immediately synced with it. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

I held the last one in as the automated voice kicked in. I hadn’t bothered to leave my own outgoing message. And I barely checked any messages folks left me, figuring if it was important they’d text. There were two options: hit pound or star. I went with star and lucked out. A voice prompted me for my password. I plugged in the one I always used, then waited.

One new message.