“Anythingturns up?” I repeated. “She’s not a package, Sheriff. She’s my sister. The other half of my heart.”
He looked uncomfortable. “I’m sorry. I know this is hard, but none of the evidence points to abduction or foul play.”
My laugh came out sharp and broken. “You mean her car by the side of the road and footprints that juststop?Ifthose were even hers. Did you guys even check that? Someone else was there.”
It was inconceivable to me that this was just being dropped. Jane wouldn’t just leave me. Ever. I’d known that she and Nolan hadn’t been in a good space, but she would have made other arrangements. I would have helped her. She would have known I’d have done anything for her.
“Look ma’m. Investigations are dynamic.” Biting my tongue, I let him give me the party line. There was nothing else to say then. They’d found nothing that they could use, and they’d lost any leads they thought they’d have. He gave a sad little shrug. “If something comes up, we’ll call.”
“Great,” I managed.
Then they packed up the search, as if folding away a bad dream. Yellow tape came down, volunteers drifted home, and the cops promised to “keep investigating,” which everyone knew meantwe’ll move on to the next missing woman before the week’s over.
I sat in the back of my SUV, wrapped in a borrowed blanket that smelled like cigarette smoke, and watched them drive away until the last cop car was gone in the distance, leaving only me and the trampled ground around the entrance to the woods. They’d already towed Jane’s car. My whole body felt numb, even my hands, even though the sun was up.
When he left, I sat there for a long time, blanket clutched around me, watching the sunlight move across the dirt. The woods looked calm again, like they’d swallowed their secret and gone back to sleep.
I thought about all the cases I’d seen online — the pretty women who vanished into hashtags and hashtags that vanished into silence. Jane’s name would be another one in a week. Another sad little news alert that people scrolled past while eating breakfast.
Not if I could help it.
When I got back to my apartment, I didn’t shower. Didn’t sleep. I sat at my desk and opened my laptop. TypedMissingandJane Cannoninto every social media search bar I could find. I tried more variations. Nothing yet. Just a local article quoting the sheriff and Nolan’s photo front and center.
“Distraught husband pleads for wife’s return.”
The words blurred as I stared at them.
I could almost hear Jane teasing me —You’re overanalyzing again, Hattie. Breathe.She was the only one who called me Hattie. It was Jane and Josephine, but she’d started using a variation of my middle name because she hated that we both had J’s. Identical twins. If she didn’t come back, then I really would be the only J. My breath felt like glass in my chest.
I pushed record on my voice memo.
“She’s just gone. My sister. The cops say that she just left on her own, but I’m telling you right now … they’re wrong. Someone isn’t saying something. There has to be something. I have questions that aren’t being answered. Why would she leave her car? Jane was smart. Smarter than me. Whose footprints were those? If they were hers, someone else must have been there. I’m going to find out who.” My voice cracked, but I didn’t stop. “If Jane didn’t walk away. Someone took her. And I’m not waiting for anyone else to prove it. I’ll do it myself.”
Click.
That was the first recording.
Two weeks later, I quit my job at my marketing firm — the one with the corner office and the red-soled shoes and the fake smiles. My boss blinked at me like I’d lost my mind. Maybe I had. I sold the condo and moved everything I couldn’t carry into storage.
Every spare dollar was spent on ad buys and social media boosts. I built a website, a forum, and an online tracker. Nights blurred into dawns, the coffee burned my stomach, and I didn’t care.
I started posting voice clips — raw, unscripted updates. “Search day twelve. Lead in Bristol County. Possible sighting.” “Interviewed neighbor, claims argument the night before.” “No response from husband to latest request for statement.”
People started listening and then sharing. Then, sending me tips.
By month three, I wasn’t just a woman looking for her sister. I was the girlwho wouldn’t let it go.
By month six, that became my whole identity, and by the first anniversary of Jane’s disappearance, the police had closed the file, but I didn’t.
Because if the world forgot her — ifIforgot her — then she’d be gone twice. And I couldn’t live with that.
Then people started sending me other cases … and suddenly I had a whole new life.
By then,The J & J Hourhad built a name, a logo, and a growing community of people who liked, commented, and shared. It started as a space to discuss Jane—to document what I was finding, or not finding, but it grew into something bigger.
The setup was simple: my living room, my phone, and an editing program I barely knew how to use. Sometimes I’d be traveling in my car, or you could hear me talking to someone, but I didn’t care much about polish, and my listeners loved that. I was raw and open.
When the first media outlet called, asking for an interview about “citizen sleuthing in the age of podcasts,” I nearly said no. But then I thought about Jane and howthe world had turned the page on her story as if it was just yesterday’s news.
