Free Born Bad by Andrew Vachss

why?"
    "Because it wasn't your father's baby''
    Two bright red dots bloomed on the woman's pale cheeks. "How could you…?"
    "From what you and that girl in the apartment said to each other. From what you're willing to do to protect the kid."
    "You…Lucinda said you knew things."
    "What's important, I do things," he said. "You got the money, I can do this."
    "You don't even know what 'this' is?"
    "Then tell me."
    "When I got out of the group home, I tried working. Flipping burgers, waitressing, a 7–Eleven. I could keep Angel away from the damn Welfare people, but I couldn't give her the things I…
    "Anyway, I tried whoring too. Escort service," she said, looking Cross full in the eye. He stared back, unblinking.
    "The money was good. Real good. We moved to a better place, I could pay for the gymnastics lessons, get her a great babysitter. But it got too ugly. Kickbacks to the cops, pimps always trying to move in. Freaks who want to hurt the girls. Then AIDS. So I started private dancing. It's pretty clean, all things considered. You rent some space from the owner, pay the hairdresser and the makeup girl. You don't have to hustle drinks…the girls who do that, they do okay too. There's no sex. Unless you want to make some special arrangement for after. You dance on the tables, maybe wiggle around in their laps. You know…?"
    "When I was a kid, we called it dry humping."
    She flashed a broad smile. "Yeah, only now they call it safe sex. Some of the girls throw in a hand job now and then, but that's it. Anyway, I can't do this forever. I went for the implants," she said, flicking a hand across her breasts. "That's part of the deal. And I work out like a bandit. But, sooner or later, you get too old. I've been saving my money, living small, you understand? Another couple of years, I'm going to open a little place of my own."
    "A bar?"
    "God forbid. No, a pastry shop. I'm really good at it. Taught
    myself. Here, wait a minute…"
    She got up, walked over to the refrigerator, a large side–by–
    side, gleaming white. She reached inside, took out a small tray of
    tiny tarts, placed it on the table.
    "Try the lemon, they're good, even cold."
    Cross took the indicated pastry, chewed it thoughtfully. "It is good."
    "Don't act so surprised. I love to cook fancy little things. I know I can make a living at it. Anna's going to help me get an SBA loan, and I already know the neighborhood I want to open up in."
    "You want an investor, let me know," Cross told her, polishing off the tart and reaching for another.
    Reba smiled again. Then her generous mouth turned down. "Everything was fine. Until…he showed up."
    "He?"
    "Wieskoft. Robert James Wieskoft. R.J., his friends call him. He's a gymnastics coach. Really top–rated. He coached three Olympians himself. I checked his references before I let him work with Angel. All the organizations said he was great."
    "So?"
    "He started out fine. He was really devoted to Angel. Worked overtime without asking for more money. Videotaped her so he could analyze her moves in slow motion. She really liked him too. But then he started getting strange…."
    "What?"
    "Oh, sending her presents. First, it would be a special pair of gym tights. Or ankle weights. But then it was flowers. Candy. Like you'd send to a date. And he wrote her letters too. About how they'd always be together. How she had to obey him if she really wanted to be the best. When he told me she should drop out of school and work with him full–time…he'd get her a tutor and all…that's when I fired him."
    "Then he threatened you?"
    "Threatened? No, he didn't do that. He fought against it. Said he was going to call Child Protective Services, say I was abusing Angel. That's when I told him if he did that, I'd kill him."
    "And he did do it?"
    "No. What he does, he stalks her. Every day, he's outside, watching. Carrying that damn video camera of his, like he's capturing her on tape or something. He calls all the time, sends notes to