The Family Game(40)

‘Why does he choose her? This cold-blooded killer?’ Deonte asks, catching me off-guard. It’s a good question, but then that’s Deonte’s profession, asking the right questions. And the answer to it is just a little too close to home for me.

Whether or not Robert knows what I am capable of isn’t clear, but what is clear is he knows I am the kind of person with more to lose than appearances might suggest. He sees me.

‘I can’t tell you that. It’d spoil the ending,’ I say with a grin, thinking on my feet.

His eyes sparkle in recognition at my swerve.

‘Okay. So, Deonte,’ I continue, ‘if this girl wanted to find someone and she only had a name to go on, how would she go about doing that, do you think?’

‘This girl’s just an ordinary person? Not a cop?’

‘Just an ordinary person.’

‘And… this is for the book?’ Deonte asks with a wry smile.



* * *



Back at the apartment I put the tape recorder back in the suitcase and lock it safely under the bed, its cassette not even a quarter played yet. If I’m honest, what’s on it scares me, and until I know what exactly I’m dealing with here I need to be careful what I expose myself to. Besides, somehow, I will need to act normal tomorrow night when I see him again. The more I know about his crimes, the less able I am going to be at pretending I haven’t heard any of it yet. Given how busy I have been with my deadline, I can still safely hide behind the idea of my own ignorance.

I have thought about cancelling tomorrow night, but I’m sure this kind of reaction will be a red flag for Robert, and I would have to explain my reasoning to Edward.

I open up Facebook and search for Samantha Belson. Within an hour I’ve emailed twenty in the right age bracket; she would be sixty this year. If she’s still alive. If Robert made up his story just to scare me.

That night, by the time I hear Edward’s key in the door, I’ve already received five replies. But none are from the Samantha I’m looking for; either they never worked in New York or as a nanny.

I head out to the hallway just as Edward walks in.

When he looks at me, his face is a pale mask of concern; for a second I am absolutely certain that he knows everything. That he knows about Robert’s tape, about the confessions and my unintended complicity. About my own secret.

‘Your cell is dead,’ he says, his tone panicked.

I pull it from my pocket. He’s right; the screen is blank, the battery long dead. ‘I couldn’t get hold of you most of the day,’ he continues. ‘I thought maybe something might have happened. How are you feeling?’

‘How am I feeling?’ I ask, confused by the question.

‘The baby, Harry? You’re pregnant, remember? I couldn’t get you; I’ve been trying all morning. I’ve been worried. But you’re okay, right?’

I had completely forgotten about the pregnancy.

‘Harry,’ he prompts me again, coming over and placing a cool hand on my forehead. ‘Are you hot?’ he asks solicitously.

‘No, no, I’m fine,’ I say apologetically, pulling away. ‘I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t realize I’d run out of battery. Was everything okay, today? Did you need me?’

‘No, I just wanted to check in. Oh, and to tell you I’m out for dinner tonight. A Chinese company want to press the flesh. That okay for you?’

It’s not. I don’t want to be in this apartment on my own tonight. I don’t want to sit here thinking about that tape. Worrying if I’ll get an unexpected call or visit from a Holbeck. I want Edward to stay home, but I realize from the look on his face the significance of this Chinese company. Edward has been wanting to expand his tech company into the Chinese market for a while now and this sounds like inroads.

‘Yeah, of course. Go,’ I tell him, though for a microsecond I consider spilling everything. The tape, the confession being drip-fed to me, my rising concern.

‘Thank you,’ he says, kissing me lightly on the lips and heading into the bedroom to change for dinner.

Down the hall in my office, I hear the unmistakable electronic ping of fresh email landing in my inbox. I swing a look back to the office. Another reply from a Samantha Belson. I left my laptop open.

Once Edward is dispatched, showered and suited, I dash back to my computer and read the new email.

This one is only three words long, but it’s enough.


Who is this?



The concern implied in those three words is telling. I emailed her through an anonymous account, a brand-new Gmail address; I could be anyone. I gave a plausible reason for reaching out and signed off with my initials, but whoever wrote this reply needs more than that, which is interesting.

I type out a response, and attach the Getty image photo of Samantha Belson laughing beside Eleanor Holbeck.


Is this you? Did you work for this family between 1982 and 2002? I am not a journalist. It’s an entirely personal, and confidential, matter. You are guaranteed complete discretion. Would you be happy to talk? Your help would be greatly appreciated as I believe you are the only person qualified to set the record straight around a certain matter.



Her reply comes back almost immediately.


Are you a member of the family? Or do you work, in any capacity, for them?