The Family Game by Catherine Steadman (20)

Before turning from the table, Robert lifts his wineglass and waits for the rest of the table to follow suit. “To the happy couple,” he booms. “Welcome to our family, Harriet Reed.” Eyes flit from family member to family member, giving the distinct impression that Robert doesn’t do things like this very often. Stutteringly the assembled diners echo his sentiment before sipping liberally from their glasses.

Edward is first to lower his glass. “Thank you, Dad. We appreciate it, and dinner, so, thank you.” He gives a diplomatic smile.

Robert studies him for a moment before replying, “Very good.” He smiles. “Very good.”

Then Robert turns to me. “Harriet,” he says lightly, “would you mind joining me for a port in the study. Ah, no, on second thought, for you a tea perhaps? James?” He gestures to the butler in gray.

All eyes in the room flash to me, and my heart flutters with panic in my chest. If a sinkhole opened up beneath me and took me from this world forever right now, I’d be glad of the quick death.

“The night is young and we have much to discuss, Harriet. Indulge an old man.”

I look to Edward for help; I was not warned about this, I had not planned for this. But Edward looks as pale as I feel. No help there.

“Um, sure,” I answer, rising from my seat and somehow managing to sound halfway human. “Yes. That would be lovely. Thank you.” I throw Edward a bewildered smile.

“Wonderful.” Robert grins. “Shall we?”

I gulp back the last of my water, avoiding Edward’s no doubt very concerned and concerning expression, and follow one of the most powerful men in America out of the room.





8


The Game Begins


THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 24



“I hope I didn’t put you on the spot back there,” Robert says as we enter the vast green cavern of his study.

I give a shake of the head though fully aware it’s a rhetorical question. He barely acknowledges my presence as I follow him and hungrily absorb as much as I can from this new environment, and this unexpected access to his inner sanctum.

I know I should be nervous; this man, so much more powerful and self-possessed than me, has me on his own ground. And yet I’m not. Well, I am, but not to the extent I should be. Because here’s the thing: I have a secret; a warm cozy secret that I hold close to me, like a comforter in situations just like this. No matter what happens here, I know I can handle myself—better than most. I have been through too much to doubt that fact. I know I can do what I need to do when my back is to the wall.

My eyes fly up as the room opens out above us: a mezzanine library. Books line the room, breaking up the obsidian walls, a cursory glance at the shelves revealing everything from thick reference tomes to cutting-edge releases and thin poetry periodicals. Ahead a jewel-toned Persian rug proffers two low club chairs facing each other in front of a crackling fire. The lighting in the room gives a warm glow, and a wooden staircase, spiraling up to the mezzanine, slips into shadows, the covers of the books beyond it indiscernible.

But the thing that stands out the most is the subdued but persistent flashing and flickering coming from above the bookcases where wall-hung plasma screens display a constant rolling stream of live news channel feeds. Each screen a different network, on mute. Newscasters stare down at us, not dissimilar to the oil paintings in the dining room, except these move.

Text scrolls. An oil spill off the coast of Brazil, a Hong Kong billionaire under house arrest, another police shooting, the GDP growth of the Indian economy.

“Take a seat,” Robert says, gesturing to one of the club chairs, and I head over to the fire to sit as instructed.

I watch him, this older, more storied Edward, move across the room and push the heavy door of the study closed, eclipsing the sounds of the apartment beyond.

He notices my eyes flit to the screens above. “I like to keep my finger on the pulse,” he says, wafting a hand up at them dismissively. “Let’s call them the pulse.”

I smile at the remark and he turns from me, seemingly at ease with me in his space. Wordlessly he heads across the room to a cabinet beside the spiral staircase and, lifting the lid of a brightly colored box, he pulls something out from within. “Does it bother you?” he asks, without looking over, and I can’t tell if he means the silence or the situation. But when he turns, I see that he actually means neither.

He lifts his hand, showing me an unlit cigar.

“It doesn’t bother me, no,” I answer after a moment. “I’ve always quite liked the smell if I’m honest.”

That smile again. “Well, it is always important to be honest, isn’t it? Especially with one’s self.” There’s something in his eyes a little too knowing for comfort. He cuts the cigar end and sets about lighting it. It’s only then that I stop to consider the impact his cigar smoke might have on the raspberry-sized fetus growing inside me. But it’s too late to turn back now. Embers flare red as the dark tobacco leaves transmute to wavering white ash when he takes a puff and sinks into the armchair opposite mine.

Beyond the flickering screens, in the deep darkness, I make out his desk, a wide monstrous thing lurking in the half-light, its wires, cables, hard drives like tentacles reaching into the shadows.

R.D. leans back in his chair, his eyes cast up to the rich smoke pooling above us. There is a painting above the fireplace. J. L. Holbeck, Edward’s great-great-great-grandfather, the man who started it all.