guilt and vulnerability, yes. An utter betrayal of his societal duties. He could have lost everything in that afternoon
or even in the months after. He still could.
But, oh man, he had a tight little teenager right there
on his sad metal desk. Right there, where he has to put
up with their hot pants and backtalk and scornful eye rolls every single day. What an exhilarating disaster.
Perhaps he thinks about me still.
“Hey, Mr. H!”
“Hi,” he says automatically. He shifts his coffee and
sets his laptop case on the floor before looking up. “What’s up?” he asks, and then he sees me. Sees my face and my
smile and raised eyebrows. For a moment I watch the
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thoughts crawl over his face like spiders. I look familiar, but who am I?
“It’s Jane!” I offer helpfully. “All grown up!”
His face freezes into a blank. Nothing moves. Not
his eyes or his hands or his chest. He’s turned to stone as I stroll inside the room and drop into my old seat in the
second row. Not that I came to his class much after that
little rendezvous. Why bother? I’d put in my service.
“Listen,” I say. “I’m looking for my niece, Kayla. She’s
missing. Is she one of your students?”
“Who?” he whispers, eyes fluttering strangely.
“Kayla Stringer. She’s my niece.”
“I don’t … I don’t know that name.”
“Really? She wasn’t in your class yet? But you’ve seen
her around.”
“I don’t know.”
I smile at his continued shock. He thinks I must be
here for him, his own little nightmare finally scuttling
out from his bad dreams. “This is weird, huh?”
He shakes his head but his eyes get shiny, tears mag-
nifying the blood vessels creeping through the whites.
“I was worried if she was your student, you might
have slept with her or something.”
“No! Never. Never!”
“Well, come on. Not never, Mr. H.”
“I…” He stops there, lips parted, throat working. For
a moment I think he’s going to vomit, but then he bursts
into tears instead.
“Oh, good Lord,” I mutter as he weeps in strangled,
heaving gulps.
“Please don’t tell!”
I shrug and wait for him to quiet down. It takes a while.
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“It was a mistake,” he gasps. “I’m sorry. I never …
never again. I swear.”
I really don’t understand this part of human fallibility.
I have no idea what it’s like to have this much regret, but if it hurts so much, wouldn’t you just avoid it? If something will make you so sad, don’t do it. But of course he
wanted to do it so much more than he didn’t want to do it, and that’s the eternal problem.
The truth is that Mr. Hollingsway had a fine life when
I knew him. A steady job. A nice wife. A halfway decent
house, even. He also has a teacher’s pension waiting for
him at the end of it all. He’s fine.
He hadn’t had kids when I knew him, but if he did,
he would’ve been able to feed and clothe them and send
them to college. Maybe even take a modest vacation
once a year.
But all he could see was what he didn’t have. What
was in front of his face and couldn’t be touched—that was
the thing he yearned for. A young girl with firm breasts
and wide eyes and soft skin. I was the thing denied him, and he wanted it so much.
The tears came after, of course. After he said yes.
After he pulled off my panties. After he pushed up my
top and kneaded my breasts like rising bread. After he
shoved himself gleefully inside me again and again, lasting longer than I expected. He got through all that without
guilt or hesitation. He managed to waltz enthusiastically
through all those very delicious steps before he bothered
to break down.
Yet I’m considered the one with the fractured brain.
I’m the one who’s dangerous and broken. At least I’m
consistent. How could anyone ever predict what a human 189
Victoria Helen Stone
being like Mr. Hollingsway might do when backed into
a corner? Or even when he’s just plain horny?
So-called normal humans have spent millennia trying
to explain themselves into innocence with stupid tales of
magic and Satan and bad things that burst out of them
during the full moon. Curses and possession and spring
madness. All of it to explain away their true desires and
pass them off as mere temptation by the devil. Or maybe
just temptation by little ol’ me.
Lies. It’s all inside them, just beneath the surface,
hidden in their tight little throats, straining to get out. I hate them all for thinking they’re any better than I am.
Rolling my eyes at Mr. Hollingsway’s snuffling, I get
up to leave. “See you around, Mr. H.” He has nothing
to say to me.
When I slip out, I pass a scruffy boy heading into the
classroom and imagine what Mr. Hollingsway’s explana-
tion will be for his wet face and red eyes. Maybe the kid
will be too self-absorbed to even notice.
The narrow halls are starting to fill now, so I slow
my pace and let the crowd surround me. I like lots of
humanity. The greasy energy of emotion rubs off on
me, leaving a film I can wear as my own for a moment.
Look at that redheaded girl laughing hysterically at a
text. She shows her friend, and now they’re both laugh-
ing, touching each other, experiencing affection. They
look so happy and feel so bright.
And check out that young Hispanic boy carrying a
bouquet of carnations. They’re tacky as hell, stored in
colored water to turn them blue, but he looks beyond
thrilled, a wide smile cutting across his pimpled face. He’s in love with some girl or boy. He feels a connection. He
feels hope and anxiety and thrilling lust.
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Farther away, a group of girls is huddled around a
locker, their shoulders bent toward one central figure,
all of them concerned with whatever fraught story she
is explaining with twisted mouth and big gestures. The
tallest girl glances down the hallway with a vengeful
frown, a ride-or-die sister out to make things right for
her injured friend. They’re so close. So bound together.
So many feelings, and I spread my arms as I walk,
trying to absorb all of them.
The kids aren’t sympathetic. They brush past my slow
stroll and send me irritated glares. I smile in return.
One boy says, “Move it, fat-ass bitch,” identifying my
size-ten-to-twelve ass as a point of deep insecurity. Cute, but I’m better at the insecurity game than he’ll ever be.
“Oh my God, it’s you!” I say loudly. The boy, wide
shouldered and red-necked, lurches to a stop as his friends look from him to me. “Long time no see, little guy. I sure
hope you didn’t inherit your daddy’s tiny dick! I haven’t
seen him in a while. How’s he doing?”
His friends burst into immediat
e uncontrollable hoots
of awe and laughter.
“Fuck you, you slut!” he counters, clearly already
clawing the rocky bottom of his repertoire. And now he’s
lost this game. There’s no glory in calling some random
older woman a slut, and his friends are hysterical now,
slapping his back, lurching with laughter.
Hot blood creeps all the way up his face and into his
buzz cut. “You fucking bitch. Who the fuck are you?”
God, maybe I should come back to high school. It
would be so much more entertaining if it were my choice
to be here. But even I’m not arrogant enough to think I
could pass for eighteen. Gravity does have its way with
you even when you’re as saucy as I am.
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A woman steps out of an office a dozen feet away.
“What’s going on out here?” she snaps.
The boy’s friends tug at his stiff, flared shoulders until
he reluctantly turns to leave. I smile and approach the
woman. Her brown skin and broad face point to Native
American heritage, and if she’s working in this school,
then that counts as progress around here. When I went
here, racism was a feature and not a bug. In fact, I spy a
Confederate flag T-shirt passing me by as we speak. If she
sees it, she’s gotten very good at pretending she doesn’t.
“Hi,” I say sweetly as I hold out my hand. “I’m Kayla
Stringer’s aunt.”
“Hello. I’m Vice Principal Sky. What can I do for you?”
“I don’t know if you’ve heard that Kayla is missing?”
“I’m so sorry. I know she hasn’t been in school, but
our phone calls haven’t been returned. I did send noti-
fication to the sheriff’s office about her truancy, but …
Well. Please come into my office.”
“Thank you.” I follow her through a small reception
area to a tiny rectangle of a room. “So the police never
came by to speak to you?”
“No. I certainly would’ve remembered being told if
one of our girls was missing.”
“They consider her a runaway, but with such a young
teen, I’m not sure why they’d find that a less-than-alarming explanation. Anything could’ve happened to her by now.
I’ve come down to help look.” I slide one of my business
cards across her neat desk. “Is there anything you can tell me about Kayla?”
“Not really. This was only her second year here.
She was a little … Well. I can’t violate privacy laws, of
course…”
“Of course.”
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Problem Child
She leans into her desk and meets my eyes. “I don’t
believe things have been very stable for her.”
“My parents took her in a few months ago, and they
are no one’s first choice. I can tell you that from my own
experience.”
She presses her lips together sympathetically.
“I would imagine she’s quite troubled,” I say. “But of
course those are the girls who are so often made victims.”
“That is the unfortunate truth. Predators identify the
troubled girls right off the bat. And she certainly acted
out. She got in a fight her first week of school here. She
came off as very aggressive, but she was likely just look-
ing to protect herself.”
“Certainly. Anything in particular stand out?”
“Not really. She was pretty quiet. A few in-school
suspensions. Quite a bit of truancy and lateness.”
Before I make my way out of the school, I thank her
and ask her to get in touch if she hears anything. I don’t
really need more information about Kayla. I’ll meet her
myself in a few hours. But at least I explained my presence in the hallway and nobody called the cops. I consider that
a good day at school.
I wish I could find that jock’s car and slash the tires,
but I’d better go while the getting’s good. I always enjoy
pushing things further than I should, but I don’t have the
free time today.
After heading back to my hotel, I spend half an hour
looking further into Roy Morris and the lieutenant
governor, assessing my danger, but the only interesting
thing I find is that Roy Morris has filed for bankruptcy
twice in his life. Other than that, there was a DUI at age
twenty-five and one more at thirty-one. A fairly average
businessman’s life if one accepts that most of them have
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mediocre financial skills at best. They consider bankrupt-
cies the cost of doing business, even though anyone else
who doesn’t pay their bills is a freeloader.
I check my work email to see if there are any responses
to the information I helpfully sent Rob on the North
Unlimited case. Distracted, I open my first email just
to skim the details before I hit the road, but when I see
what it is, I growl low in my throat.
“That motherfucker.” Someone from North Unlimited
has forwarded something to me with a response, only I
never saw the original email. The original email is an
apology from Rob and he’s apologizing for me. “Oh no,”
I breathe. “Oh no, sir, you lying little shit.”
He screwed something up and didn’t get them a num-
ber they’d requested, and then he blamed it on me. Sorry, my colleague Jane is out of town with some personal issues and didn’t get to this. Here’s the document you requested.
This is his whole shtick. He hasn’t learned his lesson at
all. He rides on the backs of others and then takes credit
for being tall.
That’s it. No more. I gave him his chance and agreed
to help him out and he failed spectacularly at redeeming
himself. Good old Robert has fucked with the wrong
woman for the very last time.
I log into his email account with a smile.
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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
After that surprise from Rob, I get out of town later than
I expected, and then I stop for a leisurely lunch along the way at an adorable cowboy-themed café I spy from the
road, so I don’t hit the outskirts of Tulsa until six. Not
that I’m worried about making Little Dog wait. I’m in a
better position if he’s anxious for me to show up.
The address I finally pull up to is quite a surprise. It’s
a suburban two-story brick house with an old-fashioned
portico that is far too fancy for the size of the place. It’s the kind of ostentatious eighties house that oil industry
people loved in the era of the TV show Dallas.
Now that I think about it, this house fits in perfectly
with Little Dog’s estate out in rural Oklahoma. Perhaps
it’s another gift from his dead grandparents. Hot damn,
this kid is living the mauve maven lifestyle! What a gang-
ster he is.
There’s no other car to be seen when I park in the
covered driveway, but there could be one in the window-
less garage. Or he re-kidnapped Kayla and the pair are
even now racing toward Mexico so he can sell her into
the sex slave trade before I get
my hands on her. Ugh.
I’m ready to get back to Minneapolis and see my cat
before I settle in to enjoy the new pecking order at the
office. Still, I’m so close to parlaying this into a moral
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triumph. If I can find my missing niece and return her
to safety, this whole trip will pay off in spades at work
even if the girl herself is a disappointment.
I knock on the oversize black-painted door and wait.
Crickets chirrup desperately for mates around me, and
that’s the only sound I hear. I’m not the least bit surprised that no one answers the door.
Damn it. Now I’m gonna have to make Little Dog pay.
Sighing, I knock again, just in case, then ring the
doorbell. Amazingly, I hear a ding-dong version of “The Saints Go Marching In” echo around somewhere inside.
This family is a true wonder of throwback kitsch. Maybe
I actually am on the set of a 1980s evening melodrama.
I’m bored with this stupid chase, so I get out my phone
and start to text Little Dog’s number, but then I hear the
soft pat-pat of feet approaching. I tip my head to the side and catch movement through the frosted sidelight. Well,
hello. There’s someone home after all.
“Who is it?” a tiny voice squeaks gently through the
door, sounding for all the world like a timid cartoon mouse.
“It’s Jane,” I say. “Open up.”
There’s a long moment of quiet, and then a lock slides.
The brass doorknob turns and the door opens one inch.
One muddy green eye stares out.
Finally! It’s the lost little lamb from the picture! I did it!
“Who?” she asks through the gap. Does she think
opening the door only an inch protects her in some way?
Does she think I can’t kick the wood straight into her
head and knock her out? This girl has no common sense
at all. She’s already a letdown. I sigh and shake my head.
“Are you Kayla?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m your aunt Jane. Your daddy’s sister.”
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“I ain’t never met you,” she says in a slow Oklahoma
drawl, chewing on the word you like it’s taffy.
“Be that as it may, your family got in touch with me
and here I am. You ready to get out of here or what?”
“I can’t. Little Dog said to wait here.”
I raise an eyebrow. “He’s gone?”
“He left this morning. I don’t know where.”
Problem Child (ARC) Page 20
