And a gun pointed at his head.
Nessa gasped so hard she felt something tear in her throat. Then a mewling sound dribbled out of her mouth as queasiness nearly overcame her, her stomach convulsing in terror. Her son. They were going to take him away from her, one way or the other. If they killed him, she would die too.
The phone dropped from her hands and landed faceup on the ground. The photo disappeared. That damned self--deleting photo app again.
Nessa hissed to Otto, “You have no idea what you’ve done.”
Otto panted, clearly horrified.
“Candy!” the voice said sharply. “Do not say another word to Otto. Leave immediately and go home. I’m going to call your phone, and you’ll stay on the line. Do you understand?”
“Jeep’s Blues” played, and Nessa picked the phone up off the ground and answered it.
“Now go out to your car and drive home,” the troll said over the phone. “If you’re not there within fifteen minutes, the boy dies. And be careful driving. If you’re pulled over by the police, he dies.”
Brilliant. The troll would keep her on the phone so she couldn’t call the police.
Where was Isabeau? Was she part of this? Had she so thoroughly fooled Nessa?
As if the troll could read her mind, her phone pinged and she looked at it. Another photo appeared on her phone.
Isabeau. On the ground. Her head surrounded by a pool of blood.
Oh, God. Oh, help me, God.
Nessa’s legs were suddenly dream legs: heavy, rubbery, useless. Moving in slow motion, threatening to give out completely. And everything around her became crystalline, magnified and in sharp focus, so much so that her eyes hurt. Outside, the bug--covered outdoor light was blinding in its brilliance, the insects themselves as if she were seeing them under a microscope, the planets and stars above her. It was as if she’d never truly seen until now.
Her legs became solid again and she ran to the Pacifica and got in. Her hands shook so much she dropped her keys on the floor mat, then smacked her forehead on the steering wheel.
“Shit!” she yelled.
“What are you doing?” the troll said, suspicious.
“I hit my head,” Nessa said through gritted teeth.
“You didn’t really think you’d never be found out, did you?” The voice was tinny but familiar somehow.
“No,” Nessa said, “I didn’t.” And she meant it, because the day had come. It was today.
She put the car in gear and drove toward home.
“I’m going to put you on speaker so that I can drive carefully.”
“Great idea,” the troll said. “There’s a GPS tracker on your vehicle, and we can see exactly where you’re going. And if you don’t go straight home, the boy dies.”
Nessa brought up the keypad on her phone and texted 911. The return message was Error Invalid Number.
Damn Manhattan. They’d get this ser-vice in the next fifteen years or so. Too late for her. Too late for Daltrey.
Maybe she was having an acid flashback. Maybe she was hallucinating. Maybe whoever had been tormenting her and trying to drive her insane for the last month had finally gotten the job done, because this was not happening.
“What do you want?” Nessa said. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because you killed my daughter.”
“I—-what?” Nessa said. Her brain felt like it was going to snap in half. So this was . . . Candy’s birth mom? The one who abandoned her, left her to live with her grandmother? Now she gave a shit? What the actual fuck?
“And you’re going to die tonight just like she did. If you do what I tell you, I’ll let your son live. If you don’t, he dies. ”
“Are you—-are you Candy’s mother?” Nessa asked.
“No, of course not,” the voice said. “I’m Rosie’s.”
Chapter Twenty--Three
NESSA DROVE OFF the road, onto the gravel and weed--strewn shoulder, unable to hold on to the wheel, her head roiling. The Pacifica rocketed toward a guardrail but Nessa was paralyzed with terror, couldn’t take her foot off the accelerator. Finally her left foot found the brake and stomped it to the floor, sending Nessa’s head into the steering wheel again. She jammed the gearshift into Park.
Her mother? Her own mother?
In Nessa’s inflamed brain, a B--roll of snippets from Joyce’s appearances and roles on TV and film played on a screen, bearing down on her like a bullet train until Nessa had to throw the door open and scream into the indifferent night. “No!”
She screamed until she ran out of breath.
So this was all meant for Candy?
When Nessa finally inhaled, she heard Joyce’s unmasked voice coming from the speaker phone. “Candy!”
“Mom,” Nessa said, gasping. “Mom.” Nessa’s own voice sounded like her five--year--old self, small, terrified, alone.
“What did you say?” Joyce said.
“Mom,” Nessa gulped. “It’s me. It’s Rosie.”
There was a pause on the line.
“Rosie is dead,” her mother said. “But I know who you are. You’re the white--trash girl who got my daughter hooked on drugs and—-”