And yet Ralf still couldn’t sleep. He stared at the roof of the Polo and listened to the cars and trucks as they trundled in long lines toward the ferries, ready for boarding.

Next to him, Sara was sitting cross-legged and finishing off the last piece of a limp baguette. Her phone buzzed. “My mother.”

Ralf sat up. “What does it say?”

“Read it yourself.”

Ralf read the message. Looked at Sara. She was thinking the same thing.

“Cliffs,” she whispered.

“How far do we have to go from Dover?”

Back in the Netherlands, Sara had mapped out the route to the hotel and saved countless screenshots. She looked them up and swiped through the images. “About an hour and forty-five minutes, I think.”

“What if we don’t make it in time?”

“It might be OK. They’re on vacation, and my father isn’t really a morning person.”

Ralf gnawed on his cheek. “The boat docks in England at seven thirty, but it could easily take us half an hour to disembark. And then we might have to go through customs again.”

“I want to call them, Ralf.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Why? I could just ask for my mom—tell her I miss her and ask if everything is OK. That way at least I’d have spoken to her.”

He looked at the clock on the dashboard. “Would you normally do that after midnight?”

She shook her head.

“Then I definitely wouldn’t do it now.”

Sara stared at the phone for a long time and then pressed it to her breast.

Ralf was worried that she would start crying again, but she didn’t make a sound and remained sitting motionlessly. Like a statue. Her voice sounded small, almost childlike, when she spoke again. “This is a dumb idea, isn’t it? Should we call the police after all?”

“Sara, suppose it’s true. That your mother did kill Brian—”

She fixed him with a troubled expression.

“In that case, they’ll arrest both your parents. Remember?” His face fell. “And me too. Sara? Are you listening to me?”

She nodded. It almost hurt to look at her. “Could it all be a mistake? I really hope so.”

I’ve been hoping so too, ever since I heard the shots. Every single day. “I don’t know,” he answered.

From the way she was sitting there—her phone cradled against her chest like an injured pet, her eyes damp—he had the impression that he was seeing the real Sara for the very first time. The little girl behind the glossy exterior. He began to feel sorry for her.

“We’ll get there in time,” he said.

She looked up. “You think so?”

“Yeah. Absolutely. I promise.”

Monday

Monday

1

1

“Shit,” said Sara.