bitchy little heart.”
That coaxes a small smile from her.
“Our family can’t think past their next hit or handout.
That’s all they’ve ever been good for. ‘What’s going to
happen tonight, and how can I get a piece of it?’ Is that
the life you want for the next eighty years?”
“I’ll get the biggest piece of it, whatever it is.”
“Three-quarters of a shit pie is still just a giant piece
of shit, Kayla. Do you get that? Or are you as dumb as the
rest of them and that’s why you’re so angry and sneaky?”
“Screw you, I’m not dumb.”
“Then why are you still scrapping for your chance at
that delicious shit pie?”
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She’s mad, her jaw jutting out with stubbornness,
but she stays silent, listening now, waiting to see what I
want from her.
What do I want from her?
I cross my legs and sip my Coke, returning her gaze
for a long moment before I pose the next question. I stay
calm, though. If she knows this is important to me, she’ll
lie. “Have you always felt different?”
“Like how?”
“Different from the people around you. Your mama.
Your siblings. Your friends. If you have any friends.”
“I got friends,” she snaps, so I’m pretty sure she doesn’t.
“Do you feel … ?” I try to think of the best way to
express it. I’m not exactly great at tapping into my in-
nermost depths. “Do you feel removed from the world?”
She stares.
“Removed. Like the people around you are on a TV
show that you don’t particularly like that much.”
“Sure. Why would I care about them at all? They’ve
never cared about me.”
That’s just logic, as far as I can tell, but most people
don’t seem to feel that way, even if they’ve been raised
by monsters. Most people seem to want their mommy’s
love despite cruelty and neglect. Or because of that. Most
people raised in shitty environments are determined to
find love, by proxy if nothing else. A daddy leaves, so the daughter falls in love with any screwed-up man who’ll
tell her she’s a good girl. A mom drinks and whores, so
the son shacks up with the drunkest floozy he can find.
Most typically, of course, a family is dysfunctional
and it creates in them a sticky need to stay close, stay in touch, keep trying to make it better. We’ve all seen it a
million times.
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I’ve never understood it, though, because I don’t have
any guilt or regret that makes me want to make things
better. Maybe Kayla doesn’t either.
“You might be young enough to fix,” I say, testing
her a little. Is she ashamed? Does she want to get better, whatever that means?
There are therapies for children edging toward this
condition. Ways to learn how to behave empathetically
even if you can’t actually feel that. If a baby sociopath is caught early enough, they can be trained to … conform.
Maybe even to thrive. I’m not sure about sixteen, though.
That seems a bit long in the neuropathic tooth.
“Fix what?” she scoffs. “There’s nothing wrong with
me, lady.”
“You’re probably a sociopath,” I say simply.
For the barest moment she looks startled. Her eyes
widen for a split second before she narrows them again.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. That’s some
serial killer shit right there.”
“No it’s not. It’s actually fairly common. One in one
hundred people or so. Most of us don’t kill people; we
just have great skills at getting through life.”
“‘We’?”
“Yes. We.”
“You’re some kind of psycho bitch?”
“Yes, I am,” I say with only the barest hint of pride.
She snorts and gets out another cigarette. She feels
disadvantaged here and she doesn’t like it. I haven’t said
what she expected me to say, and now she’s scrambling
for a new plan.
“What do you want from me, huh?” she demands;
smoke to the side so her mouth is free to offer me a coy
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smile. “You like girls?” she asks, running her gaze down
my body. “Is that what all this is about? I’ve been with
girls before.”
“Jesus Christ, you really are a one-trick pony,
aren’t you?”
“What’s that mean?”
“Sex. It’s all you know. All you’re good for.”
“I mean, I’m great at it, if that’s what you’re ask-
ing. I’ll do anything you want. Anything at all. But
it’ll cost you. I need a little money to start over here,
you know?”
I stare at her, flat-mouthed.
“If you’re scared, you can have my phone so you
know I’m not recording it. Right here. Right now. One
thousand dollars.”
Slapping my knees, I push up to my feet. “All right,
I’m leaving.”
“Five hundred,” she says. “Family discount.”
“Good Lord. You can come with me if you want. We
can have dinner. Talk.”
“I’m not going anywhere. I don’t even know you.”
“Are you waiting for your man Little Dog to return
to your loving arms?” I ask.
“No, I’m just not getting in your car so you can drive
me over to CPS.”
“Girl, I’d take you straight to the cops. Child Protective
Services!” I laugh. “As I said, I’m no do-gooder.” I’m not, but I do need to turn her safely over to the authorities
to get a nice, heroic ending to this story. I can’t let her know what I want, though, or she’ll run off again just
to spite me.
“Whatever,” she mutters. “I’m fine here. Go back to
wherever you came from.”
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“Listen, Kayla, I get it. You’re tough. You want to
take care of things yourself. Fine. But I’m going to rent
myself a nice hotel room and stay in town for the night.
You’ll be much safer if you come with me. You really
managed to piss off the wrong guys.”
“I’m fine.”
“Okay, but we could have a nice chat about ourselves.
Wouldn’t that be fun? Talk about what’s going on in that
weird head of yours?”
“There’s nothing wrong with me,” she snaps. “I’m
just stronger than everyone else.”
True. Very true. “Yes,” I say, “you are. And you’re
going to waste that strength. You’ve got a gig for now.
You can use the thing that would normally make you
vulnerable to men and turn it on them as a weapon. But
that will only work for two more years, if you stay alive
that long. After that, all you’ll be is an eighteen-year-old dropout with a long rap sheet and a body that’s worth the
same dollar amount as every other whore over the legal
age. You want to be queen of the state prison system? Or
do you want something better than that?”
“Fuck off.”
“Got it. But here’s my number anyway.” I tear a scrap
of paper off a coupon in the kitchen and jot down my
cell phone number. “Little Dog might have decided to
sell you out to Morris. They might already have this ad-
dress. But I’m tired of you right now, so just call if there’s trouble. Or don’t. Your decision.” I head for the door.
“Sleep tight.”
“Wait.”
I turn back, my hand on the cold doorknob, a little
disappointed that she’s come to her senses so quickly. I was 210
Problem Child
starting to look forward to a long soak in a nice bathtub
and a few drinks at the hotel bar.
“Could I have twenty bucks? We’re out of food, and
Little Dog took the car, so I need to order pizza.”
There’s plenty of food in the fridge, but I appreciate
her attempt to scam me, so I flick a twenty at her and leave with a wave. It’s time to upgrade my accommodations
and take a long night of luxury to consider the stupid
idea squirming at the back of my mind.
Stupid … but it could be fun.
211
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
A dull buzzing wakes me from a sound sleep. My body is
cradled in a luxury mattress and warmed by a perfectly
fluffy comforter. I feel amazing. Powerful and right.
When I crack my eyes open, I see that it’s morning,
but the colorless light coming through the sheer white
curtains indicates a fairly early hour. I ignore the buzzing and go back to sleep.
When it wakes me again, the light is yellow enough
that I decide the hour is more civilized and turn over to
grab my phone. Eight a.m. I got to bed before midnight,
so I stretch hard and scroll through my alerts. Nothing
from Kayla and nothing from Luke.
I’m not surprised about Luke. We had a long conver-
sation while I was in the bathtub last night. I told him
I’d found Kayla and he was so damn happy. Choked up,
even, and that only inflamed my ridiculous idea.
“She’s a lot like me,” I told him. “I think I can help
her.” I didn’t tell him how. I didn’t even hint at it. The
idea is dangerous and I enjoy the secret rush of it.
“You absolutely should,” he gushed. “You should help
her any way you can. Jesus, I can’t believe you found her.
Actually, yes I can. I don’t know what I’m saying. You’re
amazing, Jane. Just let me know if I can help.”
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Problem Child
He might be able to help. He just might. But I haven’t quite decided yet.
I pee and I’m taking my birth control pill when I hear
the buzz again. It’s not my phone. My phone is quiet on
the bed.
Frowning, I dig through my purse and find a light
emanating from inside it. I wrap my hands around the
mysterious stowaway and pull out Nate’s cell phone. “Oh,
hello, little guy! I forgot about you!”
I drop into a cozy chair by the window and open
text messages.
LITTLE DOG IS DEAD MAN
Oh shit. That’s quite an eye-opener. What the heck
happened while I was asleep? Is Kayla dead too?
I scroll back to find an initial text from last night
from an unfamiliar number, but it must have been Nate,
because it just asks, Where’s my damn phone????
After that, there was silence for several hours, before
more texts started early this morning from three people.
“B,” “Rodney,” and “K-man,” all conveying the same
message: Little Dog is dead. LITTLE DOG IS DEAD!
Rodney is the only one offering the additional info
that someone “took him out.” Looks like it wasn’t a
natural death. Intriguing.
I need to find out if Kayla was affected by this, but
I forgot to get her number. Still, if I had it, I wouldn’t
want my information on her phone at this point. Even if
she’s fine, I can’t have another clue linking me to a dead
guy. Bad enough that I called Little Dog a couple of days
ago. I’m so glad I didn’t text him last night.
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Victoria Helen Stone
Nate is definitely going to tell the cops that a strange
middle-aged woman broke into his house and stole his
phone while on the hunt for Brodie, so I power down
Nate’s phone, then pop out the SIM card and the battery.
I’ll ditch it on the road later.
They’ll be able to trace the texts the phone received
to this area where I’ve spent the night, so I’m thankful I
have legitimate business. I’ve been looking for my miss-
ing niece. Of course I tried to call Brodie. Of course I went to his house. And Nate can say whatever he wants about
my breaking in, but I’ll say I knocked and knocked and
then I got worried. Who are the cops going to believe?
A drugged-out kid crashing at a dead boy’s house? Or
professional, successful me?
When there’s a rap on my door, I get up silently and
take careful steps to look through the peephole just in
case it’s the police or maybe the murderer. But it’s just
my breakfast.
Breakfast! I forgot I left an order on the door hanger
last night.
I fling open the door and grin at the petite man car-
rying the big tray. “Thank you!” I’m suddenly starving.
He’s nice enough to look everywhere except at me as
I sign the bill, and I realize I’m only wearing panties and a tank top. It’s hard to remember these kinds of things
when you have no shame. I give him a big tip for being
a gentleman; then I switch on the TV and settle in at the
table to eat.
The French toast is perfect and they brought me two
tiny bowls of soft butter, which is the height of breakfast service as far as I’m concerned. A little stingy with the
bacon, but the side of fresh fruit distracts me from my
annoyance.
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Problem Child
I’m done with breakfast and halfway through the pot
of coffee when I remember that I should be hurrying.
Something went very wrong overnight, and there’s a
good chance I shouldn’t have left Kayla alone no matter
how snotty and defiant she was.
Then again, if Kayla was in danger, she’s already dead;
and if she’s dead, she won’t care if I hurry or not, so I
pour one more cup of coffee and turn on the financial
news to see if anything interesting is going on.
Nothing. It’s all boring.
I made an impulsive decision last night and called
in a reservation at the most luxurious hotel I know in
Oklahoma. I’ve never stayed there myself, but even in my
teenage years I’d heard of it. An Oklahoma City high-
rise hotel popular during the roaring twenties that is still frequented by oil executives today.
I imagine that Kayla has never seen anything like it,
and she definitely needs something shiny to set her eyes on.
Something to tempt her toward good behavior for a greater
goal. It’s not easy for people like us to be
patient. If she is like me. I still want to study her a bit more before I commit.
When I was her age, keeping up my grades so I could
get the hell out of my town and go to a good school was
the most challenging part of my life. I had to sit tight.
Had to study for tests and do my homework or at least
find ways around it like Mr. Hollingsway. I had to toler-
ate my parents and my brother and every nasty asshole
in my town. And I had to stay out of trouble.
Well … I had to not get caught in trouble; let’s be clear. Staying out of trouble would have driven me off the deep end.
I stole cars for a joyride every once in a while. And I
shoplifted constantly. But I never got caught. I was white
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Victoria Helen Stone
and I was female, so it was easy to fly under the radar
while quietly entertaining my dark side.
Kayla hasn’t been that smart. She doesn’t give a damn
about anything, which is totally understandable. I get it.
But it won’t keep working for her forever. She was right
about being stronger than other people, but she needs to
be smarter than them too. They expect her to end up in
prison just like her daddy, and that’s exactly where she’s
headed at this rate, the dumb-ass.
Well … If she’s headed anywhere at all and not lying
there dead in the home of a stranger. What a shock that
would be for Brodie’s aunt and uncle after a couple of
months in Arizona.
If she was killed, I won’t be able to return a hero, but
I will be a sympathetic and tragic figure, at least. I tried to help, but I was too late!
I finally get cleaned up and dressed and pack the few
things I took out of my suitcase, and I head on out to the
leafy avenues of the nicer areas of Tulsa.
The neat and tidy house looks the same when I pull
under the portico, which is good news. No cop cars, no
police tape, and no Brodie-like vehicle, which I can only
assume would be a muscle car with patches of primer show-
ing. Or maybe he’s been driving his grandma’s 1988 maroon
Mercury Grand Marquis all over the great state of Oklahoma.
Snorting at the image, I get out of the car. All I can
do is knock on the door and see if she answers. If she
doesn’t, then I’ll need to make some serious decisions.
Walk away and wash my hands of this whole thing? Sneak
around back and see if I can spy any clues through the
windows? Break in to discover the truth? Maybe not a
great idea if there’s a dead body in there, but it does ap-