talk show spills loudly out, but the noise fades to a dull roar as I approach the front door and knock, giving it an extra-hard rap so I sound official.
“What?” a woman yells from inside. I ignore the question and knock again, which prompts muttered cursing from the other side of the door. Finally it opens, revealing a painfully thin blonde in a tank top that’s so worn and loose, it’s nearly exposing one of her nipples. It’s Wanda Stringer.
“I’m with the county,” I lie. “I’m looking for Kayla Stringer.” I’m taking a chance that Wanda might recognize me, but why would she? The last time I saw her I was eighteen or so, and if I introduce myself as Ricky’s sister, I’ll have to listen to a long tirade about what an asshole my brother is. I could supply that tirade myself, so I’m not interested.
Kayla’s mother shrugs. “I don’t know. She doesn’t live here.”
“Your sixteen-year-old daughter doesn’t live here?”
Wanda rolls her eyes. “Don’t give me that shit. She’s been staying with her dad’s parents.” Oh, great. Of course. Because my parents were so capable with kids the first time around that they produced at least one sociopath and probably two.
“But she is missing,” I prompt.
“She hasn’t come around asking for money or stealing my shit in the past month, so if you want to call that missing, then sure.”
“Ma’am”—I try on my most snippy tone, the one I remember from so many school meetings as a child—“you’re telling me that you have lost track of your girl, you haven’t seen her in a month, but you don’t know if she’s missing. Is that correct?”
“Check in with her pimp; maybe he’s got that little bitch on a tight leash.”
She swings the door closed, but I catch it with a slap of my hand just in time. “Your teenage daughter is being prostituted?”
“Kayla is a little truck-stop whore and she loves it. Does that clear it up for you? Do you think you can still save her? She’s a lazy slut who didn’t want to get a real job and decided to run wild in the streets instead. She’s the one who wanted to go stay with her grandparents. If they lost her, is that my fault?”
Well, technically I’d put responsibility for her child right in her lap, but who am I to judge? “Who’s her pimp?” I ask. “Does he live around here?”
“We don’t sit around and braid each other’s hair and discuss her pimp, lady. How should I know where he lives?”
“You must have a name.”
“Sure,” she spits. “His name is Little Dog. Does that help? Little Dog? Think you can find him? Maybe he’s in the fucking phone book! If you find that piece of shit, tell him he owes me two hundred bucks for that iPad. I know damn well he’s the one who stole it.”
“What’s he look like?” I ask, but I’ve relaxed too much, and she sees her chance to escape and shoves the door closed in my face.
“Bitch,” I say to the door. The TV volume rises on the other side. I pause for a moment to think of a way to get revenge for her disrespect, but she’s not worth the time. Kayla clearly isn’t here and hasn’t been here for a while.
My cold heart sinks a little. If Kayla was turned out by some small-town pimp, then she’s nothing at all like me. She’s just a poor abused girl like all the other poor abused girls out there.
In a nice suburban neighborhood, if a girl disappears, it’s city news. Maybe even national news. Posters everywhere. Manhunts. Strangers weeping for this vulnerable child. If a grown man is having sex with a teenage neighbor who lives in a McMansion in the good part of town, the police will be notified. Consequences will be swift.
But if that girl is poor trash when she goes missing, or if she’s being paid for the sex, then all law and sympathy gets thrown out the window. She’s a whore and she deserves whatever she gets, even if she’s only sixteen. She’s all used up and worthless now. She probably was from the moment she was born.
Hell, if she’s a brown child, she might not even be called missing at all. Just another girl who hardly deserved to live. What did she expect?
I stroll slowly back to my car, frowning at this lifestyle news about Kayla. She’s obviously a very troubled young woman. “Troubled,” I say aloud