Problem Child (Jane Doe #2) - Victoria Helen Stone Page 0,36

the train tracks that bring coal to the plant and take luxury cars to people somewhere far away, and then, when you get past the rail line, it’s all rangeland. That’s it. Poor folks and cows and an obnoxious bit of industry. Not one aboveground pool to covet, though we had a deflated kiddie pool in our yard for many years.

I take a left just before the plant and head down a paved road that can only generously be called two-lane. After driving past a row of houses with neat yards, I take a left onto a packed-dirt lane just before the grain elevator. I pass behind a few widely spaced ranch homes and one small horse pasture; then the path spits me into a bare-dirt yard enclosed by barbed wire to protect the two precious rusted-out cars in front of our trailer. They’re the same two cars that were there when I left for college more than a decade ago.

In fact, everything looks the same, except that there’s a newer trailer home sitting directly next to the one I grew up in. The windows of the old house are covered from the inside by stacked cardboard boxes, as if the entire place has been filled up with a collection of junk. Red dust coats the white walls in years of layers like unshed skin.

The new trailer is tan and bright, smaller than the old one but definitely nicer, with bigger windows and an unfinished-wood wheelchair ramp that leads up to the front door. There’s even a flower box at the top of the ramp, but whatever plant was in there gave up the ghost many, many weeks ago, and just a few sad sticks poke over the sides to greet me.

I grab my big bag of cold fries from the passenger seat and set out across the dirt and patches of crunchy grass toward the ramp. It’s beautifully constructed, and the wood is smooth under my hand, so I know Ricky didn’t build it. A church group probably. My mom always made sure she was in at least two congregations at a time to maximize the number of possible potlucks and charity donations. To her benefit, I mean. Not out of a spirit of generosity.

Snorting at the very idea, I knock on the metal door.

“Sarah!” I hear my father call from inside. “The door!” But when the door opens, it’s Dad standing there, looking like shit. He’s heavier than he was ten years ago and shorter too, but he doesn’t look like a man who’s been ravaged by a stroke. In fact, his bloodshot eyes and unshaven face make it appear as though the stains on his oversize Snap-on tools T-shirt are probably bourbon. Good old Dad.

“I’m helping look for Kayla,” I say in greeting. “Was she living here when she disappeared?”

“I talked to that deputy weeks ago,” my dad growls.

“Yeah, I’m not with the county.”

“So what are you doing here?”

“I’m your daughter, asshole. Look, I even brought you a present.”

“Jane?” He squints as he takes the bag I thrust into his hand. “Jane?”

“Yes, Jane. I heard you lost your granddaughter, so I’m here to help.”

“Sarah!” he shouts right into my face. I can smell the bourbon now and I finally feel at home. “Sarah! Jane’s here!”

“Who?” my mom shouts from a bedroom somewhere.

I roll my eyes. “It’s your daughter! Returned to the warm bosom of her family!”

“What?” my mom shouts back.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I grumble. “Can I come in or not?”

My dad shuffles aside so I can step past. The trailer is new, but the furniture isn’t. I recognize the overstuffed blue sectional smashed into the tiny living room right away. I fell asleep on that couch so many times. I elbowed my drunk father awake on it far more times than that. I think I even caught Ricky making one of his children there when I was in high school. He barked at me to get the hell out or join in. I don’t think he meant it, but then again, he’s Ricky.

My mom finally shuffles down the hall, eyes narrowed in suspicion. Her stringy hair is gray now but still streaked with enough brown to look like moldy wheat bread. She’s lost about an inch in height too. Or maybe I’ve gotten straighter since I left this place behind.

My lip arches in a sneer as I take her in. I haven’t seen her in so many years. The last time we spoke on the phone,