Once Edward is dispatched, showered and suited, I dash back to my computer and read the new email.
This one is only three words long, but it’s enough.
Who is this?
The concern implied in those three words is telling. I emailed her through an anonymous account, a brand-new Gmail address; I could be anyone. I gave a plausible reason for reaching out and signed off with my initials, but whoever wrote this reply needs more than that, which is interesting.
I type out a response, and attach the Getty image photo of Samantha Belson laughing beside Eleanor Holbeck.
Is this you? Did you work for this family between 1982 and 2002? I am not a journalist. It’s an entirely personal, and confidential, matter. You are guaranteed complete discretion. Would you be happy to talk? Your help would be greatly appreciated as I believe you are the only person qualified to set the record straight around a certain matter.
Her reply comes back almost immediately.
Are you a member of the family? Or do you work, in any capacity, for them?
I wonder how best to answer, fingers poised over the keys. I’m guessing it will not help my case in any way to explain I’m about to marry one of them.
I am not involved yet. That really depends on you, and what you might be able to tell me.
I stare at my inbox and wait. After half an hour I consider giving up for the night and checking in again tomorrow. And then it comes.
It is me, in the photo. I’ll meet with you. I will pick the venue and time. Come alone.
If I feel unsafe, I will leave.
I bark out a triumphant whoop at the empty apartment. The woman in Robert’s confession is alive; he did not kill her. Whatever this tape is, it’s a game, nothing more, and I’ve won the first round.
A new thought surfaces and my smile withers: I have no way of knowing if that was Samantha Belson messaging me, or if I’ve just made a plan to meet someone else entirely.
I open her Facebook profile and scroll through her photographs. The account looks real, and while she might not have quite the same soft blonde hair she had as a young woman, I see the same curve in her smile, the same crinkle around her eyes. This is Samantha Belson, aged sixty. Whatever happened, she didn’t die in 2002.
I type back a quick reply.
Thank you, Samantha. I have lots of questions.
21 Krampusnacht
Friday 16 December
And just like that, it’s Krampusnacht.
* * *
We’re standing on a Brooklyn curb in front of the glowing windows of Fiona and Oliver’s five-floored brownstone as it looms over us, its door festooned with foreboding Christmas decorations.
I look at Edward beside me. ‘This is weird,’ I say. ‘Your family is weird.’ Somehow the weight of everything I can’t tell him is in those words, as well as the weight of my fear at having to see Robert again. I will feign ignorance tonight, but I know he will be watching me carefully. The truth is I’m scared of what could happen next, of what Robert might do.
Edward nods in solemn acknowledgment. ‘Oh, I know they are. Believe me.’ His expression softens as he looks down at me with a smile. ‘Remember, tonight is just an Austro-Hungarian version of Halloween. Nothing to worry about, right?’
‘Got it,’ I agree, allowing only a sliver of the vulnerability I actually feel to surface.
He offers me his hand and I take it, letting him lead me briskly up the brownstone steps to the elaborately carved dark wood and glass front door.
Edward pushes the doorbell and through the glass I just about make out its ghostly tinkling. In the hallway beyond I can make out rows of shoes already lined up against the thick eighteenth-century skirting board, shoes lined up for Krampus. It looks like there’s quite a crowd in there already. I note that there are adult shoes mixed among the children’s and my stomach tightens. We all have to take part in the Krampusnacht games it seems.