Edward lied to me. Bobby jumped; he didn’t die from a drug interaction. The story on Robert’s tape is true. That dignified, quiet death Edward described is fiction.
I feel my knees weaken. I need to sit down. Edward kept the extent of this horrendous event from me – he must have known how much more seriously I’d take his reticence to spend time around his family.
And that’s when I feel it; eyes on me. Surprised, I stop mid-stride and scan the park, not entirely certain what I’m looking for. I dodge a woman and stroller caught short by my sudden stop, looking back up just in time, and then catch sight of something. The man with the baseball cap, from the subway, across the park. His eyes lock with mine and I realize now with absolute certainty: Robert has had someone following me since he gave me the tape.
In a reflexive act of self-preservation, I let my eyes slide from his as if nothing had happened, and I continue on my way. If Robert is monitoring me, waiting for me to listen to his tape, then I need to make sure my next move is well thought-out. I need to buy time.
Thinking fast, I calmly take the next left and exit the park, heading towards my favourite local deli. I must have spent almost as much time writing in there as in our apartment since I moved here. I’m pretty sure the man in the baseball cap won’t follow me inside.
I slip into the warmth of the place, a waitress nodding me over to an empty booth. I slide in, my eyes locked on the door as I wait.
After twenty minutes, I let myself relax. My shadow didn’t follow me, and I didn’t catch him passing the large condensation-misted windows. I can’t be sure he’s not waiting out there, but that won’t be a concern until I leave at least.
I order a coffee and a Danish, sipping the hot liquid gratefully as I pore over the internet for more on Bobby’s suicide. The few articles that mention the East 88th Street suicide do not name the deceased, but the description on the tape appears to be true. I can’t find anything about a blonde girl though, so she could be fictionalized. I suppose the question is whether or not a girl disappeared after Bobby died. I know from Lila that the Holbecks’ old nanny left after Bobby, so this could be the person Robert is referring to.
I shiver at the thought of everyone at that Thanksgiving table knowing that Bobby jumped from that apartment. No wonder Billy was so terrified of sleeping in Bobby’s room. For all I know, that’s where he did it. I push the morbid thought from my mind and try to focus on the issue at hand: whether the Holbecks’ nanny resigned after Bobby’s death, or if she simply disappeared.
I cast my eyes across to the fogged diner windows and watch the huddled shapes of pedestrians glide by. Somewhere out there Robert is watching and waiting to see what I do next. If he has killed before, and if he has done so more than once, I am in serious trouble. And yet, I was alone with him in his study, we sat opposite each other; it would be impossible to deny the strange connection we had with such seeming ease. The confusing thing is, Robert Holbeck likes me. And suddenly it dawns on me: that is why he is telling me this. He has chosen me because he likes games, because he likes thrillers, and because he has decided I am a worthy opponent.
I search on my phone for Holbeck family nanny and a couple of grainy paparazzi shots of Nunu standing beside the family celebrity, Lila, come up alongside gossip columns. No sign of the old nanny though. All I have to go on is that she was blonde.
I realize the best way to find a photo of her is to search for ones of Edward and his siblings as children. I head to Getty Images and search Edward’s name.
Photos of the Holbeck brood at various ages fill the screen. Then I catch one. A young Eleanor carrying a swaddled Edward in her arms, beside her a youthful Robert holding her hand, then, in the deep blurry background, out of focus, a figure pushing the two-year-old Bobby in a pushchair, a baseball cap covering her hair. The nanny.
Halfway down the page, I find an in-focus shot. Her face is turned away, half in profile, but I can see she is a woman in her early twenties, beautiful and fresh-faced with her soft blonde hair pulled back in a loose ponytail.