Next, he typed in the address: “Kraaienveld 23.” One of the top results led to a website with a photo of the house. The accompanying text told him that it had been sold seven years ago for nearly seven hundred grand. Ralf whistled through his teeth. A company now appeared to be registered there: the Horn of Plenty Ltd. Ralf sat up straighter. The Horn of Plenty was a chain of four big, popular, all-you-can-eat restaurants. Whichever one you went to, they were always packed. Ralf had never eaten there, but he knew people who worked in the kitchen or as waiters.

Brian had also worked there for a while, in the kitchen. Ralf even had to pick him up there once, about four or five months ago, because Brian’s car wouldn’t start. He navigated to the Horn of Plenty’s website and clicked on the Who are we? tab. Next to a generic marketing spiel about an enthusiastic team who are always ready to provide you with a delicious lunch or dinner stood photos of smiling people in uniforms. One of them featured a red-haired man looking into the camera with a satisfied grin. Werner Möhring, said the caption.

That jackass had tried to rob his old boss!

13

13

Werner was wearing a set of blue hospital scrubs, plastic overshoes, and rubber gloves. A surgical mask covered the lower half of his face. It was spattered with blood.

“This is your fault, Helen,” he growled. “I should make you do it.”

His eyes nearly popped out of their sockets as he wielded the saw, dragging it steadily back and forth. Rivulets of perspiration ran down his cheekbones. Strands of hair sticking out from under his operating cap were plastered against his forehead.

He worked like a man possessed, emitting rhythmic gasps as he applied extra force to the saw and pushed it away from himself. Soft, sticky tissue dripped from the blade.

Helen watched with revulsion as she sat against the concrete wall of the basement, which felt warm and damp under her back. She was unable to move.

“I’ll never forgive you for this,” she heard him whisper, panting from behind his surgical mask.

She wanted to tell him how dreadfully sorry she was—that she would turn back the clock if she could—but a lump in her throat stopped her from speaking. Feverishly, she gazed around at her surroundings.

The basement looked different. The white paint on the walls had faded to an indistinct gray covered in stains and patches of exposed concrete. A buzzing, flickering light bulb dangled from the ceiling.

Werner suddenly stopped sawing. He swung the soiled tool onto his shoulder and slowly turned to face her. “Your turn!”