Helen pushed the cushion to one side and stood up. She had no idea how, but she had fallen asleep on the sofa shortly after Arianne had left. She smoothed her hair a little and blinked at the company gathered before her. When Sara said “friends,” she apparently meant “boys,” and there were two of them standing on the cowhide rug by the fireplace. One was remarkably well dressed, while the other wore a blue cap with a shiny sticker on the brim and looked a little nervous.

“This is Floris.”

The well-dressed boy shook her hand. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

“Floris is studying economics at college,” said Sara.

Now she knew for certain that she would be seeing more of Floris: Sara would never share that kind of information if he were just a friend. Helen took another good look at the boy. He was handsome—maybe a little too slick—with well-groomed hair.

“And this is Ralf,” Sara continued.

“Ralf,” Helen repeated.

The boy with the cap gave her his hand, which felt reassuringly solid. Ralf was a very different sort of person from Floris. Almost the opposite. She looked at his hands—you could often tell more about a person from their hands than from their clothing or demeanor—and saw that he had cuts on his fingers; short, chipped nails; and grazes on the back of his hand. His smile looked forced. Ralf lacked his friend’s charm and clearly felt less at ease, but he had a more potent presence. More masculine.

It piqued her curiosity. “How do you all know one another?”

“Through Naomi,” said Sara.

A girl with pinned-up, golden-brown hair stepped forward shyly. “Ralf is with me.” She had a friendly, open expression.

“Naomi and I met at tennis camp,” said Sara.

“Oh really?” Helen wasn’t sure if she had already met this girl, but shook her hand to be on the safe side.

15

15

Sara’s mother didn’t look like the wife of a murderer, or even like somebody who would share her life with one. She had a mild expression and seemed very affectionate, warm, and attentive. An elementary school teacher, or a sales assistant at a florist’s, like his mother. He liked her instinctively. And yet she might very well have helped her husband shoot Brian. She had been at home when it happened, so she must at least know about it.

“And what do you study?” she asked.

“I started working right after school, ma’am.”

“Call me Helen. ‘Ma’am’ sounds so old.” She glanced down for a moment, smiled apologetically. “So, what is it you do for a living?”

“Um, I’m actually looking for work at the moment.”

“I understand. It’s not so easy to find a job these days.”