Problem Child, page 19
He might be able to help. He just might. But I haven’t quite decided yet.
I pee and I’m taking my birth control pill when I hear the buzz again. It’s not my phone. My phone is quiet on the bed.
Frowning, I dig through my purse and find a light emanating from inside it. I wrap my hands around the mysterious stowaway and pull out Nate’s cell phone. “Oh, hello, little guy! I forgot about you!”
I drop into a cozy chair by the window and open Nate’s text messages.
LITTLE DOG IS DEAD MAN
Oh shit. That’s quite an eye-opener. What the heck happened while I was asleep? Is Kayla dead too?
I scroll back to find an initial text from last night from an unfamiliar number, but it must have been Nate, because it just asks, Where’s my damn phone????
After that, there was silence for several hours, before more texts started early this morning from three people. “B,” “Rodney,” and “K-man,” all conveying the same message: Little Dog is dead. LITTLE DOG IS DEAD!
Rodney is the only one offering the additional info that someone “took him out.” Looks like it wasn’t a natural death. Intriguing.
I need to find out if Kayla was affected by this, but I forgot to get her number. Still, if I had it, I wouldn’t want my information on her phone at this point. Even if she’s fine, I can’t have another clue linking me to a dead guy. Bad enough that I called Little Dog a couple of days ago. I’m so glad I didn’t text him last night.
Nate is definitely going to tell the cops that a strange middle-aged woman broke into his house and stole his phone while on the hunt for Brodie, so I power down Nate’s phone, then pop out the SIM card and the battery. I’ll ditch it on the road later.
They’ll be able to trace the texts the phone received to this area where I’ve spent the night, so I’m thankful I have legitimate business. I’ve been looking for my missing niece. Of course I tried to call Brodie. Of course I went to his house. And Nate can say whatever he wants about my breaking in, but I’ll say I knocked and knocked and then I got worried. Who are the cops going to believe? A drugged-out kid crashing at a dead boy’s house? Or professional, successful me?
When there’s a rap on my door, I get up silently and take careful steps to look through the peephole just in case it’s the police or maybe the murderer. But it’s just my breakfast.
Breakfast! I forgot I left an order on the door hanger last night.
I fling open the door and grin at the petite man carrying the big tray. “Thank you!” I’m suddenly starving.
He’s nice enough to look everywhere except at me as I sign the bill, and I realize I’m only wearing panties and a tank top. It’s hard to remember these kinds of things when you have no shame. I give him a big tip for being a gentleman; then I switch on the TV and settle in at the table to eat.
The French toast is perfect and they brought me two tiny bowls of soft butter, which is the height of breakfast service as far as I’m concerned. A little stingy with the bacon, but the side of fresh fruit distracts me from my annoyance.
I’m done with breakfast and halfway through the pot of coffee when I remember that I should be hurrying. Something went very wrong overnight, and there’s a good chance I shouldn’t have left Kayla alone no matter how snotty and defiant she was.
Then again, if Kayla was in danger, she’s already dead; and if she’s dead, she won’t care if I hurry or not, so I pour one more cup of coffee and turn on the financial news to see if anything interesting is going on.
Nothing. It’s all boring.
I made an impulsive decision last night and called in a reservation at the most luxurious hotel I know in Oklahoma. I’ve never stayed there myself, but even in my teenage years I’d heard of it. An Oklahoma City high-rise hotel popular during the roaring twenties that is still frequented by oil executives today.
I imagine that Kayla has never seen anything like it, and she definitely needs something shiny to set her eyes on. Something to tempt her toward good behavior for a greater goal. It’s not easy for people like us to be patient. If she is like me. I still want to study her a bit more before I commit.
When I was her age, keeping up my grades so I could get the hell out of my town and go to a good school was the most challenging part of my life. I had to sit tight. Had to study for tests and do my homework or at least find ways around it like Mr. Hollingsway. I had to tolerate my parents and my brother and every nasty asshole in my town. And I had to stay out of trouble.
Well . . . I had to not get caught in trouble; let’s be clear. Staying out of trouble would have driven me off the deep end.
I stole cars for a joyride every once in a while. And I shoplifted constantly. But I never got caught. I was white and I was female, so it was easy to fly under the radar while quietly entertaining my dark side.
Kayla hasn’t been that smart. She doesn’t give a damn about anything, which is totally understandable. I get it. But it won’t keep working for her forever. She was right about being stronger than other people, but she needs to be smarter than them too. They expect her to end up in prison just like her daddy, and that’s exactly where she’s headed at this rate, the dumb-ass.
Well . . . if she’s headed anywhere at all and not lying there dead in the home of a stranger. What a shock that would be for Brodie’s aunt and uncle after a couple of months in Arizona.
If she was killed, I won’t be able to return a hero, but I will be a sympathetic and tragic figure, at least. I tried to help, but I was too late!
I finally get cleaned up and dressed and pack the few things I took out of my suitcase, and I head on out to the leafy avenues of the nicer areas of Tulsa.
The neat and tidy house looks the same when I pull under the portico, which is good news. No cop cars, no police tape, and no Brodie-like vehicle, which I can only assume would be a muscle car with patches of primer showing. Or maybe he’s been driving his grandma’s 1988 maroon Mercury Grand Marquis all over the great state of Oklahoma.
Snorting at the image, I get out of the car. All I can do is knock on the door and see if she answers. If she doesn’t, then I’ll need to make some serious decisions. Walk away and wash my hands of this whole thing? Sneak around back and see if I can spy any clues through the windows? Break in to discover the truth? Maybe not a great idea if there’s a dead body in there, but it does appeal to my reckless side.
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 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 yesterday.”
“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 thought 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 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 tree-shaded 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 earbuds 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 cup holder of the center console.
“It’s art,” I answer. “Put it back.”
“I think Brodie has these things at his house.”
“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 moneymaking scheme. She dragged Brodie into it as muscle and now he’s dead because of it.
She stares placidly out the windshield, her eyes watching the river as we drive toward it before curving around for the bridge. I pull a small bag of chocolate mini-doughnuts 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 billboards 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 Skirvin, and I stop my car for the valet. Kayla loses 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 furniture 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 highest 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.
Sure, I’m showing off a little, but consider it my version 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? 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 bedwetting. 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.”
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?”
