Sisters of the Road by Barbara Wilson Page A

angry. “He said he was only going to stay a couple of weeks, just until he got a place of his own, and he was at our house nearly six months, sleeping on the couch and taking over the garage with his loud music and his art stuff. I told Rob it wasn’t right, to let a thirteen-year-old girl hang around with a nineteen-year-old boy and his friends, but Rob couldn’t understand it. I think he felt bad that he’d missed seeing Wayne grow up—he wanted to pretend that he could have this father-son relationship he’d always wanted. He’d sit Wayne down with a beer in front of the television with him so they could watch football and everything—he couldn’t see that Wayne was laughing at him, manipulating him. It was Wayne who turned Patti against us, made her laugh at us, at the way we live, the way we are .”
    It was a hard question to ask. “Did Wayne turn Trish—Patti—into a prostitute?”
    “I don’t know, I don’t know anything about it. My little girl! She’s a stranger to me,” Melanie burst out and then controlled herself. She went over to a skinny little customer lost among the Queen-sized stockings.
    I picked out three pairs of kneesocks and decided to buy them. I also wrote out my name and phone number on a slip of paper. When Melanie was finished ringing up her customer I went over to the cash register.
    “I’m sorry for upsetting you,” I said. “And for lying. I’m not with any institute. My name is Pam Nilsen and I’m a friend of your daughter’s. I think she’s in trouble and I’m looking for her.”
    Beneath the fluorescent lights of the store her pointed face went a little pale.
    “I shouldn’t have told you anything,” she said and turned away.
    “Please listen. A friend of Trish’s died a few days ago and now Trish has disappeared. She could be in danger. If you have any idea where she might be… if you could tell me where to find Wayne…”
    It didn’t seem to sink in. Melanie was the kind of woman who, threatened by authority, might tell things to a researcher, but not to a friendly stranger.
    I put my hand on her arm. “Please don’t give up on her,” I said. “Someday she’s going to need your support very much. Here’s my phone number. If you hear anything from her or see her, please give me a call.”
    Melanie’s lower lip trembled. “You didn’t say anything about this to my husband, did you? That you were looking for her?”
    I shook my head. “As far as he knows, I’m just filling out forms.”
    “Cause he would kill me, if I got involved with Patti again….”
    I waited while she struggled with herself. “If you want to get in touch with Wayne,” she finally said. “I know where he is. He’s living at the Redmond Apartments, on First Ave, downtown.”
    “Thanks. Thanks very much.”
    “I hope she’s all right, I hope… but I just don’t want to get involved again. I just can’t.”

15
    I T WAS DARK WHEN I went back out into the parking lot, almost six. But there was no hurry—June had generously offered to let me keep the car until tomorrow and had even more generously offered to help me wash out the blood in the Volvo’s back seat Saturday morning. On impulse I decided to drive by Carole’s house, since I was practically in the neighborhood. I felt a need, after talking with Rob and Melanie, for a reality check, even though I wasn’t quite sure Carole could provide it.
    Carole’s house was just like her, full of projects enthusiastically begun, abandoned and then absent-mindedly displayed. A wall hanging unraveled halfway through its sunset-over-the-mountains’ theme; a clay head stood unfired and with its ears missing on a low table. And there was a mysterious collection of telephones sitting in a silent but somehow expectant row along the mantelpiece.
    She was cooking dinner when I got there—or rather, whipping up something in her blender with spinach and protein powder. It looked healthy, but disgusting.
    It’s a new diet,” she