Problem Child (ARC)

by Victoria Helen Stone

  peal to my reckless side.

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  In the end I get quite a surprise. Kayla answers the

  door within seconds of my knock. Her hair still looks

  stringy and unwashed, but she’s changed into leggings

  and a long blue T-shirt.

  “Hey,” she says flatly, smacking on gum that’s putting

  off clouds of grape scent, likely her solution to brushing

  and flossing.

  “Did anyone come by here?” I ask.

  “Nah.”

  “That’s good news for you, because Little Dog is dead.”

  Her eyebrows twitch up, but that’s her only reaction.

  “He’s dead?”

  “Yeah. Murdered, apparently.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yes, wow. So I think it might be a good idea to get

  you out of here. You can come with me or you can strike

  out on your own and hope for the best, if that’s what you

  want.” I feign indifference. “Like I said, I’m not here to

  save you or be your social worker.”

  “Where would we be going, exactly?”

  “I thought we’d get a nice hotel room and chat. A

  fun girls’ night.”

  One side of her mouth lifts in a smirk. “So you changed

  your mind, huh?”

  “No. This may seem surprising to you, considering

  what you’ve seen in your life, but I’m not at all interested in an incestuous relationship with a child. I don’t need

  to steal your false innocence in order to feel power. I’ve

  got more than enough of my own. Got it?”

  My speech only warrants an eye roll. Damn. I thought

  it was pretty good.

  “I’d like to find out if there’s anything more to you

  than this menagerie of sexual tricks you trot out at every

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  given opportunity. Do you think there could be something

  more in there?” I point toward her chest.

  She blows a huge purple bubble before sucking it

  back into her mouth and cutting her eyes to the side.

  “If Brodie’s dead, I definitely can’t stay here. Give me a

  minute to clear my shit out.”

  “Fine.”

  I use my jacket sleeve to open the fridge and grab

  another icy can of Coke. When I spot my previous can

  still in the trash, I fish it out to toss later along with Nate’s cell phone. No point in leaving my fingerprints in plain

  sight, just in case.

  Fifteen minutes later Kayla is back with a backpack and

  a garbage bag full of clothes. She seems ready, flip-flops

  on her feet and everything, but she’s studying her phone

  as she meanders slowly across the living room. “Kevin

  says he was stabbed just outside of town.”

  “Which town? Here or there?”

  “Here. In Jenks. Other side of the river.”

  “Hm. You said you thought he was going to Enid.”

  “Yeah, I don’t know. I heard him talking to someone,

  planning to meet them.”

  “You didn’t ask who?”

  “I did, but he was already out the door and told me

  not to worry about it.”

  “Selling you out?” I guess.

  “If he was, the deal didn’t go through.”

  “Let’s get going, just in case.” It makes sense. He knew

  I was coming with two hundred dollars in exchange for

  Kayla. That deal would’ve taken Kayla off his hands, but

  it wouldn’t protect him from Morris. That big bald guy

  would still be waiting for him when he got home. So,

  instead of handing her off to me, he decided to upgrade

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  and turn her over to Morris’s guy for more money. He

  was smarter than I gave him credit for.

  No. Of course he wasn’t smart. He tried to be smart, but now he’s dead and he failed to actually pull off his

  scheme. No money, no safety, no life at all.

  We’re in the car and pulling out of the driveway within

  a minute, though I check my mirror until we actually

  make it out of the shady neighborhood. “The first time

  I came to Tulsa, I couldn’t believe how green it was,” I

  say. “It’s still nothing like where I live now, though. In

  Minneapolis there are trees everywhere. Lakes everywhere.

  Waterfalls and rivers. It’s gorgeous.”

  “Isn’t Minneapolis like … Siberia?”

  “No, it’s not like Siberia.”

  She kicks off her sandals and props her feet on the

  dashboard. The tacky glitter pink polish on her toes has

  chipped off to the middle third of each nail. “Where are

  we going?”

  “The Skirvin in Oklahoma City. You ever heard of it?”

  “No.” She blows another bubble.

  “Want to put on some music or something?”

  “No.”

  Unlike most teenagers, she doesn’t seem to have ear-

  buds constantly shoved into her ears. I imagine that, like

  me, she doesn’t identify with the emotions in songs. And

  she doesn’t seem to need a way to shut out the world.

  Other people don’t affect her. Other people really don’t affect her. She hasn’t shown a hint of emotion about her

  dead friend.

  “What’s this?” she asks, picking up the Lladró figurine

  I stashed in the cupholder of the center console.

  “It’s art,” I answer. “Put it back.”

  “I think Brodie has these things at his house.”

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  “Had them.”

  She sets it back down as I glance at her face for any

  reaction. There is none. “Do you think Morris had Brodie

  killed?” I press.

  “Probably. They threatened him with a gun and beat

  the shit out of him already. Who else would it be?”

  “And just so things are clear between us … you don’t

  seem torn up about his murder.”

  “Why would I care when he was meeting that asshole

  to betray me? That doesn’t even make sense.”

  It doesn’t make sense to me either, but it’s not how

  most people would respond. Certainly a normal teenage

  girl would be more upset. More scared. And more sorry.

  This whole business was her idea, after all. Her money-

  making scheme. She dragged Brodie into it as muscle and

  now he was dead because of it.

  She stares placidly out the windshield, her eyes watch-

  ing the river as we drive toward it before curving around

  for the bridge. I pull a small bag of mini–chocolate dough-

  nuts from behind my seat and offer her some. She eats six

  before I grab the bag back and finish the last two myself.

  Teenagers.

  Neither of us feels the need to fill the silence with small talk, so we’re quiet nearly the whole way to Oklahoma

  City. Luke calls once, but I let it go to voice mail. I

  don’t want Little Miss Sneaky Pants listening in on my

  personal calls.

  Flying down the turnpike, I miss the view of wind

  turbines. There’s nothing to see on this drive but bill-

  boards and fast-food signs. Oh, and cows. Lots of cows.

  At long last we’re in the city, and I exit deep into the

  interior of downtown. We pull onto the wide drive of

  the Skirvi
n, and I stop my car for the valet. Kayla loses

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  some of her placidness and looks around with big eyes.

  I notice her watching as I toss my keys to the boy in the

  Skirvin polo shirt. I hand a few dollars to the man who

  grabs our luggage—and Kayla’s garbage bag—and I breeze

  inside, Kayla hot on my heels.

  “Whoa,” she says when we get inside the lobby. I

  don’t know anything about architecture, but everything

  here is fancy. Everything is gilt against rich colors and

  polished wood. The elevator doors look sculpted from

  brass and jade. Eight-foot chandeliers hang from the

  three-story ceiling. It’s cool and echoey in here, with

  little pods of murmuring businessmen gracing the fur-

  niture like leisurely painted ladies. Kayla’s sandals slap

  obnoxiously against the glossy marble floor as she trails

  behind me.

  The air smells of cool lemons and fresh flowers, and I

  breathe it in and smile. No cloud of pollution here.

  “Good afternoon!” the girl behind the chest-high

  wooden desk sings as we approach. I give her my name,

  and she’s all gushing politeness as she checks us in and

  scans my card; then she steps out from behind the desk

  and personally leads us to the elaborate elevator doors.

  “Your suite is already prepared. Right this way, ladies.”

  “Oh, just the one lady,” I correct her with a wide

  smile as we step onto the elevator.

  Her grin falters as her brows dip in confusion.

  “We’ll see about this one here.” I tip my head toward

  Kayla, who glares back.

  The tiny elevator car finally spits us out on the high-

  est floor, and the clerk leads us down a carpeted hallway

  spaced with beautiful wooden doors, each of them framed

  with painted vines and flowers. We walk all the way to

  the very end, where a plaque reads Presidential Suite.

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  Sure, I’m showing off a little, but consider it my ver-

  sion of Scared Straight! Stunned smart? Pampered into politeness?

  The woman swipes the key and swings open the door

  with pride. “Here we are! Our finest suite!”

  I breeze past her and stride down a short wood-floored

  hallway into a huge living room with expansive views of

  the downtown buildings that surround us. “Lovely,” I say.

  “Holy shitballs,” Kayla chimes in.

  We get the grand tour, of course. I’ve paid for the

  privilege. This place is expensive, and I want Kayla to

  know that, but it’s not extravagant by, say, New York

  standards. In fact, I couldn’t get a junior suite for this

  amount in Tokyo. But this one-night rental is presenting

  Kayla with an entire universe. You too can have this; all you have to do is learn to concentrate your psychological specialty.

  People are afraid of us. Afraid of the idea of sociopaths,

  lumping us in with serial killers and mass murderers. But

  I’ve never killed anyone. I probably never will.

  Still, if they knew the truth, they’d be even more afraid.

  There are so many of us. We’re everywhere. Sure, we’re

  petty criminals and fraudsters, but we are also CEOs and

  surgeons and military brass. More than that, we are the

  most successful CEOs and surgeons and military brass.

  The very people the world admires. Why do we have

  success? Because we’re not scared of anything, and we’re

  willing to accept the kind of risk/reward exchange that

  pays off in millions. We’re eager for it.

  Of course, we’re also the worst CEOs and surgeons

  and military brass, and you definitely shouldn’t marry

  one of us, but you have to take the good with the bad.

  And if we can’t care about people, is that our fault?

  How is it different from any other psychological condition?

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  I’m not wired to feel regret. I’m not capable of sympathy.

  I couldn’t pity you if I wanted to, but—lucky me—I just

  don’t want to.

  My brain grew this way naturally, my genetics helped

  along by years of abuse and neglect, layered over with

  my brief, awful experience of feeling any emotion in this

  shitty, shitty world. Teachers ignored my dirty clothes

  and sunken eyes. Grown men saw my desperation as fun

  opportunity. Family laughed at my trauma-induced bed-

  wetting. Politicians ignored my most basic animal needs.

  I had to take care of myself. And I fucking did.

  With her father in prison when he wasn’t spraying his

  seed on every ovulating woman in the state, Kayla may

  have had it even worse. I can’t imagine the number of

  men who rotated through her home. The number who

  considered her a nice little family bonus. I won’t ask.

  We’ve all heard the story a million times and only the

  details change, and I can’t feel sympathy anyway.

  So I watch the wonder take her face and I let it fill me

  with satisfaction . Yes, girl. I can have this anytime I want.

  Yes, this is who I am and what I can give you. Look at that sunken tub. Look at that five-foot-tall headboard. Look at the tray of fresh fruit someone rushed up here to make me feel special.

  Are you good enough to have this too?

  There’s a knock on the door, and the hotel woman

  jogs off in her heels to answer it. “Your bags are here!”

  she calls.

  I leave Kayla spinning in a slow circle in the master

  bedroom and give the bellboy and the clerk ten dollars

  each so they’ll leave. When I get back to the bedroom,

  Kayla is about to flop down onto the bed. “Stay off it.

  There’s a pullout couch in the living room. The bed is

  mine. Like I said, I’m not a do-gooder.”

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  Kayla huffs. “Whatever. I don’t care. There’s a TV

  out there too.”

  “Yes, there’s also a TV in the bathroom. Why don’t

  you wash your hair, have a long soak in the tub, and then

  we’ll go shopping. Sound good?”

  “Hell yeah.”

  “Have you ever had a manicure?”

  Her brows dip into an angry V like she thinks I’m

  making fun of her.

  “We’ll do mani-pedis too. Girls’ day. I’ll call the front

  desk and ask for recommendations.”

  “What’s this about?” she demands, but I walk away

  to get some work done. I’ve got a lot of emails piling up

  from the office. Seems something big is going on there.

  I hear the bathtub start up as I open my laptop, and

  I hum happily to myself. At least she’s willing to wash,

  even if she’s not particularly self-motivated.

  I open an email from one of the partners and exclaim

  “Oh no!” into the empty room. I even put a dramatic hand

  to my chest and try it again with more feeling. “Oh no! ”

  It seems Rob’s client has run into some huge problems!

  A scandal, even! And, horror of horrors, it was caused

  by Rob himself!

  He made a classic mistake, really. He was trying to

  forward some d
ocuments to two of the school districts

  interested in the deal with North Unlimited, but he at-

  tached the wrong files. And one of them—oh, Rob—

  one of them contained evidence that the frozen chicken

  product originates in China and not in Brazil as the client promised!

  The deal has completely fallen apart. There’s talk

  of a lawsuit from the state prison system. And the

  school districts are horrified. This company was putting

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  children—vulnerable little children—in danger of con-

  suming adulterated, smuggled food!

  All because of Rob. My God. This is a fatal mistake.

  A career ender, even.

  The client has been assured that swift action will be

  taken. Rob will definitely get fired, but I doubt anyone

  is the least bit worried about him. He’ll land on his feet

  and find work again soon. He’s great at nothing if not

  selling himself.

  The important thing is that Rob will never again

  stand in my office, talking and talking and passing along

  work that he should’ve been doing himself. And he will

  never, ever lie about me to another client.

  I type out a quick email to the partner, letting him

  know that things are still dire here, but my missing niece

  has been located, and I should be able to help do damage

  control this evening once I find a place to stay and get

  this little girl settled.

  Please don’t hesitate to call me. I’m familiar with this case and I’ll do whatever I can to help. I can step outside her hospital room to take your call if needed. Please know I’m here to assist during this crisis and I’m very sorry I’m not there to do my part right now.

  Once that’s sent, I take my time reading through

  the rest of the emails. I cc’d myself on that email I sent

  from Rob’s address, so I’m able to take in all the alarm

  and recrimination from the two sides. And of course the

  most delicious dish I’ve ever been served is Rob and his

  many exclamation points, swearing that there was some

  sort of sabotage afoot. He never sent that email or that

  file!!! It wasn’t him!

  As if any of the parties cares how this came about.

  The deal is over now. And so is Rob.

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  I tried to help him. I honestly did. Well, not that

  honestly. I helped him because I thought it might help

  me, but Rob had to go and screw that up. He made his

  bed, and now that he’s unemployed, he’ll have plenty of