“Mom!” Brandon said.
Nessa’s eyes flew open as Joyce’s head turned. Without thinking about it, Nessa got hold of her mother’s arm, the one holding the needle aloft. But Joyce threw all of her body weight behind it, trying to stab downward. Self--preservation overrode Nessa’s desire for heroin, and she clawed at Joyce’s face with her other hand.
Joyce shouted, “Brandon, shoot him! Go shoot him! Now!”
The sound of running feet echoed away from Nessa. She couldn’t see Brandon but knew he was headed to Daltrey’s room.
“Brandon, no!” Nessa howled. “Don’t do it!”
A sound like an envelope tearing sliced through the air.
Joyce screamed and jumped up, running from Nessa, who was left strapped to the chair. She heard a heavy thump, then a sharper thump, and Joyce wailing, “You killed my boy! You killed my son!”
Then Isabeau was crouching over Nessa, cutting the bungee cords with one of her purple knives. Her hair was bloody and matted to her face, her eyes glazed. But she was alive.
Joyce tackled Isabeau, simultaneously trying to get the knife away from her and stab her with the syringe.
Nessa ran to the stairs where Brandon lay crumpled at the bottom, one of Isabeau’s throwing knives in his back. Nessa picked up Brandon’s dropped gun and ran for the living room.
“Let her go, Mom,” Nessa said. She cocked the pistol and aimed it at her mother’s head.
Joyce kept trying to stab the weakened Isabeau.
“Go ahead, Mom, just give me one more excuse to pull this trigger.”
Joyce stopped fighting, and Isabeau disentangled herself before yanking the syringe from Joyce’s hand.
It was then that Nessa heard the sirens.
Isabeau sat on the couch, holding her head, and Joyce ran to Brandon’s side. “Oh, my son,” she said. She pressed her fingers against his neck. She turned to Isabeau. “You’re lucky that my son is still alive, but you’re still going to prison.”
“You first,” Isabeau said.
“And you,” Joyce said to Nessa. “You’re nothing. I did everything for you, and this is the thanks I get.”
“Shut up,” Nessa said, her voice and hands shaking with rage. “Say another word and I will kill you. Now go sit on the couch. Now. Do it.”
Joyce did, reluctantly, and Nessa handed the gun to Isabeau, who pointed it at Joyce. Nessa ran up the stairs, terrified of what she would find in Daltrey’s room.
There he was, lying on the bed, his breathing shallow, and Nessa feared they’d overdosed him with the Nyquil. She carried him downstairs, breathing him in, crying and shaking, wanting to never let go of him again.
A loud banging sounded on the door. “Mrs. Donati? Police. Please open the door.”
Nessa ran to the door and opened it.
Joyce began shrieking, “She stabbed my son! That girl over there stabbed him! Arrest her!”
Two uniformed police officers looked at each other. “Mrs. Donati?” one of them said.
“Yes,” Nessa said. “There are two -people in my house who drugged my son, held me hostage, and tried to kill my nanny.” She pointed to Isabeau, who waved.
“That girl,” Joyce yelled, “threw a knife at my son!”
Two EMTs arrived at the door, and Nessa beckoned them inside. “We’ve got three -people who are going to need to go to the hospital,” she said. Then to the officers, she said, “Can you get Detectives Treloar and Dirksen out here? I think they might be interested in what happened here tonight.”
One of the uniforms got on his radio and called the station.
It was chaos as the EMTs loaded Brandon and Isabeau onto stretchers. Nessa went to Brandon’s side and put her hand on his face. “It really is me,” she said. “It’s Rosie.”
“I know,” he said behind the oxygen mask. “I’m sorry.” A paramedic rolled Brandon out the door to a waiting ambulance, followed by Isabeau on her stretcher.
“I tried to stop them, boss,” she said. “I was in the kitchen and the next thing I knew I was on the floor. I was only out for a second, but I figured out what was going on and pretended to be dead until I could get to my knives.” She touched her head. “It looks a lot worse than it is, I think.”
“Let’s let the doctors decide that,” Nessa said. She took hold of Isabeau’s hand and walked alongside the rolling stretcher until they got to the doorway.
“I wish I could come to the hospital with you,” Nessa said.
“You need to stay here with that boy,” Isabeau said.
“Who can I call for you?”
“My phone’s in my purse. Just call the one marked Emergency.” They wheeled her out to the waiting ambulance.
One of the EMTs examined Daltrey, who woke up during the examination and started to cry.
Amid all the flurry of activity, standing in the front doorway, Nessa saw a pale and shaky Marlon, frantically scanning the crowd until his eyes met hers. He lurched toward her and crushed her to himself.