Werner stroked her hair, sought her eyes. “Look at me, Helen. Trust me. I think it’s horrible, I’m scared to death, just like you, but I can see very clearly how we should resolve this.”

“I don’t know if—”

“Have I ever made a bad decision?”

Slowly, she shook her head. “What do you want to do? Bu—bury him? But where?” There was desperation in her voice. “In the yard? In the flower beds by the swimming pool, or farther back, where the swing used to be? I don’t think I can handle that. I can’t—”

“Shh.” He placed a finger on her lips. “Trust me. I know exactly what we need to do. Help me.”

21

21

Ralf shot upright behind the wheel and stared intently at the two bikers weaving toward the house and talking loudly. A rattling bike chain, the constant, quiet jingle of a bell that hadn’t been fitted properly. The boy and the girl were coming home, each with a tennis racquet on their back.

They disappeared from view behind the garage. Shortly afterward, he saw two black shadows move across the deck behind the house and go inside.

His heart throbbed in his throat. He kept watching, expecting at any moment to hear screaming, commotion.

Something.

The seconds ticked by, drawing out into minutes.

Ralf looked at the clock again. Nearly fifty minutes had now passed since he had heard the shots. If Brian had killed those people, their kids would have raised the alarm by now. But nothing happened. Everything was quiet.

Maybe Brian was already home?

Ralf started the engine. With his headlights off, he rolled out of the sheltered bay, turned onto the cart track, and slowly headed toward the road.

22

22

“It smells funny in here.”

“Yeah, like a dog-rescue center or something.” Thom wrinkled his nose.

“No, more like Maros.”

Maros was a local butcher shop. Helen froze momentarily, then dropped her cleaning cloth in a bucket of cold water and wrung it out. Continued mopping down the white tiles above the counter. “Come on, it’s not that bad, is it?”

“Er, Mom, since when do you clean the kitchen at night?”

Helen did her best to make her voice sound as normal as possible, but was unable to prevent a slight tremor. “Since when are you guys interested in your mother’s cleaning schedule? Do you want to do it for me?”

“No way.”

Thom and Emma remained by the kitchen island and looked around. Emma lifted her nose. “It smells really weird, Mom.”

“Blood,” said Helen.

The children looked at her in alarm.

If the situation hadn’t been so bewildering and horrifying, she could have laughed. Instead, she carried on scrubbing. “Your father slipped and hit his head on the kitchen island.”