Deborah feels it now: anger, boiling up from her gut. When she finds out the whole story, finds that no-good piece of shit, Josh, she’ll cut him open, split him in two. She wants to make him pay. Some men are squanderers. Some men know exactly what a woman is giving them—her future, her faith—and will use it like a lift in their shoes. She remembers his expression when she came home early one afternoon, him pressing by her to squeeze out the door as she came in, knowing she would recognize the smell on him. That smile on his face. Her jaw seizes up from the way she grits her teeth.

Deborah didn’t look up the Sunset Motel online—didn’t need to. She’s pictured it, or places like it, on thousands of sleepless, daughterless nights. When she pulls up, she isn’t surprised by the squalor: Not the filthy Astro Turf that lines the walkways outside of the rooms. Or the cluster of teenagers who watch her as she sits in her car, reaches for the photo of Georgia from her tenth grade yearbook. How they fought over that purple dye in her hair. She feels their eyes on her as she makes her way to the office but she doesn’t look back—she wants to make it clear she has no plans to interfere with whatever it is they are here to do.

A bell rings when she pushes through the office door. A man stares at her, a Playboy open on the counter in front of him, a portable TV playing I Love Lucy on mute. The mold in the air makes her eyes itch. She puts the photo of Georgia on top of the magazine. The man looks at it, looks to the TV. His hair is matted to his head with grease and his white T-shirt is yellowed. She wonders how long it’s been since he’s showered. Days? Weeks?

Her voice is small when she speaks. “I’m looking for this girl. This woman. She goes by Peaches?”

The man runs his tongue over his teeth. The spitty sound makes her stomach churn. “Peaches ain’t been here for a few days.”

“How many days?”

“Don’t know.”

“Could you guess?”

“Two. Three.”

“How’d she look? Do you remember what she was wearing?”

The man uncrosses and recrosses his arms. “Same kinda thing she always wore. Dress that barely covered that skinny ass of hers. What you want with her, anyway? She fuck your man?”

“I’m her mother. She told me she came here sometimes.”

“Sure,” he says. “Now and then, for a job.” He seems to relish the chance to say it, leveling his gaze at her to make sure she knows what he means. His only power, his only real pleasure: to be cruel.“You want a room?”