Her own mother had knowingly tormented her, smeared her name, and almost gotten her raped . . . and had killed her husband.
Nessa had always known that Joyce loved Brandon more than her. But now she knew that Joyce had never loved her at all. Never. Had always been willing to sacrifice her on the altar of Brandon’s health and her own fame.
Nessa was alone in the universe, floating in space, cut off from the rest of humanity, and she’d done it to herself.
With her mother’s help.
Only one person left alive loved her, and he was in danger of dying tonight.
“We had a deal,” Joyce said quietly. “And then you stopped coming home, right in the middle of the season. There was no show without you. You knew that. What was I supposed to do?”
Nessa was delirious with a combination of déjà vu and vivid fear, and underneath it all, the chattering of her veins’ rapacious desire to absorb what was in that syringe, to drink it up, to be filled and let this nonstop agony of fear and anxiety and desire finally end. With each passing moment she felt her grasp on the rope of her life loosen. It was slipping through her hands, and what a relief it would be to just . . . let . . . go.
But Daltrey. She had to fight the encroaching nothingness. She focused on her mother, on finding a way out of this.
Joyce turned on her like a tiger. “Your fame was supposed to be mine. Not yours, not after what you did to me.”
“I didn’t do anything to you, Mom,” Nessa said, hiccuping with sobs so violent she could barely get the words out. “The only person I did anything to was Candy. And that was an accident.”
“No,” Joyce said. “It wasn’t.”
“Of course it was, Mom! I never—-”
Joyce’s expression struck a memory. The parted lips, the lifted chin and eyebrows. Waiting for one of her children to sound out a word, or interpret a figure of speech.
As understanding broke in Nessa’s mind, her blood felt unbearably hot in her veins, melting her from the inside, paralyzing her limbs.
“It wasn’t Hoover who gave Brandon the heroin to give to us,” Nessa said.
Joyce brushed some imaginary lint off her blouse.
“It was you,” Nessa said in a whisper, the air leaving her body and threatening to never return.
Nessa’s mother sighed and looked up at the ceiling.
“You were as good as dead already,” Joyce said. “I knew it was just a matter of time before you overdosed, or were stabbed to death, or who knows what else.” Now she looked Nessa in the eye. “At least this way, I knew we could make something positive come out of it. And I would have control over what happened. So I was ready when I got the call from the coroner.” Her proud and shrewd expression clouded. “But then he showed me photos of . . . Candy. Dead. I screamed and nearly fainted. I didn’t have to act shocked, because I was shocked. You were supposed to take the first shot. It was your birthday! But you know me. I am nothing if not quick on my feet. I identified Candy’s body as yours, and that was that. Because I knew it wouldn’t be long until you actually killed yourself anyway, one way or another.”
Her expression turned sour. “But then we find out—-you have a radio show! You’re rich and famous, have a beautiful house, acres of land, nice car. A fabulous life. You were supposed to die.”
Of course. Because how could Nessa actually go on living, prosper, thrive, without Joyce? How could anyone?
“Brandon’s the one who figured out ‘Nessa Donati’ was really Candy,” Joyce said. “Something you said on the air one day—-I don’t remember what it was. Then it took some time to track you down. I have to give Brandon credit. He’s very handy with computers. Anyway. We took the money we had left and came out here to . . . Kansas.” She said it as if the word was a mouthful of moldy bread.
“We started watching your house. Watched the locksmith change the locks. Bought the keys from him. Then we waited, and you and the boy left for the weekend. And that husband of yours—-another addict, of course!—-drove up to the house in a pickup, went into one of your sheds. And he hung himself in there.”
Nessa gasped. Her intuition all those weeks ago had been accurate—-he had killed himself, but not in the tragic romantic--lead manner her mind had conjured. No. He’d killed himself on her property, so she’d find him like an Easter egg. See what you’ve done to me? See what you drove me to? This is your fault. All your fault.
Never thinking that his own son might find his swinging corpse. Never thinking about anyone but himself. And this was yet another knife in Nessa’s heart.