“Mrs. van der Meer, I promise, I’m here only to help loved ones in unspeakable danger. To do that, I was seeking sleeping pills, not for myself.” I tread carefully. “For your welfare, it’s best you hear little else. Just know, from what I’ve gathered of your family, I believe in my heart you’d approve.”

She continues to eye me for an excruciatingly long moment before setting Thirza on the floor. With a shake of her head, she resumes her march around the counter.

I glance from the phone to the door, wishing I’d brought my satchel.

“Don’t run,” she commands. Bypassing the telephone, she reaches below the counter. Blocked from my view, she appears to jostle a drawer and shift objects around. Is she accessing a hidden compartment?

The notion of a gun assails my thoughts, a weapon to keep me here until the authorities arrive. I debate defying her order.

But then there’s a soft clinking of glass, and she again maneuvers the drawer, seemingly back into place. She sets on the counter two small bottles, one clear, one amber. Then she collects her cat and strides past me the way she came. No words or explanation.

“Ma’am…is that…”

The lights click off. Leaving the door slightly ajar, she disappears into the house.

Chapter 63

As a precaution, I circumvent Arie’s front door. Obscured by hedges, I crouch and send a signal as instructed on his bathroom window. Tap-tap-slide-tap. “F” for Fenna.

Curfew is still an hour and a half off, yet I wait anxiously, leery of any henchman possibly lurking. Though Ziegler requires regular check-ins by Arie, I was surprised he permits Arie to roam at all, until considering that the alternatives—keeping him detained or openly guarded—might raise more alarms with the Resistance, a detriment to the officer’s goal.

Then, of course, there’s the darker logic: He’s got Evelien, Arie explained. And Nel. The bastard’s given me plenty of ideas about what would happen to them both if I skipped town or double-crossed him.

I banish those imaginings as I signal again.

Tap-tap-slide—

A corner of the blackout paper peels away, just far enough for Arie to peek, before the window opens. He shoves something into the back of his waistband. His pistol, I’d say. “Sit and put your feet through,” he whispers, “then grab onto me.”

With my hands on his shoulders, he grips my waist. As he guides me downward, I feel his muscles shift beneath his cotton shirt and my skirt rise to midthigh. Our faces land so close his breath brushes across my skin. His hold around me stalls. But then breaking away, he mumbles something about a discussion of plans and continues into the main room.