“Do you see those cliffs up there?” Werner pointed to some chalky crags emerging from the gray North Sea. They were very imposing. Steep and vertical, almost perfectly white. Above them lay a green and undulating landscape. Pasture, by the looks of it. The transition between it and the sea—at least three hundred feet below—was abrupt: as if a mythical sea monster had bitten an enormous chunk out of the hills. On the ferry, Helen had already seen the coastline for which the south of England was famous—but the White Cliffs of Dover had nothing on these.

“Impressive,” she said. The wind tugged at her hair. She tried in vain to smooth it down, and in the end simply wrapped it with a scarf.

“That’s where we’re going,” said Werner.

“Can you get up there, to the top?”

“On foot, yes.”

She squinted. “I can’t see anybody.”

“I doubt there will be many people up there right now. The one you’re looking at is Beachy Head.” He pointed to the undulations in the rolling landscape. “There are more cliffs and hills behind it. They call that area the Seven Sisters because there are seven hills. It takes two hours to hike from the first sister to the seventh.”

They gazed together at the chalk cliffs. The slopes didn’t look that steep, but it was difficult to tell from this distance. Her eye caught a minuscule black speck on the vast, green, undulating carpet. She held a hand over her eyes.

It was a person.

“Man, I feel dizzy already. It’s so high up there.”

“Photo!” cried Werner with a smile. “It’ll make a great backdrop.” He told her where to stand. “Come forward a little. That’s it—perfect. Thumbs-up. Say ‘cheese.’” Werner cupped his hand over the screen and examined the results. “Fantastic. I’ll send it to the kids.”

Helen observed his movements. The sudden strain in his voice hadn’t escaped her notice. What was making him so agitated? And why was he so obsessed with sending photos to the family? It was almost a compulsion. When they first arrived in the hotel room, on the beach in Brighton, at afternoon tea . . . Over dinner last night, he had even wanted to check exactly what she was writing to the kids. And now they were here, in Eastbourne, not even ten steps away from their parked car. The sole reason they had pulled over was for this view of the cliffs, to take a photo. With any other man, a photo op like this might make sense—but not with Werner.

She had grown accustomed to how he could be cool and distant at times, only to suddenly become affectionate and take an interest in her once again. Nobody was perfect. But this was new.

And a little unsettling.

“What’s with all the photos?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re never interested in taking pictures.”