“But these are children,” I say in a petulant voice.

“Society’s been pushing the envelope for years. Remember those Brooke Shields ads for jeans in the eighties? She was just a teenager. And those ads were tame compared to what Abercrombie and Fitch is putting out today.”

Their latest catalogue shows college aged teens nearly naked, having orgies.”

“My God,” I whisper.

“And that’s not all. My friend says there are ads out there targeting thong underwear to seven to fourteen year old girls.”

“What is wrong with people?” I exclaim.

“When you’ve got little girls advertising lingerie, it’s not that big a leap to start looking at them as sexual objects. Pimps are just capitalizing on this trend.”

I feel like gagging. This can’t be happening. What has happened to our world; to basic decency? And what’s worse, my daughter is caught up in this vortex of filth and depravity. My heart swells with worry. I push away the desperation that threatens to subsume me.

“I want you to kidnap my daughter,” I say.

I hear Bart take a sharp intake of breath.

“Listen Mrs. Skinner. I told you when you hired me; I don’t do extractions.”

“Well then give me the name of someone who does,” I demand.

“It’s not as easy as you think. There are companies out there, KRE, and others who-”

“KRE?” I ask. I am toying with one of my prescription bottle of pills.

“Kidnap, Rescue and Extortion,” Bart responds. “But they’re expensive. Nine to ten grand and up, depending on the circumstances.”

I close my eyes. He might as well have said nine to ten million. There’s no way I can get my hands on that kind of money.

“Abducting someone gets into a lot of fuzzy areas where the law is concerned.”

“I don’t want her ‘abducted’, I want her rescued. There’s a huge difference.”

“Not in my book. And not in the eyes of the law,” he says. “Besides, if you were to do this, then what? You think she’s going to stay at home and be a good little girl?”

“I’ve found a place,” I say. “In Southern California. It’s a rehab exclusively for teenagers. The facilitator has already said that there’s a huge chance that Robyn’s got a chemical dependency issue on top of everything else and we can most likely get the insurance to pay for her stay there.”

“Look, I’d like to help you, I really would.” I hear sympathy in his voice. “But,” he pauses. “I can’t risk losing my license.”

I slam down the prescription bottle onto the coffee table.

“Never mind, then. I’ll save her myself.” I hang up the phone.

I look over the notes I’ve made on the inside flap of the phone book. Peaceful Acres, in Newport Beach, California. A lockdown facility that promises to “deprogram” youth brainwashed by cults; intensive counseling for all sorts of teenage disorders, ranging from drug addiction to anorexia. A “panoramic, natural setting resting on the beautiful Californian coastline”, John Simpson, one of the facilitators, told me over the phone.

Waves of the hundred plus degree heat from outside weigh the air inside the house. I wipe the sweat from my forehead and pick up the cordless. I want to talk to John Simpson again. In our previous conversation earlier this week, he made it all sound so simple. Robyn would be kept to a rigorous schedule of one on one counseling and group therapy. She would have the opportunity to talk to other girls who have been through similar situations. And she’d be near the sea. How good would this be for my daughter? Just the thought makes me smile. But before I can dial his number, the front door opens. Rob is home.

From the look on his face I can see that his mood is dark. Since our fight four days ago, we have been distant but polite to each other. He has come and gone, seemingly sporadically at times, but always dutifully returning no later than eight at night to heat me up a can of chicken noodle soup.

“Hey,” I say.

He tosses his keys on the table but doesn’t answer me. I can tell by his walk as he stumbles into the kitchen that he is drunk. Again.

I hear him get a glass from the cupboard. I ease up off the couch and amble into the kitchen after him. He’s pouring himself a large glass of milk, which means he’s really drunk.

“I hope you’re friggin’ happy,” he says, slamming the refrigerator door closed.

“What?”

“Cops said I was being deceptive on that friggin’ lie detector test.”

I lean back against the counter and cross my arms in front of me. How can this be? I look down at the floor. What is there to say? I walk over to him.

“Oh Rob,” I say, reaching out to touch his shoulder.

He wrenches away from me.

“Don’t,” he says.

“Won’t they let you take it again?”

“Don’t you get it?” he says. He spins around, nearly losing his balance. His hand jerks outward, catching the fridge door to steady himself.

“I failed the friggin’ test!”

“But you were nervous.” I pause a moment. “And probably angry; couldn’t that skew the results?”

He turns away and tromps into the living room. I follow after him. He is in his recliner, sitting forward, his elbows on his knees, head down between hunched shoulders.

I sit on the couch facing him.

“Rob, honey, it’ll be okay,” I offer, not really believing my words.

He looks at me. Tears are streaming down his face.

“No. It’s not. It’s never gonna be okay. It’s never been okay,” he says in a hushed voice.

In all the years we’ve been married, I’ve never once seen Rob cry. Seeing his weakness stirs a mix of pity and embarrassment inside my heart. And also fear. How can he say it’s never been okay? What does he mean? Do I really want to know?

“Just stop, alright?” I say. “We’ve got to stay focused. Our daughter is out there somewhere and we have to do whatever it takes to get her home.”

He closes his eyes, but the tears keep coming. His jaw hangs open, slack, making him look older than he is. He huffs out a subdued breath.

“There’s something I never told you,” he whispers.

I feel the blood drain from my body. A stab of fear pierces my heart.

“What are you talking about?”

He sits up, wipes his face with the sleeve of his shirt.

“About six months ago, I came home early.” He pauses, takes in a deep breath and then continues. “It was a little after three in the afternoon.”

“Why did you come home early?” I say, interrupting him.

“When I opened the front door, Robyn and a man were coming out of her bedroom,” he continues, ignoring my question. “They were laughing, you know joking around.”

I cannot believe my ears. Immediately I feel sick to my stomach. I can’t move or talk. I sit, rigid with shock.

“When Robyn saw me, she acted real nonchalant, you know, like it was no big deal.”

I open my mouth to say something, but no sound comes out.

“She said the guy was one of her professors who was tutoring her; getting her ready for a mid-term test.” He looks down at his shoes. “I believed her.”

I swallow down my rage. Screaming at Rob will help neither of us.

“Was he Hispanic?” I ask, thinking of BLU BOY.

“No. He was a white guy. Middle-aged. Tall, wearing a suit and gold framed glasses. He looked like a teacher for criminy’s sake!”

“You didn’t think there might be something wrong with the fact that a middle-aged man was in our thirteen year old’s bedroom?” I bite my lip. “And you never thought to tell me about all this?” I ask, barely able to maintain my composure.

“What do you want me to say, Margot?” He looks at me and then back down at his shoes. “Of course I thought about telling you. But the more I thought about it, the more I thought that maybe Robyn was telling the truth and it was no big deal.”

“Or was it that you came home early because you were drunk and you didn’t want me to find out?” I stand up, fists balled on my hips. “Isn’t that the real truth?”