Her mother opened the door, wrapped in a ratty brown housecoat. Forty years of hardscrabble life plowed across her forehead and around her mouth. She leaned across the doorway, like some kind of gatekeeper.
“So you found her,” she said. A hand-rolled cigarette hung limp and unlit, from the corner of her mouth. “Well, come in. My husband’ll be home soon. He has your money.”
Dzinski shuffled in behind the girl. They waited at the kitchen table. The radio played something mournful between coughs of static.
Heavy boots landed on the wooden front porch. Dzinski watched the girl tense up.