“Oh my God. Thank you for coming so soon,” she said. “I don’t know how much more I can take.”
“I’m sorry. I know you’ve been through a lot, and nothing is harder than worrying about a child. Tell us what’s going on, and hopefully we can help,” I said.
“I don’t want to give you a sob story, but I’ll start at the beginning if that’s okay.”
“It’s the best place to start,” I said, mindful that while visits were limited to thirty minutes, we needed as many details as possible.
Through tears, Corey explained that she’d worked as a waitress, trying to raise Kat, which was short for Katherine, without much help from the girl’s absentee father, who was in prison himself. She held up a faded middle-school photo of her blond-haired, blue-eyed daughter, who was wearing a Harry Potter t-shirt, braids, and an open smile. Kenna and I were genuinely struck by Kat’s adorableness and didn’t hold back when saying so. Corey smiled and nodded but seemed understandably saddened by the visual reminder of her precious child.
“Things were so hard,” she said. “I got desperate and used pills to help me relax, and when I couldn’t afford them anymore, I switched to heroin. That just made me work harder, because I needed so much. Eventually I had to sell myself to afford it. God, I hate to admit it, but I got involved with the wrong people, you know, dealers and pimps, and I owed everyone. I’d do almost anything to chase that high. It’s awful, but I stopped caring about anything else.”
“What happened to Kat during that time?” I asked gently.
“She did a lot of fending for herself. I don’t know how she survived.” Corey looked away and bit her lip, which had started to quiver. I couldn’t imagine the sea of emotions swirling beneath her words. “She got taken away. Foster care, like I said in my letter.” She met our eyes and then covered hers. “I’m so embarrassed. She was fifteen.”
I glanced at Kenna, who was visibly moved and unusually quiet.
“Have you been able to stay in touch with her?”
Her breath shuddered as she shook her head no. It was hard to be separated by a wall, unable to consider reaching out with a comforting touch. At the same time, I hurt even more for her daughter.
“What has it been like for you here?” I asked.
Corey sniffed and gathered herself. “Detoxing was the worst thing I’ve ever been through, other than losing Kat. I don’t ever want to do it again. I’m on the other side of it now, and I can’t go back. I just want to save my baby.”
“Corey, when someone ages out of foster care, what happens? Are they expected to live on their own?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know where Kat is. I’d be worried no matter what, but I owe people. Bad people.” She wiped her eyes. “If I don’t take care of things, they’re going to make sure she ends up like me.”
“Like you how?”
“I don’t know. Make her work the streets. Pay my debts.”
“Oh no,” Kenna murmured beside me.
“What kind of debts?” I asked.
“Thousands. Way more than I have. Did you read about my convictions?”
“Yes, but I don’t know all the details.”
“I got busted with a bunch of stuff that wasn’t mine. It all got seized. Wrong place, wrong time. It was awful. I lost people a lot of money, and I hadn’t paid what I owed before then either.”
“By stuff, do you mean anything besides drugs?”
“No. Just drugs. No weapons or anything, if that’s what you mean.”
“And are you sure Kat still lives in the area? Could she have gone to college or left town?”
“I don’t think so. She never got good grades. I doubt she has money, and this area is all she knows.”
“How did you hear about the threats against her?”
“Word gets around in my old neighborhood, Crescent Heights.” I nodded. It was the worst part of King County. “One of my cellmates heard it, and she told me.”
“When was this?”
“Right before I wrote to you this past week.”
“What’s your cellmate’s name?”
“She’s my former cellmate, and she made me swear I wouldn’t talk about her. But she’s for real. That’s why I’m so scared.”
“Did you ask her more about it? Like about who’s involved?”
“Of course. I asked her tons of questions, but she wouldn’t tell me anything. She wanted to stay out of it, but she owed me for something, and now we’re even. I wish I could get more out of her, but there’s no way.”
“How would anyone know how to find Kat if she’s been in foster care?”
“I don’t know who her foster family is, but they must be local, and I doubt Kat changed her name. It’s no secret that she got taken away from me.”
“Have you reported your concerns to social services and the police?”
“Yes. I’ve done all I can,” she said. “But look at me.” She gestured toward her orange-and-white-striped uniform. “I haven’t exactly earned people’s trust, and Kat’s not in the system anymore.” She coughed what sounded like a smoker’s cough and covered her mouth. “I’m sorry. I just don’t know where else to turn.”
“How did you hear about Nicki?” Kenna asked.
“Read about her in the paper.” She nodded at me. “I saw you were a mom who solved crimes, including that one with a missing teen. Please, I need you to make sure Kat is okay. I don’t have much money. I’m sorry. I can pay you when I get out, when I get back to work. But right now, I’m not above begging. Mom to mom.”
Kenna poked my knee, but I didn’t need prodding. My heart felt like it was being pulled from my chest toward Corey, and, if possible, tears would spring straight from it.
I took a moment to breathe. “I’ll do everything I can, okay?”
“Me too,” Kenna said. “Everything.”
Kenna’s promise made me think twice. Our “everythings” probably weren’t the same.
Discomfort zone, I thought, here I come.
Two
Dean had never spent the night at my house. Half the night? Yes. Three-quarters? Occasionally. Seven-eighths? Okay, once. I just didn’t want the kids to wake up and see him there. I wanted to err on the side of setting a good example, whatever that was.
A past case (plus a case of nerves) had opened my eyes to abstinence, and I was open to the idea. I didn’t want more babies (not even a chance of them, especially without a husband), and I’d told Dean that pretty quickly. I couldn’t sacrifice sleep, personal hygiene, or mental health again. Granted, single parenting after losing my husband had colored my perception, but no matter what, showering regularly and having school hours to myself felt like paradise. Dean was okay with it (meaning tortured but understanding). Every night we said goodbye, I shared his pain.
“I’m so glad everything went well,” I told him when I arrived home to a silent house, sleeping kids, and a clean kitchen. “Woah. You went all out. Thank you so much.”
“Jack did his math, and Sophie’s a great reader,” he enthused.
“She knows that book by heart,” I confided. “But I’m sure she loved impressing you.”
“So how’d it go with Corey?”
I told him everything, including what we’d learned from her after agreeing to help. Unfortunately, it wasn’t as much as I’d hoped. She said her former pimp and drug dealer was nicknamed Daddy B, and she thought Kat’s original social worker was named Francine. But that was about it.
“Is it true that kids ‘age out’ of foster care at eighteen?” Dean asked. “And they’re just sort of set free?”
“I did some research today, and it was upsetting,” I said. “I had no idea how many of these kids become homeless, go to jail, or have other huge challenges. There are resources to help them, but even then, can you imagine starting adult life without a
family to support you?”
He shook his head. “It was hard enough losing my mom in middle school. Thank God I had my dad and my brother. Does Kat have siblings?”
“Corey said she doesn’t. Maybe that’s a good thing, although it might make life harder in some ways.”
“What about the ex-husband?”
“He’s in prison for burglary and assault. I confirmed that. He’s been out of the picture for most of Kat’s life, and all the grandparents are deceased.”
“Man. How did Kenna do with it all?”
“Great. She surprised me. She was really quiet and touched.”
“Quiet?”
I smiled. Sometimes talking with Kenna was like having your subconscious announced by a bullhorn. She’d say almost anything, and the release was horrifying, yet magnetic.
Dean lifted his keys from the kitchen counter.
“Do you have to go?” I asked.
“I have to be up early. I have a client in Georgetown, and I want to beat rush hour. I gotta be up at five.”
Avoiding traffic was a daily chore in our Northern Virginia suburb, which was west of DC.
We hugged, and his sweet kiss on my forehead contrasted with the brute strength surrounding me.
I reached behind my back, tugged his keys, and arched to kiss his neck.
“Wanna come upstairs for a few minutes?” I whispered.
As it turned out, words weren’t necessary until much later, when he murmured goodbye before quietly slipping away, the click of the front door’s lock confirming he was gone.
After serving the kids breakfast and quizzing them about their evening with Dean, which was universally “awesome,” thank goodness, I hustled them to the bus stop, eager to brainstorm with Kenna. She was leading a morning “boot camp” workout, so I used the time to clean up from breakfast, finish previous work, and ignore my annoying, pro-exercise inner critic. Then I started filling out a five-page victim data form.
I noted Kat’s full name (Katherine Penelope Burke), general description (blond hair, blue eyes, and approximate height and weight as of several years ago), social security number, birth date, and biological relatives’ names. The form still had more questions than answers. Address? Cell phone number? Friends? Glasses? Braces? Tattoos? Health issues? Car? Hobbies? Social media accounts? Pets? It went on and on, and I didn’t even have a current photo.
While periodically peeking out my office window at Kenna’s empty driveway, I searched social media sites for any mention of Kat, hoping to find a picture and more. After enough clicking and scrolling to make my eyes water, I found a Twitter page for a young K. Burke who looked a lot like Kat and even more like Corey. She was the right age, and I had little doubt it was her.
Her bio simply read, “Figuring it out,” and her tweets revealed a preference for Mexican food, body piercings, puppies, and inspirational quotes. All of this was exceedingly helpful, particularly the close-ups of her eyebrow piercing and restaurant visits. Although they weren’t geotagged, I could scrutinize them for clues.
She often retweeted quotations that promoted being “yourself” without conforming, and her random puppy posts were adorable. Instinctively, I liked her, and I was relieved to see that as of two months ago, she’d had enough money to eat out. Unfortunately, she hadn’t posted since then.
After copying and printing many of her tweets, I heard the familiar slam of Kenna’s car door, and I looked out to see her lifting Sky from the backseat. Andy’s pickup was in the garage, and I doubted he’d leave until late afternoon, when his work as a sportswriter started. I texted Kenna and asked her to come by when she could. Minutes later, she was at my door with a tall, green smoothie in hand.
“What’s that?” I asked suspiciously. She wasn’t known for eating greens.
“A chocolate mint milkshake.”
“Oh, okay. I’ve confirmed it’s you. Come in.”
She laughed and slipped off her sneakers. “I’m so pumped. What’s our first step?”
I handed her a growing file on Kat and asked her to add details as we found them. I’d do most of the computer work for now, since she despised technology and could barely type.
She lounged on an ivory chaise while I sat at my desk researching foster care, about which I knew little. Although Kenna and Andy had adopted Sky, it wasn’t part of their experience either.
“Foster parents have to keep personal information about foster kids and their biological families confidential,” I said. “Their social workers aren’t supposed to talk either.”
“Do you think Kat’s social worker might talk if we explained the situation?”
“I seriously doubt it, but hopefully our social media leads are going to help. Some of her photos look like they were taken in Crescent Heights.”
“Scary. We’re taking your van. Good thing you’ve let it go. It’ll fit right in.”
“It’s not that bad,” I said. Truthfully, it was as old as Jack and one juice box explosion away from the junkyard.
“Should we use social media to research anyone Corey mentioned too, or is that pointless?” she asked.
“It’s not pointless. If we don’t find Kat quickly, we’ll track down the people Corey owes. You’d be amazed by what people post on their pages.” I’d heard of investigators not only finding suspects, but photographic evidence—and even confessions—online. For some, the temptation to brag was irresistible.
Kenna glanced at the case folder, which included our interview notes. “So we’d be looking for Daddy B, a pimp and dealer, and whoever he hangs out with. Gee, do you think he goes by that on Facebook?”
“I know. I wish we had his real name. Dean might have some law enforcement connections who can fill us in.”
I started a to-do list, including sending Corey a contract and scheduling our next visit, since she couldn’t email or receive calls. I’d warned her that our updates would be limited, since we couldn’t reveal anything about Kat’s whereabouts without Kat’s permission. It wouldn’t be ethical. Kat might want nothing to do with her biological mother. Meanwhile, Corey had asked us to keep her identity secret from everyone except Kat, plus any experts we needed to consult. As it turned out, the jail only screened incoming, not outgoing, mail, so I kept the contract as impersonal as possible.
“Come and look at Kat’s tweets,” I told Kenna after I’d scoured social media for Daddy Bs, of which there were many, but none who seemed local.
“Oooh. She likes El Toro,” Kenna said.
“What? You know where that food is from?”
“Yeah. That’s their Sunday special. See?” She pointed at a tweet’s date. “I bet that’s a Sunday.” I clicked my computer’s calendar, and Kenna was right.
“Is El Toro a chain?”
“There are a few in King County. Lots of meat dishes. Their Sunday special is awesome, but not for you.”
The kids and I were vegetarians, and Kenna, whose diet knew no limits, put up with us. Luckily, her favorite food group (dessert) was generally vegetarian, although most marshmallows and many gel/gummy treats were sad exceptions.
I quickly found El Toro’s website and noted a location not far from Crescent Heights, where Corey and Kat had lived.
I scrolled through Kat’s Twitter feed, but nothing else (including Twitter itself) was familiar to Kenna.
“We have some unpleasant tasks to take care of,” I said. “And you can be a big help.” I handed her a list of organizations and numbers, including jails and shelters. “Start calling each of these, and I’ll keep searching online.”
Although Kat wasn’t exactly a missing person, I categorized the case that way. Because of her age and probable lack of resources, techniques used to find runaways might be helpful. Did she have access to money, credit cards, or transportation? Was she living with a friend, a boyfriend, or worse? It startled me to
realize that years ago, my first (and only) case involving a missing teen had started with more information than I had now.
I ran what we knew about Kat through several PI databases but didn’t come up with much. Youth meant she hadn’t hit many public records yet, and because I couldn’t consult with her guardians, I didn’t even have basic information, including her email address. Social media was looking more and more like our best bet.
I enlarged the clearest possible photos of Kat from Twitter and printed copies nice enough to frame. Then I slipped them into clear sheet protectors, which I put in a binder we’d take on the road. I added key information that would help us describe Kat, and then I returned to Twitter, clicking on followers we might find—and, when possible, scanning their Facebook and Instagram pages for signs of Kat. I wished I could confirm her photos with Corey, but there was no way to get in touch outside visiting hours. The work quickly turned tedious, and I was relieved when Kenna said she’d exhausted the list I’d given her. “Ready for lunch?” I asked.
“El Toro, here we come.”
El Toro was on the edge of Crescent Heights, and my old minivan fit in, unlike in my neighborhood, where my late husband Jason and I had anticipated being a happy, two-income couple. That fantasy ended quickly when Jack and Sophie became my priorities, and a coworker named Megan became his. I was mostly over his betrayal, and I’d learned to trust Dean, but loss had stung every part of my life, including my finances.
“Are we going to eat?” Kenna whispered as we walked in the door. “Or just ask questions?”
“We’ll eat,” I reassured her. “Go ahead and get something.”
We approached the counter, and I glanced around the seating area, more interested in the customers than the food. While Kenna ordered, my eyes settled on three teens laughing and sharing appetizers. A few booths away, an elderly gentleman read a newspaper while nibbling an oversized tortilla-bowl salad. If the teens were still in high school, I wondered if they were allowed to leave campus for lunch.
“Ma’am, may I help you?” the clerk asked me.
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