Maybe Jeffrey was still looking for somebody. He had been talking lately about a job at a cannabis farm inside a shipping container. It was tougher than the laundry: you had to work nonstop for twelve-hour shifts in the heat and the stench, under the constant risk of a robbery or a police raid—but it also paid a few hundred euros per day. If he could stick it out for three or four days, he’d be in the clear for next month.

He grabbed his jacket from the coatrack and headed for the door.

“Where are you going?”

“To find a job,” he answered.

His mother’s face brightened, but her smile vanished again almost instantly. “Nothing illegal, I hope?”

So, she could read his mind as well as his mail.

“Mom . . . I’ll see you later.”

“Ralf, wait. Do you remember that youth project I told you about the other day? I’ve spoken to a few people there and explained your situation to them. You can start next week.”

He stared at her blankly.

“You get assigned a sort of coach,” she continued, “who sits down with you to look at your positive qualities and help you get your life back on track.”

“Amazing,” he said dully. “That’s just amazing, Mom.” He walked out the house and slammed the door behind him. Did she really think he was suitable material for a useless, hippie, socks-and-sandals project like that?

In his car, he grabbed his phone and sent a message to Jeffrey—Where are you, dude?—before starting the engine and driving down the street. Only then did he see in his rearview mirror that a purple BMW was following close behind.

2

2

“Sorry. This won’t get us anywhere.”

Werner’s voice sounded like he had stumbled out of a smoky karaoke bar in the early hours of the morning. His skin looked gray, and the swelling by his eye had begun to change color from purple to yellow.

But it wasn’t his appearance that Helen found alarming. Werner had a new kind of energy. Nervous, jittery. It felt like she was sitting at the kitchen table with a stranger.

“You should have woken me up,” she said. “We could have done it together.”

He shook his head. “That wouldn’t have made any difference. It just can’t be done with a handsaw. I spent half an hour sawing away at one—” His eyes roved restlessly across the kitchen. “It’ll take weeks. Months.” He raised his palms, spreading his fingers. Werner’s piano-playing hands had never been suited to heavy labor, and they were now covered with broken blisters and grazes. “It was quite a job just getting him out of the freezer—he was completely frozen to the sides.”