A pretty, elfin-faced girl stared back at her. She had short flaxen hair, like her mother, cut in a neat bob. She was wearing an old-fashioned dress, which made her look younger than her years. Like Mina, she could have been taken for a twelve-year-old. She was thin, flat-chested, and her smile looked forced, as if cameras made her self-conscious.

“She hated that picture,” a voice said.

Gini looked up to see Fricke by her side, clutching a violin case. She made a grimace, then sat down, poured herself some coffee, and immediately—with a defiant glance at Gini—lit a cigarette.

“It doesn’t even look like her. They dolled her up.” She gave Gini another of her slow, measuring looks. “So. This girl who’s missing now—Mina, right? You have a picture of her?”

“Not with me. No.”

“Does she have dark hair by any chance? Black hair?”

“No. She has red hair. Why?”

“Because he likes dark hair. Anneke told me. She dyed her hair black to please Star. You didn’t know that?”

“No.”

“Well, she did. He cut it off, cropped it, so it was really really short, like yours. Then she dyed it black for him. She liked it. It looked cool, she said.”

“I see.” Gini returned the measuring look. “So, is this what you wanted to tell me? That you and Anneke were in touch after she left? And your parents don’t know this?”

“No one knows.” She gave Gini a mutinous glance, then pushed back her hair. “Tell them if you like. I don’t give a shit.”

“I don’t want to run telling tales.” Gini paused, trying to assess her. “But why tell me?”

“You came all the way from England.” She blew out a cloud of smoke, then shrugged. “Maybe I was touched by that. Maybe I thought you had a brain in your head, better than most of those creeps who tried to interview my mother. I was watching. I thought you were pretty smart. On the other hand… Maybe I just felt like it. Anneke’s dead now. Why not?”

“And that makes a difference? Had you promised her you’d say nothing?”

“Yeah. She called twice when my parents were out. The first time was about three days after she left. The second was about two weeks after that. She made me swear I wouldn’t tell—and there was nothing to tell anyway. None of it was heavy—she just wanted to chat. She didn’t tell me where she was. She said she’d be coming back… And I believed her. I thought she really was okay, the way she said—”

She began to cry suddenly, as suddenly as her mother had. Tears dripped down her nose and misted her glasses. She took them off and began to rub them furiously with a paper napkin. Gini watched her quietly: without her glasses, without that expression of sneering defiance on her face, Fricke looked young, vulnerable—and afraid, Gini thought.

“Is that the problem, Fricke?” she said gently when the girl’s fit of sobbing had stopped. “Have you been feeling guilty about this?”