Still standing at the window, Nessa wiped her own nose and looked at Marlon.
“I didn’t know what to do. I needed to call 911, but I didn’t have a phone. I’d sold it to buy junk. Besides, I had a police record—-DUI, grand larceny, possession . . . prostitution. Now that I was legally an adult, if I called the cops I would go to jail and never get out again.
“I didn’t know CPR, but I had to try. I pushed on Candy’s chest and put my ear to her lips. No sound. Not a pulse. Nothing. Candy was gone.”
Nessa stared out at nothing, feeling emptied out, bereft, alone.
She turned away from the window, sat back down, and wiped her eyes and nose.
“I panicked. I couldn’t think straight. I just knew I was about to be in the biggest trouble of my life. I’d killed someone. Even though it was an accident, even if it would be considered manslaughter, I didn’t think I could handle prison. I had to get out of there. Candy was dead. It was over for her, but I couldn’t go to prison.”
Then Nessa realized there had been another reason to flee: she’d known that Joyce would somehow capitalize on Candy’s death, turn it into an opportunity to be on television again. Suddenly, Nessa could get away from Joyce and her schemes, her boyfriends who wanted to molest her, the bizarre home she’d never thought she would escape. This was her ticket.
“So I switched purses with Candy,” Nessa said. “I put mine next to her body, hoping that the cops would think she was me. She was actually wearing one of my outfits—-we were always sharing clothes—-and I switched jewelry with her. We had matching tattoos.” Nessa rolled up her left sleeve and showed Marlon the Glimmer Twins tattoo.
“So I took her purse with her driver’s license and I ran from the Seventh Street Bridge. I didn’t even go back to the apartment to get my stuff. I went to the train yard and jumped into a graffitied box car that was headed east like a fucking hobo, dopesick and in shock, so grief--stricken I wanted to die. But I didn’t. I ended up in Denver, in a homeless shelter that had a rehab program. Cleaned up my act, because now I was living for two of us.
“Thanks to Candy’s good grades and spotless police record, I was able to get my GED, then I got a bachelor’s in communications from Metro State. If I hadn’t stolen Candy’s identity, I’d have kept on using, because my record would have followed me around forever. If it weren’t for Candy, I’d be dead now.”
They sat in silence a moment.
“So you started using after the rape, is that right?” Marlon said.
Nessa nodded. “Actually, after the trial. During the reality show. But I’ll tell you about that another time.”
“That,” Marlon said, “is an extraordinary story.”
“I know. Thank you for listening.”
She looked down and saw that their hands were entwined. Marlon noticed this too, but he didn’t let go. He smiled at her.
“So what was Candy’s real name?”
“Vanessa Angela Frye,” she said. “Which was my name until I got married. But I’ve always gone by Nessa.”
“It suits you,” Marlon said.
“Now you know everything,” Nessa said. “I am sincerely, deeply sorry that I talked about you to John. Please forgive me. I need you to be my sponsor. But I also need you to be my friend.”
Marlon squeezed her hand. “As it turns out,” he said, “I need you too. After our phone conversation, I was completely wrecked, even though you are a monumental pain in the ass.”
Nessa lunged toward him and threw her arms around him, burrowing her face into his neck. He held her tight.
“Thank you,” she said.
They looked at each other, and Nessa was nearly overwhelmed with the urge to kiss him, with the urge to sleep with him. Looking into his eyes, she could see he had the same urge. But it would ruin everything. Even though she hadn’t felt this close to another person since . . . John, in the beginning, when they’d had their whole lives ahead of them.
Instead, she laid her hand on Marlon’s cheek, stood, and walked out the door.
Chapter Twenty--Two
Wednesday, June 29
SHE’D READ ABOUT this, this autopilot feeling that comes after a loved one dies and there are things to do.
Nessa got up the next morning, showered, dressed and called Lock It Up. The receptionist said that Brady was off that day, so Nessa looked up his address online and drove to a town house on Todd Road. She wanted to talk to him about when exactly John had bought the keys, make sure it was John.
Brady’s town house was nicer than she would have imagined. Although selling keys to criminals on the side probably helped.
She pounded on the door, praying that he was home. He was, and he opened the door shirtless with a bottle of Pepsi in his hand. When he saw Nessa, the look of happy anticipation drained away from his face.
“Mrs. Donati,” he said, clearly terrified that she’d changed her mind and was going to turn him in.
“Brady, I need to ask you a question.”