The Family Game(53)

I throw my mind back to Robert’s tape. He describes Samantha’s death because she knew something incriminating about that day. If Bobby jumped, then what could she have had over Robert? ‘Did something make Bobby jump? Was the suicide triggered by a person or an event?’

Samantha holds my gaze, then her mouth pulls into a pinched line and she gives me a tight nod. ‘Um-hum. Bobby was having trouble with his father at the time. Too much pressure on him for sure. But he jumped all by himself.’

Something in me loosens slightly at the reiteration of that point. Bobby killed himself and Robert killed no one. He made up the murder and Samantha is alive. The tape is a trick.

‘The family likes playing games, don’t they?’ I ask.

She straightens in her seat. If I didn’t have her full attention before, I have it now.

‘Oh, yes. Yes, they do. Some of them can be very cruel.’

‘Some of the Holbecks?’ I clarify.

‘No. Some of the games.’

I let her words sink in. There are other games; I have only experienced the tip of the iceberg.

Another question springs to mind about her role as a nanny.

‘You were there in New York that day, the day Bobby died; you ran down to him on the street, after he fell; you were the first responder. Robert Holbeck joined and you tried to explain what happened, but who was looking after the other children while you were—’

‘Wait, what?’ Samantha interrupts me, her face blanching. ‘What did you just say?’

I freeze, her tone raising the hairs on the back of my neck. I flash back through what I’ve just said but she beats me to it.

‘I wasn’t there the day Bobby died. I wasn’t at the New York apartment; I was at The Hydes with the children. I was always with the children. Why would I be in the city? Bobby was a nineteen-year-old man; he certainly didn’t need a nanny.’

Something crystalizes inside me. Samantha isn’t the blonde on Robert’s tape. It wasn’t her hair blowing in the breeze that day; it was someone else’s. Samantha Belson might be alive, but that has little to do with anything. I’ve found the wrong woman.

I think carefully before I speak next.

‘Samantha, there was a woman with blonde hair at the apartment that day. Do you know who that might have been?’

Samantha considers. ‘Um, I so rarely went there, I not sure who came and—’ Suddenly her eyes flare. ‘Oh my God, wait, no. It can’t have been her,’ she falters. ‘Are you sure there was someone there with blonde hair? You’re certain?’

‘I’m not certain, but I am extremely concerned that something might have happened to a woman of that description, yes. I thought I’d found her in you and that she was safe. Who came to your mind just then?’

Without warning, Samantha rises to her feet and hastily buttons her coat. She’s realizing now how serious this could be, how close she is to being dragged into the past and the consequences of it. Our interview is over.

‘You know who it is, don’t you? Please, Samantha, could something have happened to her?’

Samantha grabs her bag and slips it onto her shoulder. ‘I think that’s enough,’ she says with finality. ‘I can’t be involved in this. I can’t get sucked into their world. Please don’t contact me again. Don’t mention my name. If I find out you have, I will pass on your information on to the police.’ She goes to leave, then pauses, a tug of guilt pulling her back to me.

‘Do yourself a favour: don’t mess with these people, do you understand me? Not in your condition,’ she says, her tone serious. ‘They aren’t like you and me; they don’t operate in the same way; they don’t even operate in the same world. Just walk away. I don’t know your situation but my advice is: drop whatever it is you think you’re gaining from this. Think about yourself. Think about your child.’ She stops abruptly, a thought occurring. Her face sharpens with focus. ‘Which one are you marrying?’

‘Edward,’ I say after a second’s hesitation.

‘Oh,’ she says simply before continuing. ‘The blonde – the one who sprung to my mind just now – was Bobby’s freshman girlfriend. They broke up a month or so before Bobby died. I don’t know why she might have been at the apartment that day. But she was young and she was blonde.’

‘Do you remember her name?’ I ask.

‘It didn’t seem important at the time,’ she answers, looking outside at the parked cars, her eyes flitting from one shadowed windscreen to the next. ‘Don’t contact me again,’ she reaffirms, her voice low and vulnerable. ‘And if you want my advice, Harriet Reed? Be very careful what you do around the Holbecks.’





26 Who is She?




Monday 19 December

Be very careful what you do around the Holbecks.

Samantha’s warning echoes in my mind as I drive home and it occurs to me, not for the first time, that given her advice, I probably should not have just written a thriller loosely based around a wealthy family who loses a son. What seemed like an interesting idea at the time now has the potential flavour of outright bating. But I can fix that in the edit. Or not.

Though right now, I have more pressing matters. I need to find the name of Bobby’s freshman girlfriend and check she’s alive, for starters.