As my siblings and I walk, three security guards follow us and three move in front, clearing the way. We are in a bubble of protection. It is unnerving and feels almost biblical, like Palm Sunday, with Jesus riding into town on an ass for one last week of glory. It feels right to walk. To strut through our city.
We reminisce as we stroll, talking about the old days, talking about our father and our two dead brothers. Gabriella asks me about Phoebe and the children.
“I want you guys to promise that you will take care of all of them,” I say. “I know Bernard wasn’t the greatest husband or father, but he really did love them and he would have wanted for us to provide for them all, just as if they were our own kids.”
“They won’t want for anything,” says Alistair.
“Nothing but caviar and Harvard for everyone,” says Gabriella. “Truly. We promise.”
This comes as a relief. I think about Bernard’s indiscretions weighed against our mother’s cheating heart. He was faithless, but was it really his fault? I remember back when he was a boy and he used to cling to her, much more than Alistair, who was enamored with our father. It was only Henley who didn’t seem to need anyone at all.
We cross the bridge into Brooklyn and then make our way down Coney Island Avenue, past the endless car wash stations and fast food restaurants. This is the part of New York City that feels the most like any other place in the United States: a hollow, bombed-out hellscape where brands meet cars and where freedom shrinks down to what you can buy and where you can drive.
We are exhausted by the time we make it to Ditmas Park. I am now fully sober. I wish I had brought a hat. I am fairly certain I have managed to burn myself along my scalp, where my hair parts down the middle.
We weave through the blocks to our old summer house by muscle memory. I remember these streets well, like creases in my own brain, cut deep by paranoia and obsession. The security guards fan out to protect us, joining the security staff who are already there. They sweep around the perimeter of the house, jogging into the backyard.
“The cops came and went, but they only barely checked the place,” Mel informs me.
“Let us go in first,” says Ed. “I don’t trust the cops.”
I give the okay and our security detail checks the doors, both front and back. Then they pour into the house like an enema.
I don’t know how many times this property has changed hands over the years and I don’t know where the deed has ended up. I expect that Angelo Marino will be able to tell us once he arrives, but he isn’t here yet.
The White Room in the front will just be a normal living room now. The bloodstains won’t be on the walls and on the carpet and on the curtains. It will just be an empty front room, like any other room in the world. I still can’t quite imagine what it will be like to step foot in there again, to test myself against the worst memory that I have.
Angelo Marino pulls up in an Uber. He steps out of the car, looking contrite and embarrassed. I’m sure he is wondering if I have told Alistair and Gabriella about his dalliances with our mother.
“Just in time,” I say as he morosely walks up to us. “We need to know who owns this house.”
“Actually, you own it,” says Angelo Marino. “Or rather, the Nylo Corporation does. It was purchased by a shell corporation two years ago. I had nothing to do with it. It was something that your father did on his own.”
“So he sold it and vowed never to return, and then he bought it again just so he could send us on this sick quest?” I ask.
“Seems so,” says Angelo Marino.
While the security guards scour the inside, we wait on the front lawn, smoking cigarettes and trying to find shade among the big trees of the neighborhood. Eventually, they come back out, shaking their heads.
“There’s no one in there,” says Ed. “It’s completely empty. It looks like there hasn’t been anybody inside in a long time. There’s dust on the walls, on the staircase, on the doorknobs.”
“Whoever set this up might have done it months ago,” points out Alistair.
From the lawn, we can see the front room, surely where we are supposed to go.
“How should we do this?” asks Alistair. Gabriella can still afford to lose a life, whereas neither Alistair nor I can. We both look at her.
“I don’t want to go in there,” says Gabriella.
“We’ll take your phone in for you,” I say. “You can just wait here on the lawn.”
I tell the security guards to expect anything. They make a wall around us as Alistair and I step toward the house, blocking us from all sides.
“The Game Master is probably watching somehow,” I say. “Like they were watching Bernard fall out of the sky. They must be here somewhere. Well, let them watch.”
Alistair and I enter our old house. I breathe deeply, shuddering as I cross over the threshold. He puts his hand on my shoulder and I nod, letting him know I am okay. We move into the White Room, just off the foyer. Against all odds, it’s still white. The carpet, the curtains, the walls. All white. A shiver runs down my spine.
We walk all the way in, but nothing happens. We move together around the sides of the room, our hands grazing the walls, but it isn’t until we reach the big front windows that the Nylo theme starts to play. Alistair wins. I come in second.
“I’ll go get Gabriella’s phone,” he says to me. “Are you okay in here?”
I am
