This time, the Game Master is wearing a mask that looks like a fabricated vinyl reproduction of our father’s face. It is ghoulish.
“You fucking monster,” I say. “You piece of shit.”
The detectives look at me knowingly, as if I have revealed too much. They seem pleased that my facade of decorum has been pierced.
“I am no monster,” says the Game Master in a voice like a strung-out chipmunk. “I am merely in charge here. And it is time for the next clue. There are only three of you left, which means that the stakes are high.”
“We aren’t going to play your game,” I say. “We are banding together. We are unionizing. We are going on strike. Are you going to kill all three of us at the same time?”
“I’m sure I don’t have any idea what you are talking about,” says the Game Master. “This is all just good corporate fun. Your next clue is: ‘In a white room with white curtains.’ That’s it. Good luck, all of you!”
The Game Master’s face disappears from the screen. The three of us look at each other. We all get it immediately. This one is even more obvious than all the others. It’s as if the Game Master isn’t trying to trick us anymore. Instead, they are trying to turn us against each other, to put us in an impossible pressure cooker of panic and resentment.
The clue swims on our game phones, shimmering over a field of red rain.
“You all seem like you know the answer to this one,” says Detective Jay.
“Yeah,” says Gabriella. “We know this one.”
“It’s down in Ditmas Park,” says Alistair. “Where our mom killed herself. Our old summer house in Brooklyn. We sold it, of course. But the house is still there.”
“We should have burned it to the ground,” I say. “We should have capped it with concrete like a tomb.”
“So, should we get a squad car there immediately?” asks Detective Rutledge. “That’s where the next terrorist attack will be?”
“We don’t care what you do,” I say. “Send the police or not. But we are going. And we are going together.” I turn to Gabriella and Alistair. “We can take the train. I can use my pass for all of you.”
“But it’s such a nice day,” says Gabriella. “And we should give the cops a chance to check the place out.”
“I don’t have any plans,” says Alistair. I realize that none of us are in any hurry.
“Then we’ll walk,” I say.
Alistair, Gabriella, and I each take a somber shot of bourbon before leaving the dark bar behind and venturing out into the sunny June afternoon. Gabriella has sunscreen in her bag and we all slather up as best we can, making sure to get the backs of our ears and the backs of our legs.
Just as we are about to take off, Angelo Marino steps outside and grabs me by the shoulder, pulling me aside.
“You’ll meet us over there?” I ask him.
“I will,” he says.
“How can any of this be legally binding at this point?” I say. “As a last will and testament?”
“It isn’t,” he says. “But that’s not why you are doing it now. Is it?”
“No,” I say. “It’s about something else now. Pride. Not being afraid. Confronting this asshole. And staying alive, obviously.”
“I need to tell you something,” he says. “Something I’ve been meaning to tell you for a long time. I never could do it before, not while your father was alive. First of all, he wouldn’t let me. And second of all, I was deeply ashamed. I want you to know that everything was fine between your father and I. He hated me once upon a time, it’s true. Hated me for a long time. But in the end, he forgave me. And in the end, the fact that we both had the same love, the same grief: this fact united us. It kept us together. Even when we should have run from each other, we ran toward each other instead.”
“What are you trying to tell me?” I say, knowing exactly what he is trying to tell me.
“Your mother and I,” he says. “At the end. We were together. Intimately. It wasn’t good for us. We were going to stop what we were doing. But she was lonely and I was lonely. And I had always loved her. It didn’t feel wrong. It was she who started everything. I think she was trying to get revenge, but I don’t know why or what for. But I also think it was more than that. She just wanted to change herself. To become something new. She was tired of her life and she didn’t know what to do about it.”
“How long?” I ask, not sure I want to know the answer.
“It was years,” he says. “But it wasn’t like you are thinking. It was sporadic. I loved her, but I don’t think she ever really loved me back. She was just taking from me. Sucking my blood to stay alive. Anyway, I wanted you to know that. I loved her and I loved your father as well. Losing her was the worst thing that ever happened to both of us. I blamed him just as much as he blamed me. But in the end, it was both of us who were wrong. And her role can’t be ignored either. After all these years, the person I blame the most for her suicide is her.”
I raise an eyebrow at this last bit, which he says with unbelievable venom, but I know he is right.
“Thank you for telling me,” I say. “It can’t have been easy for you.”
“No,” he says. “I just wanted you to know. I needed to get it off my chest.”
“Just in case I’m murdered,” I say. “And you never get a chance to unburden yourself.”
He nods.
“You are so much like her,” he says. “Sometimes I forget that you aren’t the same person.”
He looks like he wants to say something
