“Now, I’ve gone ahead and written your suicide note,” Joyce said, setting the syringe and tubing on the coffee table, all business. “So all you’ll have to do is cut and paste it into your blog. Let’s go ahead and do that now.”
A bead of liquid gathered at the end of the needle and dripped onto her coffee table, and Nessa salivated, her veins pulsating.
Nessa swallowed. “Mom,” she pleaded. “Look at me.”
“Stop calling me that,” Joyce said, her voice full of acid. She turned her face toward the staircase. “Come down here, Brandon,” she called. “Bring down the video camera.”
Nessa’s brother appeared in the doorway, and her heart leaped in her chest. Her first friend. Her mentor. He would know her. He would see their mistake. He loved her.
Brandon looked heavier and older than his Facebook photo. He had the beard Brady and Allen had talked about, wore a wifebeater and shorts, and he was carrying a pistol and a video camera on a tripod.
Brandon handed his mother the gun.
“Hi, Candy,” Brandon said to Nessa with a grimace, not looking at her.
Oh, Joyce had been stoking his hatred for a long time. Had it burning at a white--hot passion now. He was looking forward to watching his sister’s killer die. Had been dreaming of it.
“Brandon,” Nessa said. “It’s me. It’s Rosie. Look at me, and you’ll know it’s me.”
He looked uncertain for a moment, but then his expression hardened.
“Hand her the computer and have her log in to her blog, and then you copy and paste the text.”
“Brandon,” Nessa said.
“Stop talking to him,” Joyce said, “or your son dies right now.”
“Stop yelling, or we’ll go home right now.”
“Stop pouting, or you’re going to bed right now.”
“Stop crying, or the cameramen will leave right now. Is that what you want?”
Nessa did as she was told—-logged in to her blog. She absolutely believed that they would hurt Daltrey, and that could not happen. If he was dead, she wanted to be dead too. There was no point in going on without him.
The hypo on the coffee table was two feet from her. Could she throw the laptop at it and break it? But before she could do anything, Brandon took the computer from her and put a flash drive in the USB port. He sat on the floor and took care of business.
“It’s posted, Mom,” he said.
No. This wasn’t happening. Her heart thrashed in her chest, seemed to be skipping beats, and a painfully hot flush covered her face.
“And now, Brandon, set up the camera. Obviously, Candy, it will do you no good to ask for help, because it’s video. It’s not live. I know you understand how this works—-”
“Because of all the shows we did together, right, Mom?”
“So all you have to do is confess to what you did. And then tie yourself off and inject yourself with heroin.”
“You’ll want to do a close--up on the hypo, Brandon,” Nessa said, “and then fade it out so they can cut to commercial.”
Brandon’s eyebrows drew together and he finally looked at her. Then he couldn’t seem to look away.
“Unless, of course,” Joyce said, “you’d rather your son die in your place.”
Nessa’s whole body twitched, hearing this. Even considering the possibility.
“Brandon,” Nessa said.
He didn’t respond, just kept staring.
Seeing this, Joyce clamped her hands on either side of Brandon’s face to make him look at her. “She’ll say anything. Didn’t I tell you she’d do anything to get out of it?”
“It’s me, Brandon,” Nessa said again. “It’s Rosie.”
“Rosie’s dead,” Brandon said, on script. But he’d never been an actor.
“No,” Nessa said. “Candy’s dead. The little boy you were pointing a gun at? That’s your nephew. Your nephew, Brandon. His name is Daltrey.”
This made another dent, Nessa could see it.
“That’s enough,” Joyce said.
“Brandon, listen to me. I’m Rosie, and I can prove it.”
Joyce said, “You know she’s not Rosie.”
“Yes, I am,” Nessa said. “I stole Candy’s identity when she died, because she didn’t have a police record like me.”
“Shut up,” Joyce said to her.
“Where were you the night Dimebag Darrell was shot onstage?” Nessa said to Brandon. “December 8, 2004. Do you remember where we were?”
Brandon didn’t move, didn’t look at her.
“We were at the Muse concert at the Wiltern LG Theater in LA, and Matt Bellamy announced it from the stage. Do you remember? It was just you and me.”
“I’m not listening to you,” Brandon said, uncertain. “Rosie could have told you that story.”
“Brandon. What Mom has made you to do is—-”
“Shut up!” Joyce thundered. “Brandon. Will you give Candy and me a few minutes alone? Go on upstairs and I’ll call when we’re ready to go.”
Brandon did as his mother told him. He always did. Nessa heard one of the bedroom doors upstairs click closed.
“Mom, how can you possibly not know it’s me?” Nessa pleaded.
Then Joyce turned her face toward Nessa, and smiled.
“Of course a mother knows her own child,” she said. “Hello, Rosie.”
Chapter Twenty--Five
VERTIGO OVERCAME NESSA, and she felt faint.