The Family Game by Catherine Steadman (90)

At the entrance to the new wing, I see Edward slumped against the glass on the other side of the security door. I only catch him from the back, his suit jacket crumpled and rucked on the transparent wall, his white shirt collar stained with the blood still dripping from his hairline. He’s locked himself in there, his bloody fingerprints smeared across the control panel. Someone must have gotten to him before me.

I watch his shoulders gently rising and falling as I approach and, safe in the knowledge that glass door is locked, I sink to the ground behind him, my breath fogging as I crane to get a better look at his face.

Over his shoulder I can see his lap, his bloodstained hands, and the small pinkie ring on his little finger. It’s not Edward; it’s Stuart. Something inside me unclenches.

I tap delicately on the glass next to Stuart’s head. He jolts up, shocked at my proximity, and as he turns, I can see that his movements are as slow and fuzzy as Matilda’s. There must have been something in the drinks this evening, or the coffee. Stuart wouldn’t have been drinking, so it must have been the latter.

His face is a mess, his right eye swollen, bruised shut, the wound to his right temple congealed, but there are bloodstains on his cheek and neck all the way to his collar. He must have just gotten away from Edward, crawled in here where he knew he’d be safe. Edward doesn’t know the passcode to the new wing. I remember him trying to ignore his call the other day before Eleanor tapped in the keypad code. He wanted to see it, to get in here.

Stuart is saying something, but the glass is soundproof. I shake my head and he squeezes his eyes tight shut with annoyance. After a moment he regroups, and with great effort turns his body to face me fully, pointing past me, his eyes flaring. Suddenly certain Edward is directly behind me, I spin, grabbing my shovel, but the main hallway beyond is empty.

I wheel back to Stuart and he shakes his head slowly, trying to make me understand, a characteristic smirk blossoming beneath his injuries. No, he mouths carefully. He gestures past me again and I follow his gaze out into the hallway. When I look back at him, he jabs a finger left, indicating through the hall and left. Edward, he mouths, then, with finality, he slumps back against the glass wall, exhausted. Edward went that way. He closes his eyes and unseeingly raises a hand to wave me off.

I grab my shovel and leave Stuart behind, safe in the knowledge that he’s protected by two inches of security glass.

So far only Fiona is dead. Stuart is safe; Matilda is safe; Eleanor is safe. The kids are safe down in the lodge with Nunu—now it seems to make more sense why Robert chose this year to allow that. Some of my new family is safe. Which leaves only Edward, Robert, and Oliver unaccounted for.

I creep into the main hallway, careful to watch where I place my trainers on the creaking parquet, my shovel raised and ready, and it suddenly occurs to me that I have no idea what happened to Oliver. Or where he went. He’s the biggest and strongest Holbeck, the family’s very own all-American linebacker. Why isn’t he doing something about all this?

And at that exact moment, my vision flashes white as pain crests at the back of my skull, and everything goes black.





48


Merry Christmas, Harriet


SUNDAY, DECEMBER 25



And this is where we started.

I come to on the hall floor. I cannot tell how long I have been out, and I cannot lift my head. Around me the house twinkles on, Christmas music still jingling softly through the hallways.

I just need a second, I tell myself. I know this because it took time to move after our car rolled to a stop twenty years ago. I hung in the creaking cold for what seemed like an eternity that morning. But my body came back to life.

The smell of gasoline is thick on the floor around me, making my eyes water as the breeze from the open door wafts it into my face. I swivel my gaze across to the hall fireplace, its logs burning brightly. It could catch so easily, but I imagine that is someone’s plan, when the time is right. Whether it is Robert’s plan or Edward’s or even Oliver’s, I no longer know.

If I could stand, I could run. I could just leave them all, save myself, bolt and call the cops—but then I see the story being constructed around me and I understand what it is designed to look like.

The gasoline, the flames, the bodies. What is happening here is being carefully staged, and if this building goes up in flames, I have no doubt who will be held accountable. Whoever is doing this has enough on me to ensure that.

If I run, I don’t get a say in how this ends.

I try to lift my face again. Straining every sinew, I manage to lift myself a few inches from the floor, just enough to turn my head in the other direction.

I gasp. Oliver’s lifeless face rests inches from mine, his mouth open, his eyes glassy. I stifle a yelp. His hand is still pressed tight to the wet wound across his throat, though blood no longer pumps from it.

By the look of things, it’s safe to say that Oliver is not the mastermind behind all of this. At least, if he ever was, he’s not anymore.

On the floor beside him I see a wrought-iron fireplace poker; that must be what he hit me with. He must have thought I was responsible for all of this. Then the sound of a scuffle must have brought the real perpetrator straight to us, to him. I am still alive, though, which can only mean one thing: either Edward or Robert needs me to play my part in what happens next.

I become aware of the weight of Oliver’s legs on mine, pinning me to the floor, and I slowly edge myself out from under him. From there I struggle up to all fours and then carefully onto unsteady feet. I wait for my dizziness to settle, then quietly stalk to the stairs, where I see my shovel kicked to the side.