Fuck.
She dropped her phone, panting, tense, literally almost preorgasmic. Every hair on her body stood on end.
Just once.
It blared in her brain, and in her mind’s eye she watched herself let go of the rope.
And then she was clawing through her purse to find something, anything, to tie herself off with. She was nothing but a starving animal hell--bent on survival. Nothing would get in her way now, between Nessa and her smack--lust.
And then her eyes were drawn to her wallet, through the plastic window of which shone Daltrey’s smiling face.
All the oxygen left her body. Horror paralyzed her.
Oh, dear God. What had she almost done?
The Dickies played on her phone.
She hit the button and shrieked into the phone, “Where the fuck were you? Where were you?” Sobbing, frantic.
“Whoa, whoa,” Marlon said. “What’s happening? Where are you?”
Nessa couldn’t speak for a moment, crying so hard she couldn’t get a breath.
“I called as soon as I could, Nessa,” he said, calm. “Where are you?”
“I almost—-I almost—-” She couldn’t say it. Couldn’t, because Marlon didn’t know.
He thought she was an alcoholic, like him. She’d never told him her real problem, and she knew this was all wrong. She wanted to tell him, but she just couldn’t.
“You almost,” Marlon said. “But you didn’t.”
“No, I didn’t.” She kept her eyes on the photo of Daltrey.
“You’re going to be okay,” Marlon said. “Just for today. You just have to get through today.”
“Yes,” she said.
“Do you need me to come to you? I can cancel my class if I have to.”
She took a deep, shaky breath, still looking at Daltrey. “No,” she said. “Go teach. I’m okay now.”
“Go to a meeting, and I’ll call you tonight. You can do this, with God’s help. Expect the miracle. Expect it.”
“I will,” she said. “Thank you, Marlon. Talk to you tonight.”
After Nessa clicked off, she wrapped the syringe back up and shoved it in her purse. She put the Pacifica into gear and drove toward her doctor’s office.
She should go to a meeting, needed to, but she didn’t have time.
She parked in the lot outside the medical building. Inside, she approached the receptionist and said, “Would there be any way to squeeze me in to see Kelley this afternoon?”
“What seems to be the problem?” the receptionist said.
“I want to discuss a personal matter with her.”
“You can tell me.”
“I’d rather not, thanks.”
“I’ll take a look at her schedule. What’s your name?”
“Nessa Donati.”
“Have a seat.”
Nessa did and dialed Isabeau’s cell but got her voicemail.
She made her voice breezy as she could. “Hi, girl, I may be late, but I’m hoping to be home in time for dinner. I’ll let you know if it’s going to be later than that.” She clicked End.
She waited a little more than an hour, silently repeating the Serenity Prayer before a nurse stepped out and called her name. Nessa rose and followed the nurse back, where she was left in an examining room.
The doctor’s PA, Kelley, whooshed in with a clipboard. “Hi, Nessa,” she said. “What’s up?”
She explained what had happened and then said, “Can you test this to see if it’s what I think it is?”
Nessa pulled the envelope from her purse and opened it for the PA.
Kelley put on latex gloves and removed the hypo from the bubble wrap. She held it up daintily. “You need to contact the police.”
How could Nessa explain? After her exhausting morning, it seemed impossible. Was it irrational to believe that Dirksen would find some way to turn this against her? Or would it prove to them that John was alive and harassing her? She couldn’t decide. She felt like she had vapor lock.
“Listen,” Nessa said. “I’ve had a lot of contact with them lately—-and I mean a lot—-and they don’t move very fast. So if I came into contact with something toxic, I’d rather know now than in six weeks.”
Kelley sat thinking, looking back and forth from the syringe to Nessa’s pleading face.
“My contract is with you,” Kelley finally said. “Not with the police. Your health is my top concern. I think we have some Herosol. Let me go see.”
“Okay,” Nessa said.
Kelley left the room, taking the syringe with her, and Nessa sat staring. Her brain began to work again, now that the relapse danger had been removed. And she wondered what John’s plan was. In his drug--twisted mind, he must think that getting her back on heroin would in some way help him. But it was fruitless to try to puzzle out a bipolar crack addict’s thought processes.
Kelley returned without the hypo, but with a little purple--stained square of paper. She showed it to Nessa.
“It’s heroin,” Kelley said.
“That’s what I thought,” Nessa said. “I can’t thank you enough.”
“I hope I don’t regret this,” Kelley said. “Don’t make me regret this.”
“I won’t.”
Nessa left the office, shaky and exhausted, still wondering about John’s intention. Was it to get her hooked back on heroin?
Or was it to kill her?