Problem Child (Jane Doe #2) - Victoria Helen Stone Page 0,15
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?”
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.”
“She’s sixteen. She’s been in a little trouble. She vanished 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 probably 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.
“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 together. 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