The Family Game(88)

And just like that, Samantha Belson, the Holbecks’ nanny, comes back to me. I thought she was the blonde at 7 East 88th the day Bobby jumped, but she was here, at The Hydes, with the children. But who were the children? ‘Bobby was a nineteen-year-old man,’ she’d said. ‘He certainly didn’t need a nanny.’

It occurs to me now that Edward was seventeen years old when Bobby died. He certainly didn’t need a nanny either. And, with terrifying ease, a series of thoughts slot themselves into place and a question forms in my mind.

‘Edward?’ I ask.

‘Yes.’

‘Where were you the day Bobby died?’

The line is silent for long enough for my creeping dread to blossom into something worse. ‘I was upstairs,’ he says after a moment.

Inside me, something yawns wide open with panic.

‘Okay,’ I say as neutrally as I can, buying myself a precious moment to order my mind.

‘But I love you, Harry,’ he says simply, and I feel my tears come. Edward was there the day his brother died. Something triggered Bobby to jump, and Lucy knew exactly what. Edward was with Bobby when he committed suicide.

The silence between us is thick and I feel his sadness down the line.

‘I know what you are too,’ he tells me cautiously. ‘But I still love you.’

His words hit me viscerally, knocking the last remaining doubt from my unwilling mind. Edward had a hand in Bobby’s death. He killed Lucy, and then Alison and Gianna, Aliza and Melissa. And now Fiona and who knows who else. As the facts come together, I feel the Edward I know disintegrate.

I’ve had the wrong end of the stick this whole time. Robert’s tape is real, but it’s not Robert’s confession. He fed me the truth, but in the only way I would be able to hear it. If he’d told me outright, I would have thought he was lying, trying to scare me off his son. I would have told Edward. All this time, I’ve been condemning the wrong Holbeck, terrified Edward might find out my own awful secret. But he knows. He knew all along; in me, he found someone as broken as he was.

And suddenly I get an inkling of what the favour Robert Holbeck requires from me might be. He wanted me to know who his son really was, to know whose child I am having and what that might mean. Robert wants me to stop Edward.

I squeeze my eyes tight shut to block out what is happening, but I am instantly barraged by flickering images of the bloated body in the well. Images of Lucy’s hair caught in the wind outside 7 East 88th, of Gianna dancing on that New Year’s Eve, of Alison’s family alone and still waiting after twenty years. These women did nothing to warrant their fates.

And suddenly, with a seismic shift, I feel myself break away from Edward.

I feel him being ripped from me, not by Robert, or by his controlling family, but by the real Edward.

My Edward – my good, kind, funny Edward – never really existed. I created him. Well, Edward Holbeck created him, a copy of the brother he killed.

I feel the loss of the man I knew with aching clarity as warm tears stream down my face. I will never see that man again; he will never hold me again. He was only ever the idea of a man, the ghost of one that I saw reflected in Edward Holbeck.

My eyes glide back to the house ahead, its lights warm and welcoming, but the man in there isn’t who I thought he was. He’s a killer, and not the kind of killer I am. That’s why Edward chose me: my past. He thought perhaps he’d found a kindred spirit. That’s why I’ve survived this long; that’s why he asked me to marry him, why I’m carrying his child. He thinks we are the same.

Everything clicks into place, just as Robert told me it would, and I realize what Robert wants me to do. What his tape has been leading me towards.

I don’t have a family of my own; I lost them long ago. But I do have something.

I gently place a hand on my abdomen and slow my breathing. Robert is offering me a chance at a new family. I have a little girl growing inside me, whose family need me to keep them safe.

‘I’m coming back now, Edward,’ I say into the receiver. ‘I’ll see you soon.’





47 The Whole Family




Sunday 25 December

Light spills under the crack beneath the boot room door as I listen for voices. I don’t know what has been happening in the house since I left, but it can’t be good. After a moment I try the door handle, hands numb with cold.

The stark white corridor beyond must be one for staff, as it’s unlike any other part of the building I’ve seen. I follow it along until I see a room ahead, shadows dancing within, and only once I’m sure it is silent do I peer inside.

A small television plays on muted, a Christmas movie. Beside it, a small table covered with well-leafed magazines, and at the end of the room a low grey sofa on which Sylvia and Anya slump, seemingly asleep.

‘Hello,’ I try softly, but the two women do not stir. ‘Shit.’

I approach carefully, kneeling before the unmoving pair. I touch Sylvia’s shoulder gently. She slips onto Anya. I raise my fingers to her nose; she’s still breathing, just unconscious.

I let out a huff of relief. Both have drained coffee cups abandoned in their laps. Drugged but alive.

I leave them where they sit, carefully closing the door to their break room behind me.

Further along the corridor, I find myself in a cavernous working kitchen. Leftovers from tonight’s dinner are covered in wrap, ready to be stacked and refrigerated. Breakfast trays are laid out ready to be filled for the morning. On the kitchen island, mince pies cool on wire. The smell of them mixes with the scent of rot coming off me, making me want to vomit.