Body and Bone by LS Hawker Page A

violation,” Isabeau said. “We’re banning this guy from the blog. That is unacceptable. But first I’m going to screenshot it.” She did so, then sat staring at the screen. “Another. Why does this guy use ‘another’?”
    Another good raping ?
    Nessa fought down the panic that rose in her chest. She’d been so shocked by the handle that she’d missed it completely.
    It didn’t mean anything. It was just another anonymous testosterone-­fueled hate message.
    It didn’t mean anything.
    â€œBoss?”
    Nessa’s breath came quick and shallow, depriving her of the oxygen she desperately needed to stay conscious. She bent forward and willed herself to breathe deeply.
    â€œGo on to bed, Isabeau,” Nessa said. “I’m okay. Just go on to bed.”
    â€œBut—­”
    â€œPlease, Isabeau!” Her voice was high and sharp, and Isabeau obeyed.
    What you need. . .
    What she needed was for all this stress to stop. What she needed was for John to come back, alive and drug-­free.
    What she didn’t need was another raping, good or otherwise.

 
    Chapter Ten
    Wednesday, June 8
    S HE DREAMED SHE was being crushed, a dead weight on top of her, being unable to breathe through her broken nose, smothering. Until last night, she hadn’t had this nightmare for years, but it stirred up past terrors, those feelings of despair and futility she’d hoped she’d escaped, back when suicide entered her fevered, grief-­stricken mind on a regular basis. She longed to go to sleep and never wake up, but there was Daltrey, her brown-­eyed boy, who she couldn’t leave. She was selfish, but she wasn’t that selfish.
    She woke before it was light and went into the kitchen to make coffee and wait. She couldn’t read or watch TV. She couldn’t concentrate. She should do something productive like Lauren would—­maybe make apple dolls with dried corn husk skirts or bake vegetarian lasagna or make artisanal sheep’s milk cheese to sell at the local food co-­op.
    Since Nessa couldn’t do any of those things, she caught up on laundry. Finally at a little after six, Daltrey came padding into the kitchen, his beautiful thick taupe hair an apostrophe over his head, rubbing his big round eyes with one hand and dragging his Timmy Chicken behind him. Then he glanced at the door to the garage and back at her, his eyebrows a question mark. He signed “Daddy . ”
    She didn’t know what to say. The only thing now that redeemed their doomed union was standing before her clutching a colorful stuffed chicken.
    â€œYou want some eggs for breakfast?” she asked him.
    He nodded, and she got busy cooking.
    Isabeau came into the kitchen tentatively, worry etching her face. “You okay, boss?”
    â€œYeah,” Nessa said. “Sorry about the meltdown last night. I’m all right.”
    â€œYou want to talk about it?”
    Nessa turned her eyes toward Daltrey and shook her head, hoping Isabeau would catch on that she didn’t want to talk about any of this in front of her son. What Isabeau wouldn’t know was Nessa had no intention of talking to her at all.
    After breakfast, Isabeau turned the television on to The Octonauts for Daltrey before sitting on the floor next to Nessa’s desk to work on her computer.
    Nessa opened her own laptop. Isabeau had added a new search term to their Google Alerts—­DeadJohnDonati—­and this morning, Nessa’s inbox was stuffed full of alerts from the comment section on her blog. This was the first one:
    Nessa Donati steals cars and kites checks.
    Interesting that this particular comment was spelled perfectly. And something else . . . who used the phrase kites checks ? That was an archaic term, wasn’t it? She called Isabeau over and showed her.
    â€œBefore you delete anything,” Isabeau said, “we need to screenshot