Not her mother. Nobody.”
35
Victoria Helen Stone
I roll my eyes. “She’s missing or she ran off?”
“I don’t know. She’s missing or kidnapped or dead.
Anything could have happened to her, and no one even
cares? How is that right? She’s Wesley’s sister! And if he disappeared, I’d want someone to look for him. If I weren’t here … Good Lord, I shudder to think what could happen to my son.”
“Look, Joylene, I don’t even know this girl. I’m in
Minnesota. I’m not a criminal attorney or a detective,
and I’m certainly not a children’s advocate. I couldn’t
help if I wanted to.”
“She’s been in a little trouble,” she says, as if I haven’t spoken, “but nothing real bad. And she’s just a tiny little thing. She can’t look out for herself.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s not right. Everyone has just thrown her away.
I’m not a blood relation, so no one will even return my
phone calls!”
“You should call an attorney in your area. Get help
there.”
Joylene sighs, and I’m moving the phone away from my
ear, ready to hang up, when she speaks again. “Everyone
always says she’s just like you, so I hoped maybe you two
had a connection or something.”
Frowning, I pause in mid-motion, the phone three
inches from my ear. What does she mean, “just like” me?
I slide the phone another inch toward the receiver,
but I’m a cat when it comes to curiosity, so I impulsively
change my mind and put it back to my ear. “What do
you mean?”
“I thought maybe you’d been involved with her when
she was young.”
36
Problem Child
“No. Why do people say she’s just like me?” I’m also
a cat when it comes to narcissism. Joylene hesitates, so
I press harder. “She looks like me? Or she’s mouthy or
something?”
“Yes, she’s definitely mouthy.”
“Good for her. She sounds like a teenager.”
“Yeah, but…”
I groan at her hesitation. “Joylene, I don’t have time
for this. It’s the middle of a workday. Spit it out.”
“Okay.” Her voice is harder now, sick of my shit.
“Everyone says she’s a cold-blooded little bitch just like
you always were.”
I freeze, but my heart beats faster, harder. Just like me.
Is it possible? My condition does run in families, especially if you throw in hardship and a healthy dose of instability.
“Cold-blooded how?”
“She’s a little … I don’t know. I guess she’s a little
spooky. But that’s no reason to throw a child away! Wesley
loves her. Or he used to, anyway. We moved to Moore,
and he hasn’t seen her in a good three years, maybe four.
But when she was little, she was more wild than spooky.”
Spooky. Her chatter fades in my ears as my pulse fills my head. Ricky has a daughter who’s a spooky, cold-blooded bitch just like I am. Is it possible? A little Baby Jane out in the world?
I settle back in my chair and cross my legs. “All right,
Joylene, let’s start from the beginning. Tell me everything you know.”
37
CHAPTER FOUR
She doesn’t appear sixteen in her picture. Not even close.
She’s a weak-looking thing, scrawny and pale, and my
first instinct when I find her photo online is to dismiss the whole story entirely. She’s nothing like me. Look at her.
But her eyes stop me. It’s a school photo, the cheap
blue-gray background a dead giveaway, and she doesn’t
seem pleased to be sitting for a forced portrait. Kayla’s
dark-blond hair is parted in the middle and falls in a flat line a couple of inches past her shoulders. Her white
skin is dotted with freckles and her thin mouth is set
in a stubborn line, nostrils flared, as if she’s refusing the command to smile.
Everything about her is unremarkable, maybe even
pitiful. Everything except the eyes. A dull green, they’re
fixed on the camera, and if they were sad or scared, she’d
look every inch the neglected child she likely is. But there’s no fear there. No sorrow. There’s nothing. Just a slight
sheen of moisture and the cold emptiness of deep space.
“Hello, hello, hello,” I whisper to my missing niece.
She does look a little like me after all.
I turn on my laptop camera and pose for a humorless
full-face shot, just as Kayla did. We don’t resemble each
other in any other way. I have dark brown hair cut in a
fringed bob, and my face is a nice, full oval without the
38
Problem Child
bony angles of hers. But the spooky eyes? Yeah. Those
are the same.
I can cover it up by smiling, crinkling my eyes into
little half-moons of happiness. But that takes effort to pull off, and Kayla clearly doesn’t give a shit.
Is my niece a sociopath?
Joylene said the girl had been in a little trouble before
but nothing huge. A couple of fights at school. A few
items shoplifted from the grocery store. Or maybe more
than a few.
“What kind of society calls the police on a child for
stealing food?” Joylene huffed. But we all know what kind of society does that. Our kind. And Kayla had known it too, and she hadn’t been afraid to try it. Maybe she wasn’t as weak as she looked.
There are no details about her disappearance online.
Just her birth date and description and the day she was
seen last on a website about missing and endangered chil-
dren. Kayla was last seen four weeks ago, just as Joylene
explained. She didn’t know too much beyond that. “Your
mama says she must have run off. I called the police, and
they said they’ve filed a missing-person report but had
no reason to believe she was at risk. They sounded bored
about the whole thing.”
“And Kayla’s mother?”
Joylene snorted. “She won’t even call me back. Your
brother says no one has heard from Kayla, and he can’t
do shit from prison, so to leave him alone. The end. No
one cares, Jane. I can’t get any information from CPS or
the county or the police because we’re not related.”
Joylene came to the wrong place looking for concern,
but I still find myself fascinated as I google my niece’s
name. Did she just run away? God knows, I considered
39
Victoria Helen Stone
it a hundred times, knowing I’d be better off without
my shitty family weighing me down. But in the end I
decided the free room and board was worth it. I wanted
to finish high school so I could get to college and show
them all how much better I was than them.
And I did it. But maybe Kayla came up with a different
plan. Leave these losers in the dust and hope for the best.
Or maybe she was raped and killed and left on the
side of the road.
“It’s none of my business,” I tell myself aloud. But I
still spend most of my afternoon looking up information
on missing teens in Oklahoma. No bodies have been
found that look like hers. No random feet w
ashed up in
rivers. Maybe she’s just being sex trafficked.
This time when Luke texts me, I don’t ignore him.
Jane, come on. Can we talk?
Yes, I write. Come by my place tonight.
Sounds like a setup for murder??? he responds.
I laugh at that. Maybe he knows me better than I
think. Perhaps you can appease me with calzones
and save yourself.
Done.
There’s an Italian take-out place a block from his
condo that I love. He already knows my order. There are
good things about being in a relationship.
I’m not ready to give him up. I know that. But I refuse
to hang around until he dumps me. That’s not an accept-
able outcome, and I might lose my shit and do something
dangerous to the next girl he sleeps with.
A conundrum. Give him up now or later? Or …
maybe there’s a third choice. String him along forever,
40
Problem Child
promising children we’ll never have. That’s an option to
consider. I can distract him with good sex for years, and
then I’ll surely get tired of him and walk away before he
has a chance to realize I’ve been voluntarily infertile this whole time. I will get sick of him. Nothing lasts forever.
The sex has to get boring at some point, and there’s not
much more to me.
When I leave work at six, Rob is still typing away in
his office, hard at work, and I’ve never seen that before.
This experience is going to be so great for his personal
growth.
Half an hour later, Luke knocks on the door of
my condo. When I open it and see him, I feel strange
inside: a tight, vibrating sensation high in my belly
that makes me nervous. He sets the bag of food on the
counter along with a bottle of wine and turns to face
me. “I’m sorry I freaked you out yesterday. That wasn’t
my intention.”
“I know,” I respond, and then I add, “I’m sorry too,”
because I understand that I’m supposed to, but I don’t
know what to add after that. I don’t have anything else
to say except Stop it, stop it, stop it, I don’t like this. But that would cause another conversation, and who can live
like that? So instead of telling him to stop, I make him stop by sliding into his arms and squeezing him tight. He
squeezes back and within seconds we’re kissing.
The fight has triggered something rough and des-
perate in him, and I like rough and desperate, so I’m
thrilled when he backs me up to the countertop of my
galley kitchen and lifts me onto it. He doesn’t have to
move carefully or ask if I’m in the mood. I’ve trained
him not to. I’ll lash out if he does. I know my own
bad habits.
41
Victoria Helen Stone
I groan when he shoves my skirt up, then hiss with
pleasure when he slides his hand into my underwear to
touch me.
“Christ, I can’t get enough of you,” he whispers,
and I’m suddenly filled up and overflowing with power
and delight. I’m not a soft and caring person. I’m not
nurturing. But I have this, damn it. And he loves it. He
still loves it.
“Show me,” I beg. “Fuck me.” He does.
I don’t have a soul, but in this moment I feel as if I
do. I feel beautiful and full and glowing with the kind
of life that other people take for granted. Luke needs this, and I’m human for a few minutes, his soul filling me up
as he thrusts. This is love. This is emotion.
Is it real?
I expand, my heart swelling until it pops wide-open
with my climax. Then I’m myself again, my insides cool-
ing as the sweat evaporates on my skin.
And there are still the calzones to look forward to.
“I missed you,” he murmurs against my neck.
“It’s only been twenty hours.”
He grins like an embarrassed little boy, and he’s so
cute that I laugh and kiss him on the cheek. “Tell me
you love me,” I demand.
“I love you,” he says, and I know he means it, which
is strange and wonderful and sad.
“Me too,” I say solemnly, hoping it’s close to the
truth. If it’s not love, it’s as near as I’ve ever gotten. “Now let’s eat.”
“I brought your favorite wine.”
“I saw that. How do you think we ended up on the
counter?”
“My boundless charm?”
42
Problem Child
I slide off the cold granite, pull my underwear back
on, and open the bag of food. What a great reunion.
By the time I pop the last bite of calzone into my
mouth, Luke and I are sprawled on the couch, my legs
draped over his lap, and half the bottle of wine is gone. I lick my greasy fingers and watch him watch my tongue.
“Something weird happened today,” I say. “My niece
is missing.”
His reaction is delayed, because I suck a finger into
my mouth and he finds that distracting.
“What?” he asks.
“My niece is missing.”
He frowns, his head cocked, then he pushes himself
upright on the couch. “Your niece? Jane, are you joking?”
“No.”
“What niece? Where? What happened?”
“One of my brother’s many children, of course. His
first one, I think. Down in Oklahoma. I don’t know her.”
He only looks more alarmed. “How old is she?”
“Sixteen.”
“But…” He shakes his head hard, as if he’s trying to
clear it. “How did you find out?”
“Someone called.” He raises his eyebrows at my words
and gestures impatiently for more information.
Tipping my head back in weariness, I call on my
best storytelling capabilities and find little to nothing to tap into. “One of my brother’s baby mamas tracked me
down online and called the office. A couple of times. I
finally took her call this afternoon. She explained the
situation.”
“And that situation is…?”
“You’re a regular Curious George tonight.”
“Jane, come on! This is awful. Tell me everything.”
43
Victoria Helen Stone
“She’s sixteen. She’s been in a little trouble. She van-
ished four weeks ago. Maybe she just ran away. No one
seems to know or care.”
“But the woman who called you cares.”
“Yeah.” I wiggle my legs against his thighs, looking
for attention, and he obliges by settling his hands on my
skin. “I guess Joylene cares. But the state doesn’t care, and the cops don’t care, and neither do her parents.”
“Jesus, they sound just like your parents.”
“Well, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree and all
that. And that place is a whole goddamn orchard.”
“Do you think she ran away?” he presses.
I shrug. “I don’t know. If I ever met her, she was a baby
at the time. I guess I did meet her, but I don’t remember.
Still…” I glance at him under my lashes, studying his
open face. “Apparently she’s a lot like me. That’s what
Joylene said. Everyone says she’s like me.”
“Oh. How so?”
“You know. She acts like me. And if that part is
true, she’s logical and straightforward, so she’s prob-
ably fine.”
He squeezes my calf, his hand a warm anchor for my
body. “That’s not true at all. Didn’t you need help when
you were a little girl?”
I shrug.
“You did. Someone should have helped you, Jane.”
No. Not really. I didn’t need help by the time I was
sixteen. I needed help when I was a neglected, needy
seven-year-old and I didn’t get it, so I learned to help
myself. No one can go back in time and rescue baby
Kayla any more than they can rescue stupid Baby Jane.
What’s done is done.
44
Problem Child
“Anyway, she asked me to help.”
“You should!” he says immediately.
“How? I’d have to go down there. There’s nothing
I can do from here.” As soon as I say it, I realize I want
to. I want to get out of my office and stir up trouble and
track down this girl who might be like me. I’m bored.
And let’s face it, I don’t want to deal with Luke and his
ridiculous fantasies about what our life could be like to-
gether. I want to get away from here.
“You can get some time off, can’t you? This is an
emergency.”
“Yes,” I answer. It’s almost inevitable now. This is how
I make decisions. I think of something, and if I like the
idea, I do it. Trying to deny myself just makes me cranky
and delays the outcome. “God. If only my family were
from Southern California. I really don’t want to waste
vacation days in the middle of nowhere.”
“Family leave?”
Hmm. I don’t know the ins and outs, as I don’t have
family, and I’m certainly not any kind of caretaker at all.
“I’ll check into it. But maybe they’ll be sympathetic.”
“Your niece is missing! Of course they’ll be
sympathetic.”
That’s news to me. Girls are thrown away all the time
in our world. The only thing going for her is that she’s
a white girl, but even that advantage was pretty much
lost once she started shoplifting. And if she’s not a virgin, forget it. She’s worthless trash at this point! Not that I’ll let the firm know that.
“You really think I should go?” I ask, not to reassure
myself but because I want him to think he helped decide
Problem Child (ARC) Page 5
