The Family Game by Catherine Steadman (24)

He rises then, closing the space between us, a panic instantly flexing within me. And before I know it, he’s close enough to touch. The warmth of him is tangible, and then I feel his warm hand take mine, pick up the scent of expensive soap and cigars. He folds his tape into my palm, nothing more, then steps away. “I would appreciate it if you kept this between us. At least until I know what you think?”

I nod almost reflexively.

Adam offering Eve an apple, a small, brittle plastic apple. And there’s nothing I can do but accept it.





10


Nobody Puts Bobby in the Corner


11:43 P.M.

THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 24



In the back of the car, Edward’s silent presence beside me, I watch New York glide past the window as I replay the events of the evening in my mind.

“What did you talk about?” he asks, finally, with a commendable lightness. The question must have been burning a hole in his thoughts since I followed Robert out of that dining room. I pause before replying because, the truth is, I’ve been trying to figure that out myself since I left Robert Holbeck’s study.

“Well, we spoke about writing, how he lost his parents—and he spoke about you.” I say this in a very particular order.

“Wait, he told you about his parents?” Edward repeats, surprised.

I nod and he raises an eyebrow, incredulous. “Right. Okay. Why? He never talks about them. In what context did he talk about them?”

There’s an edge in his tone that I don’t quite like, a glimmer of derision, and it’s my turn to look incredulous. “In the context of what he and I have in common, Ed. His parents died young; my parents died young. Remember? He was trying to find common ground with me.”

Edward considers this for a moment before responding, “I see. Common ground. And he managed to find some.” It’s the first time I’ve seen Edward be genuinely skeptical of someone’s motives. “He didn’t mention anything else—about his parents, or our family?”

It’s an odd thing to say.

Suddenly I remember Bobby, the intensity of the rest of the evening having overshadowed him until now.

“Talking of family, who the hell is Bobby, Ed? Because I get the distinct feeling I could have used that information tonight or, I’m guessing, at some point over the last year! Am I supposed to know who he is? Everyone else there tonight seemed to.”

“My father mentioned Bobby?” Edward asks, suddenly direct.

“No? Lila did. And then your nephew Billy seemed to know all about him too, and he’s a child.”

“Billy talked about Bobby?” he echoes, and there’s an odd timbre to his voice.

“Yeah, the older boys were scaring him with stories.”

“Jesus,” Edward breathes, rubbing his eyes. A weariness seems to overtake him, but looking at me he senses he really needs to start talking.

“This is not how I would have done this…” he continues, his voice trailing off to such an extent that I can suddenly see where this story is going. Bobby is dead.

In the silence that follows I give Edward’s hand a squeeze to let him know I am here for him, no matter what. After a moment he squeezes back, straightening in his seat.

“I should have told you this before. Someone was bound to mention him eventually but I’ve always found remembering so much more unhelpful than forgetting.” He looks away from me, eyes glistening in the passing streetlights.

“I think I really need you to remember for me at this point, honey,” I nudge gently, my tone sensitive but clear.

“Yeah. So.” His features scrunch with discomfort. “I find it hard to talk about growing up. The tough bits, whatever,” he says, finding the words as he speaks them. “I mean, people like us, we’ve hardly had it hard. What goes wrong is easy to box up and store. There’s an expectation we won’t dwell.”

“Who was Bobby, Ed?” I repeat.

“My brother. Our brother.”

I study Edward’s face for the truth of these words. “You had another brother?”

“Older. Oldest,” he clarifies, and the significance of this doesn’t pass me by.

“He was next in line, before you,” I say piecing things together. “How the hell do I not know this, Ed?” I ask as gently as I can, because this is definitely the kind of information fiancés should be sharing with each other.

Edward grimaces, but my thoughts are gathering speed. “Wait, Ed, seriously, how do I not know about this? I mean, there’s not even anything about this online. Nothing anywhere about another Holbeck son. I would have seen it. There’s no mention of a Bobby at all.”

“I know,” he says, almost to himself, trying to wrap his head around the fact that he will have to explain a lot more than he would like to. “That’s deliberate. Not my choice. It was kept out of the papers, the press. For the family, insurance, or investors, I don’t know. I was eighteen when it happened, I did what I was told. We all did. The investigation went through all the proper channels, then disappeared. Press embargo. Favors called in; deals made. Things were easier to control back then, pre-internet craze, before everyone filmed everything, before everyone had a platform; it was easier to make things fade away.”

I shiver and pull my cashmere coat tighter around me. I know how easy it was for things to disappear back when we were kids. I doubt I would be sitting beside Edward now if that weren’t the case. The details of what happened the day my parents died were only a byline in the local papers, columns long pulped, facts forgotten by all except those involved.