Problem Child (Jane Doe #2) - Victoria Helen Stone Page 0,73

her father. Just like I was.

“What are your grades like?” I ask.

“Grades?” she sneers. “Who the hell cares?”

“I’m asking if you’re dumb.”

“Fuck off, you snotty bitch. I know you’ve always thought you were better than everybody else. Everyone says that.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you’ve heard it a million times.”

“You’ve got that right. My dad really hates your guts.”

“The feeling is mutual. And look who hasn’t spent half her life in prison. Spoiler: it’s this snotty bitch out here showing off her freedom. Leaving his trifling ass behind in that visiting room a few days ago really warmed my bitchy little heart.”

That coaxes a small smile from her.

“Our family can’t think past their next hit or handout. That’s all they’ve ever been good for. ‘What’s going to happen tonight, and how can I get a piece of it?’ Is that the life you want for the next eighty years?”

“I’ll get the biggest piece of it, whatever it is.”

“Three-quarters of a shit pie is still just a giant piece of shit, Kayla. Do you get that? Or are you as dumb as the rest of them and that’s why you’re so angry and sneaky?”

“Screw you, I’m not dumb.”

“Then why are you still scrapping for your chance at that delicious shit pie?”

She’s mad, her jaw jutting out with stubbornness, but she stays silent, listening now, waiting to see what I want from her.

What do I want from her?

I cross my legs and sip my Coke, returning her gaze for a long moment before I pose the next question. I stay calm, though. If she knows this is important to me, she’ll lie. “Have you always felt different?”

“Like how?”

“Different from the people around you. Your mama. Your siblings. Your friends. If you have any friends.”

“I got friends,” she snaps, so I’m pretty sure she doesn’t.

“Do you feel . . . ?” I try to think of the best way to express it. I’m not exactly great at tapping into my innermost depths. “Do you feel removed from the world?”

She stares.

“Removed. Like the people around you are on a TV show that you don’t particularly like that much.”

“Sure. Why would I care about them at all? They’ve never cared about me.”

That’s just logic, as far as I can tell, but most people don’t seem to feel that way, even if they’ve been raised by monsters. Most people seem to want their mommy’s love despite cruelty and neglect. Or because of that. Most people raised in shitty environments are determined to find love, by proxy if nothing else. A daddy leaves, so the daughter falls in love with any screwed-up man who’ll tell her she’s a good girl. A mom drinks and whores, so the son shacks up with the drunkest floozy he can find.

Most typically, of course, a family is dysfunctional and it creates in them a sticky need to stay close, stay in touch, keep trying to make it better. We’ve all seen it a million times.

I’ve never understood it, though, because I don’t have any guilt or regret that makes me want to make things better. Maybe Kayla doesn’t either.

“You might be young enough to fix,” I say, testing her a little. Is she ashamed? Does she want to get better, whatever that means?

There are therapies for children edging toward this condition. Ways to learn how to behave empathetically even if you can’t actually feel that. If a baby sociopath is caught early enough, they can be trained to . . . conform. Maybe even to thrive. I’m not sure about sixteen, though. That seems a bit long in the neuropathic tooth.

“Fix what?” she scoffs. “There’s nothing wrong with me, lady.”

“You’re probably a sociopath,” I say simply.

For the barest moment she looks startled. Her eyes widen for a split second before she narrows them again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. That’s some serial killer shit right there.”

“No. It’s not. It’s actually fairly common. One in a hundred people or so. Most of us don’t kill people; we just have great skills at getting through life.”

“‘We’?”

“Yes. We.”

“You’re some kind of psycho bitch?”

“Yes, I am,” I say with only the barest hint of pride.

She snorts and gets out another cigarette. She feels disadvantaged here and she doesn’t like it. I haven’t said what she expected me to say, and now she’s scrambling for a new plan.

“What do you want from me, huh?” she demands; then she leans forward suddenly, blowing a stream of smoke to the side so her mouth is free to offer