“There were photos and videos of the kids on it too.” More than a thousand, she thought. Unique moments she would never get back. For a long time, she had been meaning to transfer them to her computer—it’d only take a moment—but she had never gotten around to it. And now everything was gone.

“We’ll buy a new one when we get back.”

She just nodded. Werner was still focused on the device, not the sentimental value. It was irrelevant to him; he never looked at photos of himself or the children.

“Now it’s time for a good old English tradition,” he said.

“What’s that?”

He put his arm around her and led her away from the lobby. “We’re going to stuff ourselves with tea and super-sugary cakes.”

20

20

“Why did you want your mother dead?”

Ralf almost vomited the words out. He had spent the entire journey here thinking about it—his opening question. That was the most important one. It was the sole way of taking Sara by surprise. She would give him an honest answer only if he could shock her into it.

Her reaction was disappointing. She looked at him uncomprehendingly. “I’m sorry?”

“I was here on that Friday,” he said. “I was standing right there, watching.” His voice shook as he pointed toward the embankment through the wall of Sara’s bedroom.

“What do you mean, Friday? What are you talking about?”

Ralf launched forward and grabbed her by the arm. Pushed the envelope into her face. “I’m talking about this, bitch. The sick plan you and Brian came up with to kill your mother. What the fuck made you do it? And where’s Brian?”

She shoved him back. “Get a grip, man. Are you crazy? Killing my mother—that’s insane.”

“Brian came in here; I watched him. Your father was in the kitchen, and your mother—” He stumbled over his words. “I saw her come home. Three shots, Sara. Then nothing. Brian didn’t come back out.” He was panting, his mouth half-open. “It was supposed to be your mother, but it was Brian.”

Sara stared at him as if he had suddenly sprouted tentacles out of his ears. Then her face hardened. “When?”

“As if you don’t know. The Friday before last, in the evening.”

“That’s when I play tennis.”

Ralf had to restrain himself from wrapping his hands around her throat. “Stop it, Sara. You make me want to puke.” He waved the envelope. “Of course you were at tennis. It says so here. Along with who goes where and when, what time everyone gets home. And where you put the gun.” He narrowed his eyes, then added in a quieter but more menacing tone, “You came up with it all, and you wrote it all down, together with your sick boyfriend, Brian.”