Page 42 of Little Sunshine

Cole often and easily hacked into them—occasionally to help us commit a crime.

“Any luck on her background?” I asked.

“Not a lot of luck for me or your girl, it seems.”

That raised the hairs on the back of my neck. “What’s that mean?”

“She might’ve been born and raised in Vegas, but she’s had shit luck her whole life.” Disgust filled his tone when he added, “Starting with the cunt who birthed her.”

“That bad?”

“Fucking worse. A few pops for drunk and disorderly, trespassing, assault, typical trash shit.”

None of that was earning her a nomination for Mother of the Year, but it wasn’t the worst we’d heard. Not enough to warrant Cole’s anger.

“Handful of CPS cases, too.” That made the pieces click together to form a picture that hit close to home for him. “Sending your girl to school in dirty clothes. Not having food in the house.” The emotion drained from his words until he sounded cold and robotic. “Leaving her home alone for days at a time.”

“And she was able to keep custody?”

“Still digging, but other than losing her for a brief stint after a report of suspected neglect, yeah.”

“What’d you find out about Mila’s life now?”

“Camila Price. Twenty.”

I knew she was young, but hell. A dozen years younger than me?

Unaware of that hit to my underused conscience, Cole continued. “Lives in a studio apartment with more violations than residents. Has worked at The Roulette as a housekeeper since she was sixteen—on paper, at least. Could’ve been longer. They’ve been busted for employing minors under the table.”

I tried to remember which place that was. “The dump near the old shopping center that got torched?”

“That’s the one.”

Christ. Just driving by that place could give someone bed bugs and an STI.

I didn’t wonder why she worked in a shithole like that. Or why she lived in a slum apartment that was likely worse than the bad I already pictured.

Simple answer.

The universe had a fucked sense of humor.

Pretty girls with haunted blue eyes faced bullshit after bullshit while undeserving assholes like me were born with gold spoons in their mouths.

She worked and lived like that because she had to.

Had.

Past tense.

“What else?” I asked, desperately wanting to know more about her. Needing to know it all.

“That’s all I’ve got. She’s got no socials. No dating apps. Never seen someone with no digital footprint. Especially someone her age.”

“Maybe she uses a fake name.”

“If I had her mom, I’d want to go undetected, too.”

“You think you can get more info on the CPS cases?”

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