My point is, if ending a life is unavoidable, it is usually best to be ambiguous about it. Better not to burn out than to fade away.
I am getting old, Harriet, and the truth is I cannot continue to do things as I have in the past. I cannot contain all of this indefinitely; I alone cannot hold this family together. And that is where you come in. I must share what I know, pass on the baton. These are the names, the places, the dates.
It seems only fair, given I know the details of yours, that you should know these. Quid pro quo, as they say. Do as you wish with the information, but know the consequences.
I expect you’ll want to get a pen.
Lucy Belson, 2002.
Alison Montgomery, 2003.
Gianna Scaccia, 2004.
Aliza Masri, 2020.
Melissa Brown, 2021.
I thought for a period of time that the urge had passed. That it was over and I would not need to intercede in matters again. But it came back – the need, the necessity to correct the errors of others.
These are the facts and this is your area, Harriet Reed. Do your best. Use that sharp mind of yours, but move with care, because I think you know how this all goes if you make the wrong move.
You are not the first person I have divulged these secrets to, but you could be the first person to survive the knowledge. I have faith in you, at least.
32 Cat and Mouse
Wednesday 21 December
I jab the pause button and scramble in my gym bag for a pen, settling instead for my iPhone notes. I rewind the tape, then, phone resting on knee, I hit play.
Once the final name is spoken, I click off the recording and look at my list.
Lucy Belson – 2002
Alison Montgomery – 2004
Gianna Scaccia – 2004
Aliza Masri – 2020
Melissa Brown – 2021
Five names. Five women.
A gap of sixteen years between the two sprees. Two of the deaths are recent. I shiver as I look at the final date. I met Edward around the time of Melissa Brown’s death. I can’t help but wonder if Robert gave her a tape too.
I notice a new name wedged between Lucy and Gianna’s; one I have not heard before. Alison Montgomery. Robert hasn’t mentioned her until now.
There’s a soft rap on the changing room door and I jerk up, sending my iPhone clattering across the floor.
‘Sorry,’ an apologetic voice comes from beyond the cubicle. ‘Just wondering if you’re nearly done in there?’
Shit.
I notice the bustle now coming from the changing room. I hadn’t noticed it till now, but the lunchtime rush has begun. ‘Um, yeah, yeah, sorry, one minute.’ I quickly shove everything back into my bag, iPhone slightly wet and stinking of chlorine. I’m just about to pull open the door when it dawns on me that I’ve come into a changing room and done nothing. I can’t just leave the gym. If anyone was following me, it would almost certainly raise suspicions if I never even made it out of the changing area.
I dump my bag back on the seat, strip off, and slip on my bathing suit.
Outside the cubicle I find a woman in her late forties, patience waning, with a towel wrapped tight around her. Behind her a full changing room, bodies in various stages of undress. I find a free combination locker, store my bag securely and head to the pool.
* * *
On the subway ride home, hair now suitably damp and redolent of swimming pool, I google Gianna Scaccia and find what I expected to, what Robert has already described. Death by accidental overdose. I stare at her beautiful face, her eyes alive with possibility, her caramel skin and tumbling curls.