Page 7 of Missing White Woman
I turned to find an older Black woman with salt-and-pepper locks that cascaded down her back and a deep brown face that was much lighter around the mouth and nose. Her skin was smooth, and I bet it was all natural. Like she just slapped some Vaseline on her face each night because that’s what her grandma did when she was little. She wore a sundress, which showed off arms and legs that looked the same. I recognized it as vitiligo. She came toward me, clutching a stack of pink paper to her chest with one hand while holding a leash with the other. It was attached to a small brown dog.
Ty could talk to a wall. He was that friendly. Me, not so much. It took me a good four meetings to warm up to someone. Most people didn’t want to wait me out. I smiled tentatively as she approached, even though I was happy to finally see another Black face. She stopped a few feet away as I instinctively knelt down to say hi to the dog. They were always friendlier than the humans they came with. “Your dog’s adorable,” I said. “What’s the name?”
“Her name is Chelsea,” she said. “And yours?”
I took my time standing up. “Bree.”
“Bree. You’re prettier than he even said.”
Of course Ty had already made a friend.
“Your skin is glowing,” she said. “He said you’re working on a skin-care line?”
“I wouldn’t call it a line. More just some stuff I whip up in my kitchen.”
I’d given some of it to Ty and he’d run with it, finding Phenomenal Woman, a grant for local, Black-owned businesses named after that Maya Angelou poem. He even had me convinced to apply. I’d gotten as far as printing out the application and reading it over—always stopping when I saw the mention of a background check.
“Have you thought about doing something with sunscreen?” she said.
I was about to answer when the trio moved back toward us. Two women and a balding man in a bright orange shirt. I could tell he was the ringleader because he was half a step ahead. Now that they were closer, I could see they also had pink flyers. “You coming, Morgane?” the man said. “We’re going to hit the next block over.”
He didn’t even look at me. The woman—Morgane—barely gave him a glance. “I’ll meet you over there, Drew.”
One of the women, a redhead, spoke up. “We’re not going to wait for you.”
“Which is why I said I’ll meet you over there, Krista.”
Even though they weren’t looking at me, I was definitely looking at them. It was clear Krista wanted to say something in response. Instead, Drew spoke up. “Let’s go.”
“Friendly.” I said it more to myself, but the woman heard me anyway.
“They usually aren’t that bad, but everyone’s on edge with Janelle missing.”
I turned to her abruptly. “Who?”
“Janelle Beckett.” She handed me a flyer.
“Missing” was in big bold letters. The name “Janelle Beckett” right underneath it. She’d been last seen Monday in the Journal Square section of Jersey City. What followed next was a photo. She looked how I’d wanted to growing up. Beautiful. Blue-eyed. Strawberry blond. Her hair casually flung up in knots on both sides of her head. Space buns that I couldn’t get away with even when I had my hair in braids. A glance at her physical description confirmed she was as tall and as skinny as I’d immediately suspected. A contact number ran across the bottom of the page.
I’d seen the pic before—on tweets as I’d scrolled through my newsfeed and on the newscast before I’d turned to another channel and on the TikTok I’d ignored last night. Even a text my mom had sent. I hadn’t paid much attention beyond registering she was pretty, blond, and white. I hadn’t even realized she’d been missing in New Jersey, much less in Jersey City.
“She disappeared from here?” I said.
“Not this neighborhood. About fifteen minutes away in Journal Square, where she lives.”
I racked my brain for what I remembered. “She disappeared Monday evening…”
“That was the last time anyone saw her,” she said. “She did her normal dog walking that day. And it was the last time I saw her myself. She never showed up on Tuesday, and a few of us grew concerned. Drew went over to her place Tuesday night, but her landlord wouldn’t let him in. So Wednesday he went to the police. She’s local but doesn’t have any family here. Parents died. She has a sister somewhere, but Drew hasn’t been able to contact her. The police were dragging their feet until some big-name TikToker or something Janelle followed posted about it.”
“I’m so sorry.” I didn’t take my eyes off the photo. “Are the police looking for her now?”
Out the corner of my eye, I saw her nod. “Yes. And I guess now she’s gone viral. That’s what my niece tells me anyway. So they’re getting pressure. It hasn’t helped, though. No one’s heard from her since Monday night. Or seen her since Monday morning. I’m the only dog owner on the block who doesn’t have to work anymore. She’s been walking everyone else’s for years, so we’d see each other at the dog park and just on the sidewalk. Keep each other company for that half hour. We’d only chat then, but it was something I’d look forward to. She was funny, easy to talk to, and remembered everything. My birthday. My dog’s birthday. She even gave Chelsea a present. She seemed fine Monday, but not showing up for work on Tuesday without any warning isn’t like her. Drew says her phone is going straight to voicemail and her texts aren’t being delivered.”
I shuddered, then glanced at the phone again. No one under forty went anywhere without keeping their phone on.
“Ms. Morgane with an e at the end.” Ty’s voice came out of nowhere and it felt like he magically appeared beside me. He immediately draped his arm around my waist. “Bree, I see you met my friend, Morgane Porter.”
“I told you that you should just call me Morgane,” she said.