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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Problem Child
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
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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Victoria Helen Stone
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