Ralf lowered himself over the fence into the backyard and unbolted the gate from the inside. It didn’t look like the inhabitants were very interested in gardening: the whole thing was covered in mossy paving stones, with weeds growing through the gaps. There was no shed either. He crept over to the back window and peered inside. White floor tiles, a pleather sofa, a dining table with a pile of magazines on it, and a small fish tank. A light was on, but nobody seemed to be home—just like the woman had told him over the phone.

The scooter stood by the back door, propped up against the neighbors’ fence. Ralf carefully removed the dark cover. He had a full set of tools in his backpack, but all he needed was his slide hammer: the U-lock was dangling uselessly from the luggage rack, and the key was still inside it. Ralf wasn’t surprised. Most people believed their valuables would be safe in their own backyards—even if their only protection was a gate with a simple bolt.

13

13

Helen followed Werner up the stairs. She felt a little flushed from the glass of Bordeaux they had shared.

Werner had thought of everything—even somebody to look after the kids. His parents would stay in the house for a few days to make sure the children’s routines weren’t disrupted. Ernst would get up with them, and Ria had promised to make a big dish of lasagna—the girls’ favorite—as well as the ham with sauerkraut that Thom was so crazy about. It sounded too good to be true—and it was, as Helen knew all too well. Her in-laws would come with a to-do list. They might not have arranged the bookshelves in alphabetical order by the time she got home, but the dish towels would almost certainly be ironed and neatly stacked in the closet. There wasn’t a shred of humor, warmth, or pleasure in those people’s parenting style—a family was like a company to them. Three days were manageable, but she didn’t want to expose her kids to it for any longer than that.

At times like these, she struggled to accept that the children had scarcely known her own mother. Sara and Thom had only vague memories of their dear grandmother who had read Jip and Janneke out loud to them, and Emma only knew about her from stories and photos. She’d been six years old when Helen’s mother passed away.

“Good night.” Werner kissed her on the cheek.

She looked at him in astonishment. “Aren’t you coming to bed?”

He avoided her eyes and murmured something in the negative.

“Why not?”

“That bedroom—I can’t stand it right now.”

She wrapped her arms around his waist. “Then I’ll sleep in the guest room too.”

He carefully extricated himself from her embrace. “The bed in there is too small.”

“We can snuggle.”