Jane Doe Black

JANE DOE BLACK LAINEY ABBOTT BOOK 1 NIA FORRESTER Jane Doe Black Copyright © 2023 Stiletto Press, LLC All Rights Reserved. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review. Cover Photo by cottonbro studio This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Printed in the United States of America First Printing: February 2023 Stiletto Press, LLC ISBN: 9798377213918 For the women of the Black and Missing Foundation. And for those still missing. CONTENTS Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Stephanie Acknowledgments Also by Nia Forrester About the Author PROLOGUE “Steph, seriously. What is that? That thing you’re wearing on your head.” My sister looked up at me with doe eyes, her expression one of hurt. “A rain hat. It was Granny’s.” “Well, that explains it,” I said. “Take it off. It’s embarrassing.” “You’re so pretentious, Lainey. It’s drizzling, I don’t want my hair to get wet so I’m wearing a rain hat. Who cares if it’s ugly or not?” We were standing in the reception area of a restaurant, shrugging on our light coats. It was fall and though we had yet to feel the barest hint of a chill in the air, it was damp outside. I had taken my sister to lunch at one of the swankiest Manhattan restaurants I could afford, to celebrate her first semester at U. Penn. Not only had she shown up in ratty jeans and an army surplus jacket, now she was wearing our dead grandmother’s headgear. “When do you have to be back at school?” I asked. “Not till Sunday, so you’re stuck with me, your awkward, fashion-challenged little sister.” She looped her arm through mine as we left the restaurant, so that it would be unmistakable that we were together. I couldn’t help but smile at her. Stephanie was like that. Our mother used to call her ‘Sunshine’, a corny, obvious nickname that embarrassed me when she said it in public. But it was completely appropriate for Stephanie, who made it impossible for you to do anything other than warm up to her. Even as a baby, she beamed up out of her stroller at total strangers, all bright eyes, feathery curls, and pink gums. Ever since our mother died, I hadn’t heard anyone call her ‘Sunshine’ and probably never would again. But sometimes, at times like this, the moniker would pop into my head, as though my mother were whispering it in my ear, reminding me why we loved Steph so much. “I want to get something New York-y,” she said as we shrugged on our coats. “Something kitschy for my roommate. Like one of those globes with the Twin Towers against a backdrop of falling snow or something.” “No more Twin Towers,” I reminded her. “Okay, the Empire State Building,” she amended without missing a beat. We walked out onto Fifth Avenue, and I opened the umbrella I always kept in my oversized pocketbook. Stephanie wrapped an arm around my waist and leaned into me, so that we were both sheltered from the light rain. “And if the weather lets up this weekend, we have to go rollerblading in Central Park. Remember those vintage shots of John Kennedy, Jr. rollerblading in Central Park?” “No,” I lied. “And besides, I don’t have rollerblades. And neither do you.” Stephanie paused for a moment. “Okay. But there must be places where you can rent them, right?” “Nope,” I lied again. In New York you can buy, rent, or get just about anything. And while I didn’t know a specific place that rented rollerblades, I would have bet my life that it existed. “Oh.” Stephanie seemed disappointed. I wondered, and not for the first time, at my perverse impulse to squelch my sister’s positive disposition. She seemed to skip through life whistling a happy tune while I saw only the clouds on the horizon. We stopped in at Macy’s, and I bought Stephanie a stylish wide-brimmed hat that made her look a little like a certain popular olive-skinned actress from the seventies. She fussed with it whenever we passed a window or mirror, and finally I reached over and slapped her hand away. “You look fine. Much better than with that little old lady hat.” “Where is it?” she asked. “Where is what?” “Granny’s hat.” “I tossed it in a trash can on 34th Street,” I said. “Lainey, no!” The look on her face was too much for me. I rolled my eyes and pulled it out of my pocketbook, handing the hat back to her. “Thank you.” Stephanie smoothed it out lovingly and tucked it into her own bag. “You can’t be careless with things like this. It’s not like we have a whole lot left of them.” By ‘them’ she meant our grandmother and mother. The only family we knew until they both passed away. Steph was more sentimental than I was, that was for sure. But I couldn’t see the point. We were all we had, and that was just the reality—there was no reason to dwell on it. And as raw deals went, we’d made out better than most. Though we never knew our dad, our mother and grandmother more than made