He raised two fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

She looked at him inquiringly, then leaned closer. “It was in the kitchen at the Horn of Plenty, when nobody else was around. If her father had found out, Brian would have lost his job.”

“Probably his balls too,” remarked Ralf. He experienced a sudden fervent hope that he would never have any daughters of his own.

“Even before that, her father couldn’t stand her dating somebody beneath her. I mean, she’s still in high school, but the boys she fell for were quite a bit older and had jobs already.” She picked something from under her nail. “I can see where she’s coming from, though. High school guys are—well, they’re just boys, really. They’re happy if you let them hold your hand or whatever. They aren’t real men.”

What did she mean by that?

She touched his forearm. “I really need to go inside now. My little sister is home alone this afternoon, and I have to look after her.”

“Do you need any help?”

She shook her head. “Better not.”

He paused. “What time do you get out tomorrow?”

“Twelve ten.”

“Then I’ll pick you up from school.”

“OK,” she said, and hurriedly got out of the car.

He watched her walk down the path behind the houses. The leather schoolbag hanging over her shoulder was the same shade of blue as her sneakers. She turned around briefly at the corner, smiled, and lifted her hand. Then she disappeared from view.

“Sorry, Brian,” he whispered out loud. He put his hand under his belt and adjusted his boxer shorts.

10

10

The doorbell rang—a deep, loud gong that Helen had always found rather theatrical, but which somehow suited Wildenbergh’s high ceilings and gleaming stone floors, and for that reason had never been replaced. Right now, she wanted nothing more than to ignore it, but it was too late for that.

There were two police officers at the door, and they must have been there for a reason. She fought the impulse to flee through the back and reluctantly walked into the hall. One of the officers, a black woman around thirty, made eye contact with her through the side window.

There was no way to warn Werner.

With a trembling hand, she opened the front door. She tried to act as normal as possible—surprised and curious, a little anxious—but she wasn’t sure whether it would come across that way.

“Good afternoon. Is this a bad time?” It was the man who spoke. He was around fifty, balding, and had a round, friendly face. A baton, handcuffs, and a gun hung from the belt around his waist.

She closed her eyes briefly. “Er—no, of course not.”

“We’re currently making inquiries in the neighborhood. Have you heard anything unusual over the last few days?”

“No, I don’t think so,” she replied quickly.