A sinister gleam appeared in his eyes. “That’s exactly the point, for Christ’s sake. You’ve spent your entire life coloring inside the lines. You’re such a fucking Goody Two-Shoes, it makes me sick, did you know that? Even when we have sex, it always has to be by the book.” His voice suddenly went high and shrill. “No, Werner, I don’t want to; that hurts. It’s too weird.” He pinched her arm and shook her. “All the constant bullshit about your work, like you’re Mother fucking Teresa herself. Monopolizing the children, as if I don’t count for anything—” He resumed his mocking tone. “No, Werner, they didn’t mean it that way. Don’t interfere.” His face was red with fury.

“What are you talking about? Werner, you’re not yourself.”

Fragments of chalk crunched under their feet.

“Oh really, I’m not myself? What about you, then? The wild child who turned into the most uptight bitch I know.”

“Will you—”

“I found your book, Helen. I read all those pathetic little letters you wrote to your mother. Does that shock you? I thought you meant for me to read them, since you weren’t exactly discreet about it. Very enlightening to learn that you’ve been through with me for years now, but that you still keep up appearances”—that mocking tone again—“because it’s better for the children.”

She looked at him in horror, unable to move. All she could see was his contorted face, the revulsion and contempt. The seething hatred in his eyes. She suddenly understood that he wouldn’t let her leave this place. He had planned all this.

She wouldn’t get out of here alive.

The realization spread over her body like an ice-cold shiver, seeped through her veins, chilled her to her bones and beyond, to the depths of her heart.

“You disgust me, Helen. I’ve spent far too long trapped in this fucking sham of a marriage. I want to move on, for Christ’s sake. I want to live.”

“Werner, no!” She tore herself from his grasp and tried to run. A sudden, sharp pain exploded through her lower back. She pitched forward and fell face-first onto the ground.

“I’m sick to death of you,” he panted, gripping the stick in his hands.

11

11

Ralf plowed uphill through the grass. He saw Werner Möhring standing by the edge of the cliff. First his head, then his shoulders. There was nobody with him. He was alone.

Ralf’s eyes widened; he gasped.

I’m too late.

Too late.

Too—

Werner raised a stick and brought it down onto a figure sprawled on the ground in front of him.

“No!” bellowed Ralf, drawing his pistol.

Werner looked up. His eyes were bloodshot; his lips thin, pale and retracted; his teeth clenched in a horrible grimace. He no longer resembled a human, but a rabid animal.