“How does he explain Henley, though?” I say. “Henley is dead, Gabriella. Does he think I killed him?”
“He thinks Henley is faking his own death,” says Gabriella. “He says there are about a thousand reasons that Henley would want to fake his own death. To get away from the Chinese, to get out of his debts, to get away from all the girls he’s dating.”
“That is insane,” I say.
“Listen,” says Gabriella. “I don’t believe him, but his explanation isn’t any more insane than any other explanation for what’s happening.”
I don’t know what to say to this. She has a point. They have no reason to trust me, and they certainly have no reason to trust our father. To say that he played favorites is an understatement. Bernard, Henley, and Gabriella were never offered jobs in the company—not even meaningless posts where they couldn’t do any harm. Our father never pretended to be interested in training them to know the family business. There was never one moment when he thought their talents might be useful in helping us stay on top.
“It doesn’t matter what Bernard says,” I finally say. “We have to stick together. Alistair and I are down to our last life. If Bernard isn’t going to agree not to play, then we have to at least all make sure that we beat Bernard. He has two lives left. He can stand to lose one today.”
Gabriella is silent for a long time.
“He told me you would say that,” she says.
“I’m sure he did, but that doesn’t make it any less true,” I say.
“No, what you’re saying makes sense,” she agrees, sighing. “Alright, I’m on board. We’ll all work together this time.”
She hangs up on me. It is 11:55. I return to my office and take out my game phone. Alistair does the same. The police detectives don’t appear to have any special equipment or anything. They’re just sitting in their chairs, looking slightly bored and skeptical.
Might as well start drinking. I pour myself a bourbon and go around the room, seeing if anyone else is interested. No takers. Just as I am sitting down, the Nylo Corporation theme comes chirping from our game phones.
“Here we go,” I say.
When the Game Master appears this time, I nearly drop my drink. Staring up at me is a werewolf face, like the mask worn by the person who was responsible for Olivia’s bike crash.
“You son of a bitch,” I cry, squeezing the phone as if I might crack it in half. The security guards and cops all stand up, alarmed by my sudden venom. Rage flows through me in a cleansing, overwhelming torrent.
“Temper, temper,” reprimands the Game Master from behind the wolf mask. “Looks like young Bernard is in the lead going into day three. Are you Nylos ready for the next clue?”
“How come you tried to kill us at the aquarium?” asks Alistair. “It’s a miracle none of us were injured. We could have smashed in our skulls by slipping on water or gotten stung in the neck by a jellyfish.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you are talking about,” says the Game Master. “If I may make a suggestion? I am not particularly keen on the way you have been working together. There can be only one winner after all, no matter how closely you collaborate. Families help each other. But families have a hierarchy.”
This is a threat. If Alistair had actually lost all his lives at the aquarium, I would have died along with him. Alistair looks at me across my desk, narrowing his eyes, shaking his head.
“Here comes the next clue,” says the Game Master. “Are you ready?”
“You hurt my daughter, you son of a bitch,” I blurt out. I want to tell them I am going to murder them. I want to tell them I am going to rip off their arms and beat them to death with their arm bones. I want to tell them I am going to burn their corpse and dump the ashes in a Taco Bell toilet tank, where they will be mixed with liquid shit and flushed out to sea. But there are lots of witnesses, two of whom are cops.
“You are going to get justice,” I say instead, relatively calmly. “Justice is going to come to you.”
I look at the cops meaningfully, gesturing to the phone. Are they just going to sit there?
“Excuse me, uh, Game Master?” says Detective Jay. “This is the NYPD. We need you to stop whatever is happening here and turn yourself in for questioning. Please take off your mask and identify yourself. Whatever Prescott Nylo paid you to do, the contract is hereby terminated.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t hear you,” says the Game Master. “Are you on speakerphone? Here is the next clue: ‘They painted it together, at the top of the boot.’ Good luck, Nylos! This game is getting so close!”
“Wait,” I say. “Who are you? Where are you?”
There is a long period of silence, the werewolf face unwavering. The detectives finally look interested. Ed and Mel are tense, ready for action. Then the line goes dead and the clue floats to the front of the game phones, shimmering over a background of raining cowboy boots.
I hate myself that the answer to this riddle comes to me almost instantly. I can’t help but puzzle it out. That’s the way these
