“Okay. I will. So what did you find out?”
They discussed the body in the lake and what it could mean. Nessa told her about her exchange with the locksmith, saying it wasn’t John who bought the keys, and about the bug—-that Mac was taking it apart to see if he could figure out who it belonged to.
“Wow,” Isabeau said. “That is so messed up.”
“I know.”
Nessa looked at the clock on her phone, dropped it into her purse, and stood. “I’ve got to go,” she said. “But I’m really glad you’re home. And that you’re not quitting.”
Isabeau smiled.
NESSA DROVE UP to the dark station parking lot and killed the engine. Otto’s Vespa was parked there.
It was a starry night, and Nessa threw her head back to take in the constellations, Cee Lo Green’s voice growling in her head, and she smiled. The wind blew hot and steady across the field.
She used her key to get into the station, which was dark—-just how Otto liked it. Her phone pinged as she relocked the front door from inside. She pulled her phone from her purse and looked at it.
Got the phone number from the SIM card, the text said, and for a minute she didn’t know what that meant until she saw it was from Mac. Another text followed it, displaying a phone number. She didn’t recognize it, but she didn’t recognize a lot of phone numbers. On a whim, she decided to call it. If it was John’s final phone number, maybe she would hear his voice on the voicemail.
The satellite feed was playing the indie--alternative station. Nessa opened the on--air studio door, and there sat Otto in front of the glowing board and computer monitors.
She tapped the number and pressed her phone to her ear.
Over Robbie Robertson’s “Somewhere Down the Crazy River,” she heard—-was it an accordion? What the hell? An accordion playing “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” She started to laugh, as Otto turned toward her and pulled his own phone out of his pocket.
“Hello?”
The voice echoed on both her phone and Otto’s.
They stared at each other.
“Why are you calling . . .” Otto said into his phone, then pulled it from his ear and looked at it, his smile vanishing. “Oh, shit.”
She walked, fists clenched, toward him.
“You fucking hipster douchebag,” she said. “You. You’re the troll.”
How could she not have figured it out? How had he slipped right by her? Because she’d never credited him with enough brains to do something like this. Fucking bastard, threatening her child and . . .
Chills covered her body.
Killing her husband.
“Listen,” Otto said, holding his hands up. “I couldn’t pay my electricity bill. My rent’s past due. I needed the money. They told me you lied to get the job. They said they needed to bug your house to get the evidence—-”
Nessa grabbed the lapels of his jacket.
“Who told you that?”
“—-and all I had to do was plant the bug in your living room and transcribe what I heard on the—-”
“Who told you that?”
“The FCC.”
“The FCC?” Nessa spat. “How stupid are you? Do you really think the government asks private citizens to put bugs in other -people’s houses?”
His eyes seemed to clear. She could almost see dawn breaking on his face.
Nessa pressed down on Otto’s shoulders until the office chair back was at a forty--five--degree angle. “My husband is dead. I’m going to be arrested. A rapist came to my house, and you—-”
“Whoa, whoa,” Otto said, frantic, shoving her backward until he was upright again. “I seriously do not know what you are talking about. All I did was put that bug under your coffee table! That’s all I did! I don’t know anything about that other shit. They said—-”
“They? Who? Who are they?” she screamed. Then she launched herself at Otto and tightened her hands around his throat, holding nothing back.
“Hello, Candy.”
A painful jolt of adrenaline accompanied the voice that came over the in--studio speakers, and she let go of Otto immediately and stumbled backward.
Candy?
“Them,” Otto said, his voice chafed and raw, pointing at the speaker.
Nessa looked up as if they would be perched atop it.
“Thanks, Otto. You’ve fulfilled your obligation.” The voice cut out the satellite feed, a low--pitched, electronic voice, like Stephen Hawking, only without the British accent. It was the same voice that had called the station to let her know it could see her inside the studio a few weeks ago. That voice filled not only the studio, but her whole consciousness.
“Okay,” Otto said toward the ceiling, “but can I just be the one to—-”
“You’re not going to do your show, Candy. Otto’s going to take over for you tonight, because you need to get home.”
Without the voice even saying it, Nessa knew. They were in her house, where her little boy was sleeping.
Right now.
Her phone pinged, and she looked at it. A photo appeared of Daltrey in a blindfold, his little hands tied behind his back.