I pass Normandie Avenue and Western and Crenshaw Boulevard and realize how Rodney King made these streets famous. They still don’t look too inviting.

I searched high and low for Arlene’s number—she’s George’s ex-wife—and I found it in one of the very same Christmas cards she’d sent him four years in a row. On a separate piece of paper she always asked that he call her before the holidays and make sure he didn’t forget to send her some money like he promised or she was going to have to get ugly. Each time George simply said, “Bitch,” and tossed them into the trash. I kept the first one and put it away. This morning I tried calling the number she’d written inside, but it belonged to someone else. I knew she was still in the same place—rent-free—because George owns the duplex. I guess this was a form of alimony, since, from what I gather, Arlene has never worked.

This place looks like it’s one of the few houses on the whole block that have been maintained. It’s old, but the paint is fresh. It’s either a pale yellow, or almond, I’m not sure. There are several round flowerbeds surrounded by little mesh fences on the patch of grass that’s posing as the lawn, which I can tell has recently been cut. Some kids are rollerblading at the end of the block, up what appears to be a jump that they made out of plywood planks. Two elderly black men are sitting on the sidewalk in kitchen chairs with their legs crossed, drinking Pepsis.

I park in front of a rusting blue Escort and walk up to the door and knock. I don’t exactly know what I’m going to say to her if she’s here. What if she slams the door in my face? What if she could care less that I’ve come? What if she doesn’t care what has happened to my daughter?

“Yeah, who is it?” a husky voice says through the door.

“Is Arlene Porter at home?”

“Who’s looking for her?”

“Janelle Porter.”

“Say what?” And I’m surprised when a handsome woman who must be about fifty-three or -four opens the door. “What you doing way over here?” she asks. “Is George dead?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“Then what can I do you for?” she asks, not moving. I can see over her shoulder that her little place is clean and neat. That she has taken great care of what she does have. She seems to have taken good care of herself, too. Even though her roots are gray, I can tell her hair has recently been permed because of the way it’s lying flat against her head. Her skin is flawless—and such a beautiful shade of brown—with not a wrinkle in sight. She could be from one of those Caribbean islands or something. And her eyes. They look green or gray, but I can’t really tell. What in the world did she see in George?

“I wondered if I could talk to you about something? It won’t take long.”