She rubbed her fingers over her tattoo and told herself that she loved her job, and that it was her own decision to work full-time. Things were going well with Werner’s restaurants. The children were healthy. So was she. They lived in a dream location inside a dream house.

Count.

Your.

Blessings.

7

7

“It’s time,” said Brian. The sticker on the brim of his cap gleamed in the moonlight filtering through the windshield of the Volkswagen Polo.

Ralf looked straight ahead and said nothing. They had watched the sun go down from their position in a sandy recess on the old railroad embankment. From up here, they had a good view of the house, but the undergrowth concealed Ralf’s matte-black car well.

Brian knew what he was doing.

Ralf’s bony fingers squeezed his energy drink. The can popped. “OK.”

Brian bent forward next to him. He had casually rolled up a twenty-euro note and now made sniffing noises.

Ralf couldn’t watch. He focused on the dashboard clock—7:40. He absolutely loathed the stuff Brian was snorting. It did something to his character. At first, Brian had just done it on the weekend, every now and then. Lately, he was taking that shit at every opportunity. He must be getting addicted. Maybe he already was.

“And what if the police come? What should we tell them?”

Brian lifted his head and rubbed his nose. “The police won’t come.”

Ralf said nothing. Squeezed the can again.

Pop.

“You scared, bro?”

“Of course not.” Ralf hated the tremor in his voice, the incessant trembling of his body, his rapid breathing. The more he tried to conceal his fear, the more it forced its way to the surface.

It was at times like these that the differences between them became painfully clear. Brian was capable of anything. And he got away with it too—except last time, when he lost his license for drunk driving. He’d even spent three months behind bars. Some guys in prison had taught him a thing or two.

“Here, have some of this, you pussy.” Brian pushed the fold of paper toward him. His eyes gleamed—two dark hollows under the shadow of his cap.

Ralf looked straight ahead, sullenly. “I don’t need that crap.”

“Suit yourself.”

“I have to drive, remember?”

“Sure.” Brian stuffed the package into his bag and opened the glove compartment. A pale light shone through the car. He pulled out a pistol and shut the door quickly.

Ralf recognized the gun. Dull metal, covered in scratches. It looked deceptively real, and felt it too. But it wasn’t. Instead of lethal bullets, the grip contained a gas cartridge. It was just a BB gun. It wouldn’t kill anybody.

Ralf watched Brian weigh the gun in his hand and shuddered. Fake gun or not, this was different from everything they had done before. What if they were going too far?

8

8