Missing White Woman

by Kellye Garrett

Genres: Women's Fiction

Synopsis

A "compulsive page-turner" (Harlan Coben) and "thriller not to be missed" (Michael Connelly) from the award-winning author of Like a Sister, in which a woman thinks she’s waking up to a romantic vacation—only to find a body in her rental home and her boyfriend gone.

The truth is never skin deep.
 
It was supposed to be a romantic getaway weekend in New York City. Breanna’s new boyfriend, Ty, took care of everything—the train tickets, the dinner reservations, the rented four-story luxury rowhouse in Jersey City with a beautiful view of the Manhattan skyline.
 
But when Bree comes downstairs their final morning, Ty is nowhere to be found and there’s a stranger dead in the foyer—the missing woman the entire Internet has become obsessed with: Janelle Beckett. Soon, both the police and an army of Internet sleuths are asking questions Bree doesn't know how to answer. Desperate to find Ty and to keep her own secrets buried, Bree realizes there’s only one person she can turn to: her ex-best friend, a lawyer with whom she shares a very complicated past. 

Fierce, smart, and thrilling to the end, Missing White Woman not only explores “Missing White Woman” syndrome and traveling while Black, but deftly inverts the hallmarks of the domestic suspense genre to ask: How well can we truly know the people we love? And what happens to these stories when seen through the eyes of a Black woman?

"Fantastic. Only Garrett could craft a tale so adroitly attuned to our everyday fears." —S. A. Cosby, New York Times bestselling author of All the Sinners Bleed

“Taut, suspenseful, and packed with heart, this novel grabbed me tight and wouldn’t let go.” —Meg Gardiner, New York Times bestselling author of Heat 2

"Expertly mixes sorrow and grief, humor and identity, with the chaos of social media." —Rachel Howzell Hall, New York Times bestselling author of What Never Happened

"Bree is unforgettable . . . You are in for such a ride." —Rachel Hawkins, New York Times bestselling author of The Villa

Release date: April 30, 2024

Publisher: Little, Brown and Company

Print pages: 336

Reader says this book is...: emotionally riveting (1) entertaining story (1)

Sample

I was going to jail.

I knew it. She knew it too. I could tell by the way she looked over at me—or rather didn’t. We were the only two people on this block of fancy-schmancy row houses. A thin sliver of grass and a fence at half-mast separating the two of us.

When she came through the wrought-iron front gate, I was already feeling as lost as Dorothy in Oz and ready to give anything to snap my ASICS together to get back to Maryland. So I was excited when I first heard the gate slam the next house over. I’d even smiled initially when I looked back at her, convinced her sudden appearance was a good thing. That finally there was someone who could help me. My Glinda.

I couldn’t see much of her. Not at first with the sun being long gone and the darkness turning her into just a skinny blob. She didn’t take human form until she passed through the remnants of the floodlight from the house attached to the other side. And even then, I couldn’t make out more than a square inch of her face. Blame a face mask as red and sparkly as a pair of ruby slippers. But I didn’t need to make out a nose, a pair of eyes, perfectly contoured cheekbones, blond hair, to tell she was pretty. The accessories filled in the blanks. Black jumpsuit. Rose-gold hardback suitcase. Stilettos. She even somehow managed to not look ridiculous wearing sunglasses at night.

She looked like she belonged there. Like she was the one taking a long weekend jaunt with her new boyfriend to a city she’d never been to, with keyless door locks, four-story row houses, and unobstructed views of the Manhattan skyline.

I, on the other hand, looked like someone standing in the dark outside a place I didn’t belong, trying to get in without a key. It was exactly who I was and what I was doing. My outfit was wrong. Target. Suitcase was wrong. Amazon. Skin was wrong. Brown. Hair—kinky and getting bigger by the second—was definitely wrong too. The most expensive things on me were my sneakers.

She didn’t look in my direction for more than a second, pulling her oversized purse closer to her, quickening her step up the stairs to her pitch-black stoop—or whatever they called it in fancy-ass neighborhoods like this one. But a nanosecond was probably all she needed.

Good thing I was already about to cry.

Blame the damn door and my inability to get it open. I’d tried three times already. Put in the code Ty had given me. Hit the Key button. Jiggled the knob like it needed some complicated handshake. I did it a fourth time, only to yield the same result. The only change, the new audience of one, looking like she wanted to boo me off the stage like this was the Apollo.

I braved another glance over. I was quick, but she was quicker, turning her head away so fast the crystals on her protective mask looked like sparklers as they caught the light. She’d been watching the latest attempt. Even from a distance—even in the dark—I could make out the pale white manicured hand gripping her cell phone like the weapon it could be in these situations. At least for people who looked like me.

I pulled my own phone out—this one a lifeline. Ty picked up on the second ring.

“Be there in fifteen,” he said.

“You’re in the Uber?”

“Not yet, but I will be. Packing up now.”

My phone said it was already 10:46. He’d sworn he’d pick me up from the train station. Then sworn he’d meet me at the house. He’d been wrong on both counts.

“Oh.” It was just a syllable. One I didn’t even say that loud, yet he still heard it.

“Everything okay, Bree?”

I glanced over. She was still there standing with the screen door open. Pretending not to watch as she took her own time going inside. “Yeah.” I wiped my eye as I spoke. It wasn’t the first time I’d lied to him. “It’s the code. It doesn’t work.”

“Really? It worked this morning when I checked in—1018.”

“It’s 1019.” That was the one in the text. The one I’d plugged in four times.

“I’m pretty sure it’s 1018. Let me check.”

But I didn’t wait for him to answer. Just tried the door again, but 1018 this time. It buzzed practically before I hit the Key button. The knob turned as he spoke again, realizing. “I sent you the wrong code.”

“It’s fine.” Another lie.

I glanced over, hoping to catch her watching me again. Nodding as she realized she was wrong. That I wasn’t some thief in the night. That I did belong here. That my boyfriend had given me the wrong code. But of course she’d finally disappeared inside.

I shook off the unease and turned my attention back to Ty.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he said.

He’d been saying that a lot since he’d come up to New Jersey on Monday for work, the routine we’d established over the past three months immediately shot to hell. No nightly FaceTimes. No long-winded responses to my texts. And when he did respond, it was just hitting the Heart button or one-word replies sent so late that I’d damn near forgot what he was responding to.

Work.

Always work. Some intense finance job that took a lot of time but also paid a lot of money. Some new project that was dominating most of his working hours and almost as many out of the office as well. It was only after I suggested maybe this weekend wasn’t a good time to come that he’d called. Said he still wanted me to take the train up.

Lucky for him, I wasn’t one to make a big deal.

“It’s fine,” I said again as I finally opened the door. It was cold enough inside to give me goose bumps if they hadn’t already been there. “I blame those big-ass hands of yours.” I was proud of how I sounded. More teasing than annoyed.

He laughed then, the first time I’d heard him do that all week. I was glad too because I loved how it sounded. “Oh, now you have a problem with my big-ass hands. Last week it was—”

I laughed too. “I’m hanging up now.”

“Wait.”

“Bye, Ty.” I tried to stifle a yawn.

“You’re gonna wait up for me, right?”

“Bye, Ty.”

“Right?”

“Guess you’ll have to get here and see.”

But we both knew I would—in no makeup but also no bonnet. Happy to see him. Like always.

We both said goodbye and I finally stepped inside, thanking the heavens there wasn’t an alarm and that snoop of a neighbor hadn’t dialed 911. The cold air felt better than any jail cell I’d been in.

*   *   *

This trip had been planned for a month.

Ty had rolled over on a lazy Sunday morning when my mom would’ve wanted me to be two hours deep into worship service and casually asked if I’d ever been to New York. His spontaneity was one of the many things I liked about him—already loved about him, though I hadn’t said the words out loud yet. And neither had he. It’d only been a few months since we met jogging.

We were at the “Let’s take a trip” stage. Technically, it was a two-week work trip for him. One he took every couple of months to his company’s Jersey City office. I was just tagging along for a weekend.

Ty had been here since Monday, but he’d been staying at a hotel until today. The plan was for me to come up Friday evening, then we’d stay in an Airbnb and spend the next two days in New York City before I went back home in time for my own job Monday afternoon. Of course mine was nowhere near as fancy. I was a manager at a stationery store.

I’d never been much of a traveler, but still I was excited when Ty turned toward me that morning. So excited that I’d even purchased new Kenneth Cole luggage and packed the good panties—even though my mother spent the entire month strongly disagreeing with the trip. That was the great thing about being over thirty—even if I did still live in my college studio. Your mother kept giving advice; you just didn’t have to take it.

My maternal line was that of a mighty few. Only children begetting only children. All girls. My grandmother was in her nineties, battling dementia like she’d battled everything else life had thrown at her. Yet she’d gotten worse right before my mother retired from her position as a head of marketing. Taking care of her had become my mom’s full-time job. And my part-time one. I was off Thursdays and Fridays, so I would drive forty-five minutes to my mom’s house to give her a break.

My mother had a million and two questions when I’d told her about the trip. She’d sent them in a string of single text messages over the course of five excruciatingly long minutes. The English major in her not accepting a single typo no matter what the medium.

What about COVID?

The numbers were down.

When are you going?

Last week in April.

That’s soon.

It was a month away.

My relationship history was mainly made up of a series of first dates. Ty was my first serious boyfriend in over a decade. I was going to enjoy my first couples vacation just like I was going to enjoy my first time ever in New York. Even if my mother wanted to ruin it one text at a time.

Initially she’d sent me articles about how dangerous New York City was. When I pointed out I was staying in New Jersey, she just switched to sending articles about there. Shootings. Break-ins. Assaults. Her latest was about some pretty blond white woman who’d gone missing.

I didn’t click a single link. Just promised to bring the Mace she’d gotten me.

And when she wasn’t bothering me about the dangers of the big city, she was bugging me about where I was staying. After a few weeks, I mentioned the house, but not Ty’s job chipping in for it. New York City wouldn’t be my only first. I’d also never stayed in an Airbnb. I’d been excited about that too. At least before I encountered the key code.

Her last string of texts had come just as I was getting off the train.

I can’t believe you’re going someplace you’ve never been with a stranger.

But that was the thing. He was only a stranger to her. I’d met his mom, Ms. Patty. He just hadn’t met mine. And it wasn’t something I was looking forward to.

I just think it’s premature, Breanna.

My mother thought a lot of things. So did I. So did the entire world. The rest of us simply didn’t feel the need to share them all.

It’d just been the two of us since my dad unexpectedly died of a heart attack when I was in grade school. My memories of him were fleeting at this point, but one of the things I would never forget was how he used to look at me and my mom. I’d never felt more loved—more safe—than when he was smiling at me.

I pushed the convo out my mind as I took in my home for the next two days. I dropped my “weekend tote” a few feet into the first-floor open-concept living area.

110 Little Street in Jersey City.

I felt like one of those kids the first time they stepped inside Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. I didn’t know what to look at first, what to touch, where to sit. I was afraid to even put my bag on the glass entry table, which looked so simple it had to cost more than a month of my paychecks.

Ty had made his presence known. There were dishes in the sink and he’d left the big-screen TV on mute. I didn’t recognize the news anchor, which meant it had to be a local station.

I put my phone up and slowly did a 360, taking photos of the exact same things in the pics he’d screenshotted from the Airbnb listing. The entry table and stairs a few feet away from me. The living room couches and oversized rug the same dark gray as the walls. The all-white kitchen in the back of the house. The entire garden through the windows behind it.

My shots were nowhere near as pretty, but they’d do. Finished, I sent the lot of them to my mother with two words: Made it!!!

Ty had done good. I wished it wasn’t so important to me that my mother see that.

By the time she responded, my Kenneth Cole and I had made it up three flights of stairs to the “owner’s suite.” Of course I stopped on floors two and three to take more pics. Sent those to her too. She got the office, the gym, and both spare bedrooms. All varying grades of gray. All fancier than anything I’d seen on some decorating show. But if the rest of the house was HGTV, the fourth floor was Architectural Digest.

The bedroom took up the entire floor. When I finally willed myself to look away from the bed, I noticed the floor-to-ceiling windows. The skylight. The Keurig twinkling on a marble counter, joined by a sink and a mini fridge. Guess when you’re rich, you don’t go downstairs for midnight snacks.

I took another photo in front of the “beverage center”—this one a selfie—then sent that one to her too. My phone buzzed just as I was realizing that the green blob I saw out the back window was the Statue of Liberty.

I smiled, for once excited to see what she had to say. There was nothing she loved more than a good marble countertop. She had to appreciate this house. There wasn’t a single thing bad even she could say about it.

I unlocked my phone and opened the text. Her response was simple.

You let your mystery man see you looking like that?

*   *   *

He’d lied about being on his way, but then I did too when I said I didn’t mind that he was still stuck at the office. It was a gorgeous house, and I forced myself to enjoy it. I haphazardly unpacked, hanging up the lone dress I’d brought in the walk-in closet. It had a safe, but I didn’t own anything worth putting in there.

Unpacking didn’t take long, which meant I had time to do a quick face-mask treatment. I ran downstairs to see what was in the fridge. Ty had gone shopping. There were eggs, oatmeal, yogurt, and honey—perfect for a quick facial. I mixed and matched until it was ready to go. Then slathered it on my face, waited the requisite ten minutes, and went upstairs to shower.

Once in there, I took my time, pressing buttons and turning knobs at will. All while pretending not to be surprised—and excited—by what each one did.

My studio in Baltimore was in an old building and I paid all utilities, which meant I wasn’t used to anything more than quick showers. Lukewarm ones at that. I kept expecting the water in the Airbnb to get cold. Someone to bang on the door to tell me to hurry up, like my mom would do when I was a kid. That I was wasting all that good water, like she used to say. But it didn’t happen. Made me want to stay in there forever, the steam keeping the rest of the world—and the problems that came along with it—at bay.

When I got out, I was going to go downstairs. Wait for Ty there in as little clothing as I could manage. But then I opened the door. Saw the inky blackness below. Turning out the lights and the TV when I’d come up to shower had been a mistake. I’d never been afraid of the dark, but it sure hit different in my six-hundred-square-foot studio than it did being solo in a four-story row house.

I came back into the light, shut the door, then burrowed myself under the heap of covers and sheets that felt softer than my legs after a fresh run of my razor. I checked my texts again. Nothing from Ty. Guess he was just as tired of his lies as I was. I tried to turn on the bedroom television and failed miserably. But who needed it when you had thousands of online videos to keep you company? Not as good as Ty, but still.

When it came to social media, I was familiar with the usual suspects, using them all differently. Facebook was for birthday reminders. Twitter, or whatever it was called now, was for news and outrage. Instagram was the one I used most. I didn’t have to dance or edit thoughts down to 280 characters. I didn’t even have to put a caption if I didn’t want to. I could just upload a photo and call it a day.

My page wasn’t private but it might as well have been. There were less than 100 followers. My life consisted of two things: working and running. The closest thing I had to friends were my coworkers—a conveyor belt of college students too self-involved to ask me much about my personal life or past. I had to admit I liked it that way. Surface conversations. Only going out to celebrate birthdays, new jobs, and, most often, graduations.

No one told you how hard it was to make friends outside of college—especially when you didn’t try that hard. I was crap at keeping in contact with folks—especially the ones who knew me before. Just like with dating, my last close friendship had ended in college. A childhood-turned-college friend who had been the closest thing to a sister. And that breakup with Adore had been just as painful as with any college boyfriend. Needless to say, I spent a lot of time online.

Of all the apps, TikTok was still trying to figure me out. I hadn’t committed to following many accounts. A few Black skin-care influencers and The Rock, because who didn’t follow The Rock? The result was an algorithm as much a mess as my desk at home—videos with a #BlackSkinCare hashtag and any other thing with a ton of views.

I opened the app on my iPhone and prepared for the onslaught of the first automatically loading videos on my For You page.

A somber-looking blond white chick popped up under four words: Where is Janelle Beckett???

Though the name was slightly familiar, I didn’t stick around to find out. Just thumbed to the next video, this one a Black woman with deep brown skin as clear as glass. I sat back and watched.

I was five videos and three products-I-need-to-buy-right-this-very-moment deep into her TikTok when the door banged open. I screamed, then reached for the Mace in my bag, all while praying I’d remember how to actually get it to work. Only one thought went through my head.

Of course my mother was right.

I just hoped it wasn’t my last.

“Bree, it’s just me.”

Ty stood frozen in the doorframe in his dress shirt, a hint of muscle caressing each sleeve. He was tired, the bags under his eyes a dead giveaway that this wasn’t his first late night at work.

“I called out when I came in,” he said.

I forced myself to relax, deep breaths in and out like right after I finished a run. After a good ten inhales, I was finally able to speak. “I didn’t even hear you come up the stairs. It’s like the whole place has been soundproofed or something.” I paused, then took him in again. “Not necessarily a bad thing.”

He laughed, and when he stepped inside, I could practically see him shedding the stress. “I missed you.” He sounded like he meant it too.

“How was work?”

But he was shaking his head before I even got to the w. “No work talk. Please.”

“Fine,” I said. “This place is gorgeous. Have you stayed here before?”

“Nope. First time seeing it in person was when I checked in this morning. Found it online. I’m just glad the pics did it justice.”

He stopped a foot from my side of the bed, taking me in from head to toe to head again. I wished I’d struck a better pose than just sitting up against the upholstered gray headboard. At least I’d touched up my makeup. Damn my mother.

He bent down to kiss me and had the nerve to try to stand back up, but I wouldn’t let him. Just cupped his face in my hands, wiping off traces of my Dope Taupe Mented lipstick from his dope medium-brown skin. Because I had missed him too.

Even with the bags under his eyes, he was divine, but I shouldn’t have been surprised. He somehow got more beautiful the more I looked at him. Ironic, considering I hadn’t paid him any attention when we met.

We’d been on the same weekend running schedule even during the winter. Both of us preferred the same trail. He claimed we passed each other for two straight Saturdays before he told me my shoe was undone. I hadn’t noticed it, just like I hadn’t noticed him. I definitely did after. It took another two weeks before he asked me out. I immediately said yes, assuming it would be another one-and-done. Except I enjoyed myself so much that I didn’t make an excuse when he asked when he’d see me again.

And now here we were.

My mother would find flaws for sure, but she’d have to look hard as hell. He was tall, attractive, but not intimidatingly so, with both a decent job and decent teeth. And he had no kids despite being thirty-two and everything I just mentioned. If I weren’t already dating him, she’d want to set me up.

He finally retreated, going for the bag he’d left in the doorway. “I know being this late that I couldn’t come up in here empty-handed.”

I feigned confusion. “Jewelry stores aren’t open this time of night…”

“It’s even better. Close your eyes.”

I made a big production of slapping both hands over my eyes.

When he spoke again, it was from a few feet away. “Hold out your hand, but keep your eyes closed.”

I did as told. After a second, I felt a bag, then smiled and opened my eyes. Sure enough, it was what I’d thought. “Muddy Buddies.”

My snack of choice. Luckily cookies and cream since he was allergic to peanuts. He shook his head as I tore the bag open and shoved a handful into my mouth. “Gross.”

I leaned forward. Smacked my lips. “Let me give you another kiss hello.”

“Not with that Muddy breath.”

“Come here.”

He did, pretending to be disgusted as I pecked at him like a bird. Finally I retreated, and he sat a few feet away at the edge of the bed, casually rubbing my leg through the covers.

“The good news is that I’m done with work. I’m all yours this weekend.”

He better have been. “Promise?” I said.

“On my mama.”

I smiled then, even though I didn’t believe him for one minute. I said nothing as he began to get undressed, starting with his shirt. He zoned out for a second as he undid the buttons, lost in thought as he scratched the scar on his stomach. I should’ve asked what was going on. Instead, I enjoyed the opportunity to take him in. I was smiling when he zoned back in and noticed me looking. “You’re admiring my skin, aren’t you?”

“Something like that.”

“Thanks. Been using this gunk my girlfriend made for me.”

The “gunk” was a recipe of essential oils and shea butter I’d whipped up in my sliver of a kitchen. I didn’t know if I was more pleased that he actually was using it or that it was working so well on his hyperpigmentation. “Gunk, Mr. Franklin?”

“Gunk.” He got serious as he took off his shoes, then pants. “Did you apply for that grant yet? Deadline’s coming up.”

I hadn’t, but at least the printout was in my suitcase. I’d been “meaning to” mail it for two weeks now. I searched for any excuse. “I still need a name for my product line.”

“I just gave it to you. Gunk.”

“It is catchy.”

“The name doesn’t have to be final for you to apply,” he said.

I didn’t want to keep talking about it so I went for a subject change. “Hamilton.”

“I like the name Gunk better,” he said.

I ignored that. “You got us tickets to Hamilton. And you want it to be a surprise. That’s why you haven’t told me what we’re doing tomorrow.”

“I’m not telling that easy. You follow my packing instructions?”

“Of course. Brought lots of ‘nice shit.’” I used quotation marks.

“And the shoes?”

“Two pairs. Cute but walkable.” I’d even done a test run. “The Lion King.”

“The movie? If you want to Netflix and chill, then we can do that.”

“Of course it could also be that place where they shoot Saturday Night Live…”

“Rockefeller Plaza.”

“Yes. Are we going there?”

He shrugged.

“You gotta give me a hint.”

“Sure. It’ll be in Manhattan.”

I lobbed a pillow at him. “Thanks.”

When we finally got to sleep, it felt just as amazing as the events prior. The mattress was big enough that I barely knew Ty was in the bed. I’d gone to sleep tracing the Kappa Alpha Psi tattoo on his chest. When I woke up the next morning, he wasn’t there. I lay there listening for him and not hearing a thing.

He didn’t answer when I called out his name. I might as well have been yelling into the abyss. Finally, I glanced at the clock moonlighting as art on one whole wall: 9:34 a.m.

Early for me—especially since I didn’t have to work. Sophomore year at Morgan State I’d taken a retail job at a stationery store a few miles from campus. Thirteen years later I was still there, having “moved up” to afternoon manager.

I needed to call Ty, but first I needed to find my phone. There were few things more constant in my life than never knowing where my cell was. A coworker said I needed an Apple Watch. Claimed it had a function that made your phone beep. I couldn’t afford one, though. My salary hadn’t improved much in thirteen years either.

I finally found it in the bathroom, hidden among the skin care I’d brought with me and already scattered all over the counter the night before. My mom had texted, but I ignored it to call Ty.

He was the first number in my favorites. During the first night I’d spent over at his place, he’d jokingly taken my phone and changed his name from “Ty Franklin (Run)” to “Darius Lovehall,” after the main character in the movie we had watched that night. I was listed in his as “Nina Mosley.” I hadn’t changed his name back.

His phone rang and rang. I hung up right before the voicemail kicked in.

Like my mom, Ty was an early riser. He just wasn’t as judgy about it. He’d let you sleep in. He was probably downstairs catching up on CNN w. . .