Emma nodded almost imperceptibly. Helen slipped out of the bedroom. “Should I shut the door or leave it open a crack?”

“Open a crack,” answered Emma drowsily.

Helen went to her room and lay down in bed with the lights out. Loud music pounded insistently through the walls, accompanied by laughter and whooping.

It’ll all be over tomorrow, she thought. She would divide the last packages between two containers, push down the lids, and that would be the end of it. Then she and Werner could put this whole dreadful chapter behind them.

19

19

Werner Möhring walked into the garage. He spoke to his son, who was swaying back and forth, before leaning over the laptop and turning the music off.

Ralf felt a rush of adrenaline course through his veins: he had never seen Sara’s father up close before. He wasn’t exactly big or muscular, and he looked more prep than perp in his green Gant cardigan and checkered shirt. This was the man who shot Brian? And then got rid of his body?

Werner seemed to be used to delegating, Ralf noticed. A natural authority radiated from him, and his voice was deep for a man of his stature. He scarcely had to raise it to be heard.

“OK, guys, if all of you help out a little, then we’ll be done in no time.”

Was he serious? Ralf had never been to a party where the guests had to clean up after themselves. None of the nerds objected. Chattering drunkenly and unsteady on their feet, they deposited their bottles and glasses on the folding tables. Ralf began to stack a few glasses too, so as not to stand out. He followed Möhring’s movements closely from the corner of his eye.

No, he couldn’t see even the slightest trace of a murderer or criminal in the man. Werner looked like exactly what he was: a wealthy entrepreneur—albeit one who hid cash in his house. Five thousand euros. Or more. Enough to get rid of Mikey and prevent anything from happening to Naomi. Ralf felt a slight flutter in his stomach and grew a little light-headed. This wasn’t the first time he had toyed with the idea. It had occurred to him a few times already over the past week.

The next moment, he noticed Werner Möhring looking at him. He glanced down nervously and stacked a few empty snack bowls.

Werner walked up to him. “I haven’t seen you here before.”

“That’s right,” said Ralf, not meeting his eye.

“You look a good deal older than Thom.”

“I’m a friend of Naomi’s.” Ralf gestured with his chin toward Naomi, who had crouched down to sweep up pieces of a broken glass with a dustpan and brush. Sara was standing next to her, holding a garbage bag open.

“And your name is . . . ?”

There was no point in lying. “Ralf Venema.”

“Ralf. That your Polo outside?”