He was lying faceup on the tiles in an unnatural position. His hands—small and slim—clawed around him, as though he were trying not to fall into a chasm. He stretched his mouth open and attempted to suck in air. Each breath was accompanied by a deep rattle from his lungs. His body contracted in spasms. Red bubbles appeared around his mouth, more and more of them, bursting on his skin and on the knitted fabric of his balaclava. He tried to cough. Moisture seeped through his black hoodie. There was a hole there—a wet, glistening hole. The bullets must have penetrated his lungs.

Helen did nothing.

It felt as if this weren’t really happening. She stood and watched, frozen to the spot, incapable of moving.

Paralyzed by fear.

17

17

Droplets of sweat ran down Ralf’s temples. It was taking way too long down there. Something was definitely wrong.

He was unsure what he should do. Drive away? Wait?

“Where are you, man?” he whispered.

Ralf looked at the clock on the dash. He would wait another ten minutes. If Brian hadn’t emerged by then, he was on his own.

18

18

The intruder made increasingly desperate attempts to breathe; his eyes wide open, his gloved fingers grasping at his throat.

Helen didn’t stir. She felt as though she had stepped outside her own body and was watching everything from a distance. The man writhed on the floor in front of her, gasping for breath. Scarlet foam around his mouth. His blood on the floor. There was so much, you could smell it. And yet it felt like it had nothing to do with her.

“Helen . . . Helen!”

She looked up.

Werner was sliding down the stairs. Jerkily, without control, and far too quickly. Half on his side, and with his knees tucked up to protect himself, his slim body bounced from step to step. He was holding his head bent forward, and his wrists were still tied together.

“Werner!” She sprang into action. Avoiding the convulsing body, she let the pistol fall from her hands and hurried over to the staircase. She just managed to prevent Werner’s head from making contact with the hard kitchen floor. Grabbing his shirt, she pulled him away from the stairs and knelt down next to him. “Werner?”

He said something she couldn’t understand. His right eye was swollen, and there was blood on his face. The nurse in her knew that facial wounds almost always looked more serious than they were, but she still couldn’t keep the panic out of her voice.

“It’ll be OK,” she whispered.

She turned him on his side and tried to remove the cable tie from his wrists, but tugging only tightened the rigid material. “Don’t move. Stay where you are.” She ran over to the cutlery drawer to grab a vegetable knife, and sliced through the tough plastic in a few quick strokes.