Nathan was a rapist, but was he also a killer? Maybe not before prison, but very possibly yes after doing his time. He’d had seven years to learn. To allow his bitterness and acid--rain hostility to build. To think about his stolen future, his life playing college football and then the NFL, all the money, all the women, the fame he’d been robbed of. By Nessa.
She didn’t like to think about what had happened after the rape, because it was nearly as bad. Nessa had just wanted it all to go away. But Joyce had insisted on pressing charges, overriding Nessa’s terror at testifying at trial and facing her attacker. Joyce gave Nessa a touching speech about empowerment and justice and saving other girls from this monster, and when Nessa still resisted, Joyce showed her a contract from a television producer. She had actually contacted the man with an idea for a reality show—-mothers of rape victims sitting around rapping about how their daughters’ lives had been destroyed. The deal would only go through, Joyce said, if Nessa participated, if she outed herself.
“What do we always say?” she’d said to Nessa. “When life hands you lemons, make lemonade, right? We need to turn this sad situation into a blessing.”
“What does that mean?” Nessa said.
“This is our one shot,” Joyce said. “We’ll be set for life. This show will make us famous and rich. Don’t you want that?”
“Or,” Nessa said, “you could get an actual job.”
Joyce had given Nessa the death stare, the one that used to scare Nessa into silence, but after the rape, it had no effect. Then her mother had pulled out her trump card, the one that always worked.
“What happens the next time Brandon gets pneumonia or an infection? Or he goes into anaphylactic shock? Do you want him to have to go to County? He almost died from a staph infection the last time he went there. If we do this show, Brandon will have the best care. You can make that possible.”
Joyce had had the contract in hand. Nessa could save her brother. She shouldn’t be selfish, although she couldn’t shake the feeling that if it were Joyce who had to do what she was asking Nessa to do, Brandon could damn well go to County.
The trial was just like Nessa had read and heard about. The questions about her sex life, about her sluttiness and her drug use. It really was like getting raped all over again, but in front of a judge, jury, and lawyers. The two bright spots were Candy’s testimony, which was heartfelt and strong, and the testimony of the kid who’d walked into the room and saved her. That was pretty much what put Nathan away. Not Nessa’s testimony, not the testimony of a slut.
And then they did the reality show, and they got five grand a month apiece, plus a signing bonus, plus a ratings bonus if they were high enough.
Nessa could imagine Nathan watching this show on the prison TV, his rage growing, his revenge plot coalescing in his mind, becoming his life’s focus and goal.
At the same time, Nessa’s focus and goal had gelled, bankrolled by the allowance Joyce gave her out of their show earnings. And that was heroin.
Thursday, June 9
“JEEP’S BLUES” PLAYED on Nessa’s phone, waking her from a sound sleep.
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Donati? This is Detective Rob Treloar from the Riley County Sheriff’s Department. How are you doing today?”
She tried to sound like she’d been up for hours. “Great,” she said. “I’m fine. How are you?” Although why he’d care if the call had awakened her, she didn’t know.
“Doing well,” he said. “I’m calling because I have a request. I wondered if you might have an item that would possibly have Mr. Donati’s DNA on it.”
Nessa gasped, and it sounded showy and theatrical to her own ears. “What did you find?”
“I’d rather talk about it in person. Could you come down to the station with a hairbrush of his or a toothbrush? Do you have anything like that?”
“John took all his—-”
“Or a close relative.”
Nessa’s breath caught. “You mean my son?”
“Was—-is Mr. Donati your son’s biological father?”
For whatever reason this question rattled her propriety. “Of course he is!”
“Well, ma’am,” Detective Treloar said, infinitely patient. “Would it be possible for you to bring him to the station for a cheek swab?”
“What did you find?”
“Let’s talk when you come in. Tomorrow about ten? Would that work for you?”
Nessa was unable to breathe. “Okay,” she said, but no sound came out until she cleared her throat and repeated herself.
“I’ll see you then.” He clicked off.