I look down at the tape player in my hands. As much as I do not want to hear more, I know I have to; I need to see how deep this goes. I need to find out why he is telling me any of this and what he wants.
With grim determination, I sink back into my chair, slide the headphones back on, and pick up where I left off.
28 The Tape
Part 2
I have no doubt you will feel resistance to this recording. To this story. But I also know you will use your enquiring mind to sort through what lies before you. All I can ask is that you bear with me, dear Harriet, as I continue, because there is more for you to know.
I suspect you have already thought of telling my son about this recording. But the fact you are still listening tells me you have not. I suspect you have weighed the pros and cons of such a decision. The knock-on effects of that choice. You are an intelligent, resourceful woman; that is why I have chosen to confide in you. But I advise you to tread with incredible care.
God knows, I love my son. I love all of my children, but I am not above taking action to protect the future of our family. Too many have given too much for us to let it all slip away, for it to be squandered by one unknown quantity. In his way Edward knows what I have done for this family, not in the details, but we know the men we are.
So, I ask you for his sake, do not act rashly. This cassette recording is meant for you, and you alone. Listen carefully to what I tell you, weigh the content, use your faculties, and when you are ready to talk, talk to me.
I have faith in you, Harriet. We are alike, you and I. In what we have done for our families. As you will see.
The second girl was harder than the first. And Gianna fought. She screamed and clawed and left marks. She wanted to live but she saw too much.
A fashion party, 2003, a warehouse loft on New Year’s Eve. There were red balloons, and a drive for the future as present and tangible as the glitter on young faces. Her eyes did not waver as she danced. That look of hers, intent, determined, a challenge. And she was beautiful, her lips stained dark, her thick curls tumbling around her. She had pushed and pushed for more but she could not have more. She was not suitable. Good fun, but not worth the investment she seemed to require, or demand. And so, to her place.
The boom and the pulse of the warehouse left behind. An argument, a scuffle, but, once words were spoken, she calmed enough to come willingly. Her rooms were dark and full of foreign objects. Low light, blue-black linen sheets and the smell of jasmine. Mirrors everywhere so that she could watch what happened. Her lipstick imprinted on a crystal tumbler, the kiss of her wet lips as she drained the fluid, as her slender throat swallowed. She looked like she knew what she was drinking, but she did not know.
Do not worry, Harriet Reed. I did not touch her as I lay her in the fresh sheets, only to softly arrange her for whoever would find her. Her breathing already too slow, already ebbing away.
In the drained glass: too much of what she had already had. A mixture of excess. That is what she was given, simply more of what she had already had, because that is what she wanted in a sense. It was what she wanted to give us. More of the same. More of her. So, you see, she had to go.
Sitting in the corner of the room, I watched her slow to a stop. You could say watching is cause enough to give up on a person, and perhaps you would be right, my dear. After all, who would do such a thing? Who would watch another person die?
But we both know the answer to that, don’t we? We know the kind of person who would watch another die and do nothing. We both know the kind of person that takes, don’t we, Harriet Reed?
The question is: is there a difference between you and I? Between what I have done and what you have done? And you must believe me when I say I do know what you have done. I imagine you reason that I cannot possibly know about that lonely morning on a country road, and my answer to you is simple: I do. I know enough.
Enough to fill in the gaps, enough to colour the picture and present you with my findings. I am not the writer here, Harriet, but indulge me if you will.