Outside, men in overalls were hard at work, pruning shrubs, raking, and sweeping.

“They’d be welcome to spend a weekend at our place,” she remarked.

Werner cut a piece off his toast. “When I’m back in the Netherlands, I’m going to see about hiring a gardener.”

Helen wanted to say that she’d rather call a real estate agent, but she held her tongue. The mood was good; she didn’t want to ruin it.

3

3

“How far do we have to go?”

“Forty-five minutes, an hour. Something like that.”

They were halfway there. Ralf hadn’t driven on the wrong side of the road or crashed into the railing. Actually, it was perfectly doable, he thought, driving on the left. He’d really gotten the hang of the roundabouts, and he also had merging on and off the freeway fully under control. Half an hour ago, they had stopped to call Sara’s school. He did a decent impression of Sara’s father. “Well, there is a bug going around at the moment,” they’d replied. “Please give her our best, Mr. Möhring.” It had put a faint smile on Sara’s pallid face.

Ralf began to drive a little faster. He wanted to catch Werner and Helen before they set out on their hike, since it would be impossible to find them otherwise. Besides, he thought it would be more sensible for Sara to confront her father inside the hotel where there were people, phones, cameras. It was safer there. The man was planning to murder his wife, so why not his daughter too? And the friend she’d brought with her?

“Do you know what you’re going to say to him?” he asked.

“No idea. I still can’t believe it.” She looked across at him. “I mean, I know I’m sitting here talking to you, but I sometimes think, Am I dreaming this? It feels like a nightmare. So surreal, you know? The whole thing—including this. I’ve never slept in a car before. And I should be at school right now.” She turned away from him and stared at the landscape as it rushed past.

“You need a plan for what you’re going to say. And what you’re going to do.” He paused for a moment. “Just assume that it is true.”

She turned her face back toward him. “That Brian and my father staged a botched break-in so they could murder my mother? That’s what I should assume is true?”

“Yeah, that.”

4

4

“Here you are.” The waitress placed their plates on the white tablecloth.

On each plate lay an enormous mushroom, as thick as a finger.

“Nice—portobello,” murmured Werner.

The mushrooms were surrounded by grilled tomatoes, a heap of scrambled egg, fried bacon, a piece of white fish, and two sausages that glistened with fat.