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“Got something good?” MacKenzie asks.

“You know anybody named Halverson?” I ask, and she chews on her salad, pulverizing a crouton into a pasty mess that I’m treated to a great view of when she lands on her answer.

“Don’t know that one,” she says, shaking her head. “Sure it’s not Halbertson?”

It’s a good question. There are plenty of Halbertsons in Henley, and it’s possible that Bailey was mentally overloaded and wrote the name down wrong, or maybe misheard it. But that question mark after Denise’s name doesn’t indicate confusion on Bailey’s part about the name; she didn’t know how old Denise was . . . which means that whoever called her in as missing wasn’t totally clear on that point, either.

B: Who the hell is Denise Halverson?

L: That’s what we’re going to ask David Swinton.

L: What are you doing after school today?

B: I’ve got to drive Beck. She’s getting an ultrasound.

B: I can do tomorrow.

L: I’ll see what I can set up. Tell Beck I say good luck.

I watch as Bristal relays the message to Beck, who glances at me and gives a small wave. I return it, hoping that I have my face arranged the right way to convey positive thoughts about teen pregnancy.

“What’s that about?” MacKenzie asks.

“Beck has an ultrasound today,” I say, slipping my phone back into my pocket.

“Uh . . . you know how she got pregnant, right?”

“I assume a male ejaculated inside of her—”

“Gross, Lydia, really?” MacKenzie says, shoving her food away.

“You asked.” I shrug. “I thought you would’ve remembered from sixth-grade health, but . . .”

“Stop,” she says, her mouth going into a thin line. “You know what I meant. Beck lives in Ash Park.”

The smirk falls off my face at the mention of the trailer court down by the stream at the edge of town. Commonly called Trash Park, the name refers to the people who live there but also to whatever clutters the driveways and sidewalks. I’ve heard that the kids that don’t have shoes aren’t allowed to go outside, for fear of stepping on used needles.

“Mom told me last time they went in there to serve a warrant, they couldn’t find the guy because somebody tipped the whole park off that the parole officer was coming. They’ve got a system set up; when the law comes, they switch trailers. My mom can only serve the warrant to someone after they identify themselves. If the person who comes to the door isn’t the recipient, they can’t be served,” MacKenzie says, her face tight.

“I’m impressed,” I say. “That’s really industrious.”

“It’s not funny, Lydia,” MacKenzie snipes at me. “Mom got hepatitis when one of those assholes spit on her, and a children’s services employee brought home bed bugs after doing a well check at Trash Park.”

“How’d the well check go?” I ask.

MacKenzie sneaks a glance at Bristal’s table but looks back down at her food when Beck raises her head.

“Nobody there is doing well,” she says.

“What’s that got to do with Beck being pregnant?” I push.

MacKenzie twirls her fork around in what’s left of her salad, the last, withered pieces of greens and some limp carrots swimming in ranch dressing. “Kids get trafficked out there for drugs.”

“Whatever.” I shake my head. “I’ve heard that before.”

“Which makes you believe me less?” MacKenzie asks, her eyebrows going up.

“Actually, yeah,” I tell her. “Because if that is going on and everybody knows, it would be stopped. Period.”