They went up the stairs. The hall was empty, to Ralf’s relief. Mikey had to be at home, as they had just seen his dark-purple BMW parked next to the entrance. Ralf opened the door with Brian’s key and stepped inside. Locked it again behind them.

Nothing had changed. The sheets still lay rumpled in the same way at the foot of the bed, as if Brian had kicked them off when he woke up. His iPhone was connected to the charger, exactly where Ralf had left it.

Naomi saw it too. “Hey. There’s his phone.”

Ralf froze for a second. “Oh yeah. Maybe he has another one with him?”

Naomi busied herself with the device for a moment, but couldn’t get past the security screen and put it back down. “So everything looks the same as it did on Saturday? He hasn’t been here?”

Ralf nodded.

She picked up an empty bottle from the floor and placed it on top of a cabinet. “Where is he, then?”

Ralf evaded her questioning look—those gorgeous dark-blue eyes of hers, framed by thin, black lines. Cracks were starting to appear in the shell of lies that he had constructed around himself. But he couldn’t confide in Naomi. That would be incredibly stupid. She’d tell the whole story to a friend, who would tell it to somebody else in turn. That was just what girls did, and then it would only be a matter of time before the police came knocking on his door. It had already happened to plenty of guys he knew.

“No idea.” He shrugged.

She opened the curtains and looked outside. The window was dirty, with thin cobwebs in the corners. “Ralf . . . I don’t think I should be telling you this—I mean, you’re his best friend and all—but . . .” She blew a strand of hair out of her face. “I sometimes have my doubts about Brian. Whether I really want to go out with him.”

This was just about the last thing he had expected her to say.

“Take all this, for example.” She spread her arms. “We go to visit his mother, we call everybody he knows, we make ourselves sick with worry—and he’s probably just crashing with friends in Amsterdam or Rotterdam, or who knows where, and not for one second thinking about me. Or about you.”

Naomi continued talking, but Ralf was unable to follow exactly what she was saying. The expansive gestures she made with her arms served to push her breasts forward, and those small, round forms were scarcely covered by the blouse she was wearing. They were about the size of Ralf’s hands, maybe a little smaller. He had to restrain himself from reaching out to touch them.

Pulling that blouse over her head.

Undoing her bra.

Laying her faceup on the bed . . .