I look at him in surprise. “Why? Did you order something?”

“Just do as I say.”

“Why are you whispering?”

Fender puts his hand on my shoulder and pushes me back onto the bed. He looks wired, like he might attack me again at any minute.

Fender walks to the door and looks through the peephole. Why is he acting so over the top? Anyone would think a serial murderer had just knocked on the door.

Fender swings the door open. He stands in the doorway for a few seconds and then stoops to pick something up. I hear the rustle of paper.

Then he quickly shuts the door and comes back to me.

“What was it?” I ask.

“Nothing.”

He’s lying. I thought he was finally being honest with me. The way he just answered my question about what he’d never do again, it came straight from the heart. Even though I couldn’t see his face when he said it, I could feel the pain in his reply.

“Would you empty your pockets?”

Fender looks like he’s been stung by a wasp. “Why?”

“What did room service bring?”

“Nothing. It was a mistake.”

“So it’s something to do with that Isolde, right?”

And again Fender immediately reacts to the name. His face flushes red and he clenches his jaw. I can see that he’s trying to come up with an answer, but no matter what he says, I doubt I’ll believe him.

“I’m going to see Kate.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Kate’s my best friend too,” I say. “And I’ll do what I like. Maybe she can tell me who Isolde is.”

“Leave her alone.” Again, I see the Fender I saw outside the hotel.

It’s like Fender is made up of lots of different Fenders. And each one is completely different.

“Why? What could be so bad?” I get up off the bed. “Is Isolde dead or something?”

I blurt out the words, but then I see Fender’s reaction. His face is like a candle slowly flickering out.

So Isolde is dead.

Kate and Lucas must know about it, and they’ve kept it a secret from me. But why? What’s so bad that they can’t tell me?

“She was one of us.” Fender suddenly starts talking. “She was my girlfriend and Kate’s best friend. The four of us were always together.”

So Isolde was part of their gang. Claus was right.

“How…” I weigh my words carefully. “How did it happen?”

“Suicide.”

My heart thumps painfully against my ribs. Fender stares out the window, as if he can see something particularly interesting out there.

“Suicide?” I echo.

“Yes.” Fender clutches the windowsill. “It happened this week. But she’s actually been dead for 364 days.”

For a moment, I think Fender must have been keeping count, but then I realize.

“So it was on Kate’s birthday last year…”

“Something went very wrong.”