“What is—-oh, my gosh,” Isabeau said, her hand over her mouth. “What kind of sick asshole would do that? I mean, that is just beyond the pale.”
The commenter’s handle scrolled through Nessa’s brain like a Times Square news ticker marquee: DeadJohnDonatiDeadJohnDonatiDeadJohnDonati.
“TOS violation,” Isabeau said. “We’re banning this guy from the blog. That is unacceptable. But first I’m going to screenshot it.” She did so, then sat staring at the screen. “Another. Why does this guy use ‘another’?”
Another good raping?
Nessa fought down the panic that rose in her chest. She’d been so shocked by the handle that she’d missed it completely.
It didn’t mean anything. It was just another anonymous testosterone--fueled hate message.
It didn’t mean anything.
“Boss?”
Nessa’s breath came quick and shallow, depriving her of the oxygen she desperately needed to stay conscious. She bent forward and willed herself to breathe deeply.
“Go on to bed, Isabeau,” Nessa said. “I’m okay. Just go on to bed.”
“But—-”
“Please, Isabeau!” Her voice was high and sharp, and Isabeau obeyed.
What you need. . .
What she needed was for all this stress to stop. What she needed was for John to come back, alive and drug--free.
What she didn’t need was another raping, good or otherwise.
Chapter Ten
Wednesday, June 8
SHE DREAMED SHE was being crushed, a dead weight on top of her, being unable to breathe through her broken nose, smothering. Until last night, she hadn’t had this nightmare for years, but it stirred up past terrors, those feelings of despair and futility she’d hoped she’d escaped, back when suicide entered her fevered, grief--stricken mind on a regular basis. She longed to go to sleep and never wake up, but there was Daltrey, her brown--eyed boy, who she couldn’t leave. She was selfish, but she wasn’t that selfish.
She woke before it was light and went into the kitchen to make coffee and wait. She couldn’t read or watch TV. She couldn’t concentrate. She should do something productive like Lauren would—-maybe make apple dolls with dried corn husk skirts or bake vegetarian lasagna or make artisanal sheep’s milk cheese to sell at the local food co--op.
Since Nessa couldn’t do any of those things, she caught up on laundry. Finally at a little after six, Daltrey came padding into the kitchen, his beautiful thick taupe hair an apostrophe over his head, rubbing his big round eyes with one hand and dragging his Timmy Chicken behind him. Then he glanced at the door to the garage and back at her, his eyebrows a question mark. He signed “Daddy.”
She didn’t know what to say. The only thing now that redeemed their doomed union was standing before her clutching a colorful stuffed chicken.
“You want some eggs for breakfast?” she asked him.
He nodded, and she got busy cooking.
Isabeau came into the kitchen tentatively, worry etching her face. “You okay, boss?”
“Yeah,” Nessa said. “Sorry about the meltdown last night. I’m all right.”
“You want to talk about it?”
Nessa turned her eyes toward Daltrey and shook her head, hoping Isabeau would catch on that she didn’t want to talk about any of this in front of her son. What Isabeau wouldn’t know was Nessa had no intention of talking to her at all.
After breakfast, Isabeau turned the television on to The Octonauts for Daltrey before sitting on the floor next to Nessa’s desk to work on her computer.
Nessa opened her own laptop. Isabeau had added a new search term to their Google Alerts—-DeadJohnDonati—-and this morning, Nessa’s inbox was stuffed full of alerts from the comment section on her blog. This was the first one:
Nessa Donati steals cars and kites checks.
Interesting that this particular comment was spelled perfectly. And something else . . . who used the phrase kites checks? That was an archaic term, wasn’t it? She called Isabeau over and showed her.
“Before you delete anything,” Isabeau said, “we need to screenshot everything so we have a record of what’s going on. It’s a good thing you use this spam plug--in, because each commenter’s IP address appears next to their comments. I’ve started a spreadsheet.”
“Even if we delete these things, stuff on the Internet is forever, right? Daltrey will see this one day, and he’ll—-”
Isabeau put her hand on Nessa’s arm, a first. “Just hold on. He’ll know this is a lie. But in the meantime, I need you to remain calm. It doesn’t help to get all freaked out.”
Nessa went through her email. Another sponsor asking for reassurance that the odd comments on her blog would be stopped.
The clothes dryer buzzed, so Nessa folded the last of the laundry and lugged the full basket upstairs. Her first stop was her own room. After she’d unloaded her things into her closet, she went to Daltrey’s room, where she filled his dresser drawers. And then she lingered over Daltrey’s treasures atop his bookcase.