“Just a minute,” she called.
“You okay?” Otto called. “It sounds like you’re filming Saw in there.”
She looked at her phone. Six minutes until she had to be back in the studio.
“Just give me a fucking minute, will you?” She lowered her voice before speaking into the phone again. “Isabeau, I want you to go down and make sure the doors and windows are all locked.”
“All right,” Isabeau said, wide awake now but not fearful. “But everything’s fine here.”
“I want you to call 911 right now and get a patrol car out there to search the woods, the whole property. Tell them what happened.”
“Okay,” Isabeau said, not as enthusiastic as usual at Nessa’s request.
“Call me back as soon as you’re done.”
She clicked off and waited, staring at her phone. Was she overreacting? It was possible, but she didn’t care. It was another few minutes before “Jeep’s Blues” played.
“They’re on their way,” Isabeau said, yawning again. “They said if you don’t have a copy of the image sent to you, there’s just not much they can do. Those temporary photo apps are pretty much untraceable.”
Nessa growled in frustration. “All right. Thank you, Isabeau. I’ve got to go. I’ll be home at four--fifteen.”
“See you then,” Isabeau said, and clicked off.
Nessa made her way back into the studio with two minutes to spare. Otto didn’t look up, obviously stung that she’d rejected his concern.
“Sorry, Otto,” she said. “Had a bit of a panic attack there.”
He looked up then and said, “Fine. Whatever.” His body language got even more defensive and injured.
“Oh, now,” she said. “Don’t be like that, princess.”
He shook his head, his eyes still on whatever he was reading tonight.
When King Crimson ended, Nessa got back to the original play order.
“Hey, Otto,” she said.
“What,” he said, head down, pretending to read.
“What do you know about these temporary photo apps? You know, the apps that you can text a photo to someone’s phone, and within a few minutes, the photo deletes itself?”
He looked up, interested. “You want to send someone a pic of your junk, or what?”
“Yeah, no,” she said.
“Why do you ask, then?”
She sighed. “Never mind,” she said.
“Okay,” he said. “Does this have something to do with what just happened?”
She nodded.
“Is someone . . . harassing you?”
She nodded. He regarded her for a moment and said, “Good.”
6/14
Hi, I’m Nessa, and I’m an alcoholic. I’ve been sober six years, four months, and twenty--six days.
I might as well stop even trying to sleep. The Riley County Sheriff’s Department is going to think of me as the little girl who cried wolf. Of course, the patrol they sent to the house turned up nothing and nobody. Poor Isabeau.
I talked to the patrol officer, and he confirmed what Isabeau said—-that without any record of the photo, there’s nothing they can do.
I can’t even think about what life would be like without my little guy. I can’t even go there, because I’ll go insane for real, and he needs me to stay sane.
I’ve read that losing a child is the worst thing that can happen to a person. My mom knows what it’s like, and I’m sorry about that. But it was my death that helped her pay for Brandon’s frequent hospital stays.
I read all about it in the LA Times.
I’ve known -people say they wish they could be at their own funeral so they could see who their real friends are. Seeing my obituary in print was nothing like that. The sad, pathetic circumstances surrounding my “death” play out every day in big cities around the world. No one gives a shit.
But my mother, as I knew she would, made big--time lemonade out of my death. I have to admire her for that. If she hadn’t hit the talk show circuit again, speaking about what it’s like to lose a child, the dangers of drugs, the crappy county Medicaid we qualified for would have killed Brandon for sure. Plus she became a minor celebrity in the bargain, which she parlayed into some parts in TV shows and B movies.
I haven’t seen her in anything in a while now, and treatment for Brandon’s periodic pneumonia thanks to the radiation therapy ain’t cheap. I’ve actually thought about trying to send him some money on the sly, but he’d give it to her, and she’d use it on quacky facial treatments to keep herself looking good for possible television appearances.
She’s got be getting pretty desperate about now.
Chapter Fourteen
Thursday, June 16