“If I wanted your opinion, I would ask for it, Adler,” she retorts, and I have to admit it was worth coming just to see Beck get scolded by his little sister. It’s also the first time I’ve heard anyone address him by his first name, but I guess it makes sense. It would be strange to call someone by your own last name.

Based on the wry twist of his lips, Beck notices my amusement. I’m distracted from his face when a massive tan and black animal appears around the corner and leaps on him. A loud bark alerts me to the fact that it’s a dog. A German Shepard, to be exact. I watch the exuberant canine leap and slobber all over Beck, who doesn’t seem the least bit fazed. He crouches down, allowing the excited dog to circle and rub against him. He murmurs something in German, and the dog’s tail wags even faster, something I hadn’t thought was possible. The whipping fur is generating enough of a breeze to be felt as it wafts across my bare legs.

“My brother likes to act like he’s the shit, but he’s actually a big softie,” Sophia whispers to me. “At least when it comes to dogs.”

“Interesting,” I muse.

Beck raises his gaze to where the two of us are standing, eyes narrowing slightly as he watches us talk conspiratorially.

“You should head out to the terrace,” Sophia instructs, not looking the least bit bothered by his scrutiny.

“Why aren’t you coming out?” Beck asks, still looking suspicious.

This time Sophia does look a bit guilty, shifting from foot to foot. “I may have invited Karl. He’ll be here any minute.”

“Sophia! I thought you were—”

“You do not get to have an opinion on my love life after what I’ve had to endure in school about…” There’s a quick glance at me, and then Sophia switches to German.

Beck barks something back in his native tongue, and then I’m lost, feeling like I’ve stumbled into the wrong theater and am stuck in a foreign film screening. Without subtitles.

Sophia says something that makes Beck’s fists clench, and that’s when our trio turns into a quartet. A new voice spouts more German, and I turn to see Erika Lange—now Erika Beck—enter the imposing entryway. I straighten automatically. Beck’s mother isn’t in quite the same strata of notoriety as Christina Weber, but she’s close, and she probably would be if an ACL injury hadn’t cut her career short. Despite being in her fifties, she’s still got the lean build of an athlete, and her blonde hair only has a few ribbons of gray working their way through it. She’s stunning, in an ethereal, timeless way. It’s obvious where her children got their looks.