Problem Child (Jane Doe #2) - Victoria Helen Stone Page 0,70

dull as sandstone. I can hear her brain scuffing over the rough spots in her intellect. All this time wasted on a kid destined for the scrap heap of life.

My mother was right about Kayla, and just imagine how triumphant she’d be if she knew I was thinking that. Of course, I’d eat shit before I’d ever admit it to her.

“So Little Dog dropped you off here; then he joined you a week later. And now you’re just sitting here, waiting for what?”

Yet another shrug.

“Where did he say he was going this morning?”

“I don’t know. Maybe Enid.”

Enid? Was he meeting Nate again for something? More cash or clothes? A gun? “You got a Coke?”

Kayla moves slowly to the fridge, the ironic claim of JUICY across her backside barely moving with the motion. I follow her into the main living area and glance around for any clues. There are no piles of powdery drugs or cash. No weapons in sight, not that I’ll take that for granted. All I see are fast-food wrappers in the trash and a dirty ashtray on the kitchen counter. The TV is flashing the bright colors of a commercial, but the sound is down.

She hands me a cold can of Coke.

“So this is it for you?” I finally ask. “You just want to stay here with your loser pimp? Wait to see what he tells you to do?”

That’s when I see a flash. Just the briefest twitch of the muscles in Kayla’s face. “No.” Then a few tense seconds later, she grinds out, “He doesn’t tell me what to do. He’s not my pimp.”

“Really? Because you are working, right? Picking up tricks at the truck stop? Sleeping with dirty old men? And he’s ordering you around like you’re property. Go here, go there. He’s your pimp, baby girl. Or did you believe it when he said he was your boyfriend?”

“I don’t fuck Brodie,” she spits out, and the dullness vanishes like dissipating mist in that sudden gust of anger. So does my boredom.

I perk up and study her closely. Her sleepy eyes are bright and sharp now, her bony shoulders tight. “Well, that’s an unusual arrangement,” I say with a smirk aimed dead into her pointy, angry face. “How does he know if you’re a good enough piece of ass to turn out if you don’t give him a taste of the goods?”

“He works for me,” she says, and the words are compact as rocks, no more working the vowels through her lazy mouth. She glares at me through narrowed eyes, and she’s thrust her head forward as if she’s about to barrel straight into a brawl, tiny size be damned.

“Well,” I drawl. “Aren’t you an uppity little slut?”

She snarls, her thin lip easing up over teeth to show off canines just like a vicious dog. “Grammy always said you were nothing but a worthless cunt.”

A hard bark of laughter escapes my throat. “A cunt? My, my, what happened to the helpless little girl who opened that door? Where’d she go? Off to church for the evening?”

“Screw you.”

I step back to take her in, the fisted hands and tense shoulders. She looks more wiry than frail now, tendons standing out in her neck, eyes like dirty green ice against her white skin. She’s not helpless at all. It was an act.

The nape of my neck prickles and my pulse rate picks up to a pleasant trot.

“Well, Kayla, maybe we have something to talk about after all. What exactly does Brodie do for you, if you’re actually his boss?”

“None of your fucking business.”

“Oh, it’s got something to do with fucking business. Come on.”

She seems to get a little bored with her own outrage and rolls her eyes before she pads barefoot back into the pinewood-and-granite kitchen.

“This place is nice,” I say as she slides a pack of cigarettes from a drawer. She lights one with a bright pink lighter and takes a deep drag before blowing it out in my direction. I watch her like she’s a movie about to reveal a secret.

“Good place to hide out,” I press. “So who exactly are you running from?”

“What are you, a cop?”

“No, I’m not a cop. But I am smart and well-connected, so if you need help, now is the time to ask.”

“I don’t need your help. I’m doing just fine.” To emphasize that, she saunters over to a wide recliner in the living room and drops into it, hooking one skinny leg over the padded arm. The window