He turned off the phone’s flashlight and crawled out of the cabinet, snuck back into the dark apartment. There were two closets in the hall and he walked into them one at a time. Empty. He shone the light everywhere—found only the smell of other people. The third closet was in the bedroom and slightly larger. He passed by his sleeping mother and brother and sister and opened the closet door, stepped inside, closed it behind him, searching with the flashlight. Completely empty, just like the others. But this one also had shelves that couldn’t be seen from below. He took a deep breath and the shelves became steps that carried him upward. No. Nothing. Nowhere. He climbed back down, and it was when he jumped from the last shelf that he felt the floor buckle beneath his feet. He tried again, jumped, landed, and it rocked. An unsteady floor. He got down on his knees, flashing the light around. There. Behind the doorframe. Something black. Like a little knob sticking up. He touched it. It was like the ones on kitchen cabinets. As if it were a hatch. He tried to pull it, but it was impossible since he was sitting on the floor. On the door itself. He would have to leave the closet and pull the knob up from the outside. But he couldn’t. Not now. Mom would wake up. Or maybe Luiza, and she would wake up Mom. And everything would be ruined.

Because what if this is what Dad meant.

An escape route.

10:41 PM

(2 days, 23 hours, and 21 minutes remaining)

He was about to call her, again. The only person who could ever make him feel anything close to peace. The woman who was soft and hard at the same time, demanding though she never made demands, and she’d taught him that love was something that could be learned, slowly. But Piet Hoffmann forced himself not to. No matter how tightly it squeezed inside his chest. Every attempt at contact meant leaving a trace, and the only traces that should exist were those he chose to leave. Instead, he did what he hoped Zofia did too—destroyed his phones. First the one that had carried her voice to him and then the one that carried a completely different kind of voice, a distorted one. So when Ewert Grens entered the kitchen to grab a new cup of coffee—which number was impossible to say—he almost stepped onto a pile of empty acetone bottles, a few of his favorite pans, his steak mallet, a couple of kitchen towels with new holes, all spread across the floor—plus tons of tiny plastic pieces that had once sat together.

“Is that what I think it is?”

“I guess so.”

“Quite the pile—I suppose you also destroyed the phone? The only line you have to those who threaten you?”

“I thought it was time.”