“Just do what I say,” he said sternly. Then he kissed her gently on the mouth. Her lips parted in response, but he pulled his head back and gave her a friendly peck on the top of her head. “I mean it. And I’ll be watching. If I ever see you around town with a son of a bitch like me, I swear I’ll kick his kneecaps in.”

“So romantic,” she said cynically.

“Go on, get going.”

Hesitantly, she opened the door and got out. He watched her go. She turned around at the corner, and her hair wafted behind her, speckled with gold.

He stepped on the gas and drove off without looking back.

At the intersection, he turned right. Back toward Brian’s building. He had seen something in his room that didn’t quite seem right. The packages of coke weren’t the only things that had emerged from the base of the coffee table. Ralf had also seen an envelope with sheets of handwritten paper sticking out of it. If he wasn’t mistaken, there had been photos too. Initially, he’d paid little attention. But the more he thought about it, the more mysterious it seemed. Why would Brian hide an envelope full of notes and photos in his room? An envelope bearing the logo of the Horn of Plenty?

13

13

Brighton had changed. Helen was almost certain the Ferris wheel hadn’t been there last time. The esplanade seemed busier, noisier; but up here in the city center, there were still the same narrow, bustling streets packed with small theaters, galleries, and cafés.

Werner and Helen had ensconced themselves on a glassed-in terrace. They were surrounded by tourists speaking all manner of languages—everything but English. Helen heard a young couple speaking German, and behind them sat a group of girls who probably came from Sweden. A street musician was singing on the promenade and accompanying himself on a guitar.

Helen lifted her face toward the sun and closed her eyes. It was unseasonably warm—and yet she struggled to enjoy it as much as she should. Her smile gradually faded from her face. A treacherous voice kept whispering in the back of her mind, ever louder and more insistently, until she was unable to ignore it any longer.

“What’s up?”

“I don’t know. I can’t stop thinking about that boy. Do you know what his name was? He used to work for you, didn’t he?”

Werner took a swig of his beer. He said nothing, merely fixed her with a reproachful look.

“I don’t have any right to ask, of course. I know that. But—”

“I’ll say it one more time: you need to let this go.”

Helen took a sip of her wine. And then another. It smelled of rotten grapes, and the taste wasn’t much better, but the alcohol rising out of the glass was welcome.