It was six o’clock. Ralf had called a few of Brian’s friends, but nobody had had any contact with him since yesterday afternoon. There was no one home at his mother’s house. He’d tried Naomi too; like everyone else, she had no idea where Brian was. She said he hadn’t replied to her messages. That wasn’t unusual—Brian wasn’t exactly the type to bombard his girlfriend with declarations of love, or to provide her with any information at all, for that matter.

Brian worked for a transportation company on a casual basis. Sometimes on the weekend, sometimes during the week. Ralf looked up the number, then thought better of it. Would he call Brian’s workplace if he couldn’t get ahold of him under normal circumstances? No way. So why should he do it now? His friends had all been surprised to hear Ralf on the line, and rightly so. It wasn’t the first time Brian had gone AWOL for a day. Or longer.

Ralf thought carefully. What would he do in this situation if there was nothing wrong? Certainly not start a manhunt.

But there definitely was something wrong.

Ralf put his phone away and started his car. He wanted to go back—to the place where he’d seen Brian for the last time.

9

9

“I’m going to bury him,” murmured Werner. Shouts emanated from the living room—Thom was playing video games with a friend.

Helen pushed her empty coffee cup back and forth on the table. “Where?”

“Maybe some remote spot in Limburg or the Veluwe. Not around here, anyway.”

Through the kitchen window, Helen could see Emma wandering in the yard with a plastic bag, gathering leaves for a biology project at school.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“We have to do something.” Werner picked up their cups. He carried them over to the counter and set them under the stainless-steel coffee machine. Silently, he focused on making two cappuccinos, sprinkling cocoa on top, as usual. The topping seemed inappropriate at a moment like this. “It’ll be OK as long as nobody finds him.”

She accepted one of the cups. “But if somebody does find him, there’ll probably be fibers on his clothes that can be traced to us. Our DNA too.” Helen recalled how she and Werner had dragged the boy into the hall and then carried him down the basement stairs. She’d held his knees, and Werner his armpits. She often had to lift patients at the hospital, including some who had passed away. On those occasions, she had always managed to switch off her emotions and do what needed to be done—but this time she had experienced an overwhelming sense of revulsion.