“You can do what you want, of course; it’s your story,” my mother says. “At the end of the day, it’s your experience. Only it would have been nice if you’d given us some warning. Especially”—she falters, clears her throat and continues more softly—“especially, of course, about the bit with the murder.”
I stare at my mother. She looks exhausted. But I really don’t know what she means.
“What are you talking about, Mum?” I ask.
“I’m talking about your new book,” she says. “About Blood Sisters.”
I shake my head, bewildered. My book’s not coming out for two weeks. So far, only a few advance copies have been sent to booksellers and the press. There’s been no coverage of any kind, and my parents have no contact whatsoever with the publishing industry. How do they know about my book? A dark feeling spreads through my stomach, thick and syrupy.
“How do you know about my novel?” I ask as calmly as I can. Of course, I should have been the one to let them know. But it would be a lie to pretend I’d thought of warning them. I simply forgot.
“We had a journalist here,” my father says. “Nice bloke, from a respectable paper, so your mother asked him in.”
I can feel the hairs on my neck stand on end.
“Sat right where you’re sitting now and asked us what we thought about our famous daughter making literary capital out of her sister’s murder in her next book.”
I’m falling.
“Lenzen,” I gasp.
“That was the name!” my father shouts, as if he’s been trying to remember it all along.
“We didn’t believe him at first,” my mother says, joining the conversation again. “Until he showed us a copy of the novel.”
I feel dizzy.
“Victor Lenzen was here, in this house?” I say.
My parents look at me with alarm in their eyes. I must look very pale.
“Are you all right?” my mother asks.
“Victor Lenzen was here, in this house, and told you about my book?” I ask.
“He said he was meeting you for an interview and wanted to find out a bit about your background first,” says my father. “We shouldn’t have let him in.”
“That’s why you hung up when I called,” I gasp. “You were cross about the book.”
My mother nods. I’d like to fling my arms around her neck in relief, because she’s there, because she’s my mother, because she never for a second believed I could be a murderer — not for a second. The very idea is absurd. Now that I’m sitting face-to-face with her, that is quite clear to me. But alone in my big house, it seemed entirely logical. I’ve been living in a hall of mirrors that have distorted everything in my life.
Victor Lenzen came here to find out what I knew, what my parents knew. When he realized that Mum and Dad knew nothing and that we were barely in touch with one another, he brilliantly turned the situation to his advantage.
My anger takes my breath away. I need a moment’s peace to gather my thoughts.
“Excuse me for a second,” I say, getting up.
I leave the room, feeling my parents’ eyes on my back. I lock myself in the guest bathroom, sit down on the cool tiled floor, bury my face in my hands, and try to calm down. The euphoria I had felt at finally managing to leave the house is slowly evaporating, giving way to the urgent question: What am I to do about Lenzen?
There is no evidence against him. He would have to confess. And he didn’t do that even when he was looking into the muzzle of my gun.
But that, of course, was in my house, and he had to reckon on everything being recorded. What if I were to look him up now — now that he feels safe?
I hesitate for a moment, then I take my phone and enter Julian’s number. It rings once, three times, five times, then the answering machine starts up. I leave a few words asking him to call me back and giving my mobile number, then I hang up. Might Julian still be at work? I ring the police station. A policeman I don’t know takes the call.
“This is Linda Michaelis,” I say. “Is Superintendent Schumer there?”
“No, sorry,” the man replies. “Not till tomorrow.”
Damn! I’m tempted to go ahead anyway. But I don’t want to screw things up again. I need help.
I flush the toilet and run the tap, in case my parents are still sitting tensely in the living room and can hear me. Then I leave the bathroom and go back to them. Their faces brighten when I step through the door. I notice what trouble they’re taking not to scrutinize me, not to scan my face for traces of the past years.
I sit down again. I take a sandwich, because I know it will please my mother. It’s not until I start to eat that I realize how hungry I really am. I’m about to take another when my phone rings. I don’t recognize the mobile number. Could it be Julian ringing me back? Hurriedly, I take the call.
“Hello?”
“Good evening. Is that Linda Conrads?” a male voice asks. It’s a voice I don’t know. I’m on instant alert. I get up, casting an apologetic glance at my parents, and go into the hall, closing the door behind me.
“Yes. Who’s speaking?”
“Hello, Frau Conrads, I’m glad I’ve got ahold of you. My name is Maximilian Henkel. I have your number from my colleague, Victor Lenzen.”
I’m reeling.
“Oh?” I say lamely.
I have to prop myself up against the hall wall so as not to lose my balance.
“I hope you don’t mind my disturbing you so late,” the man says, but he doesn’t wait for a response. “It’s about the interview. We were all thrilled, of course, when we received your offer of an exclusive interview. Such a shame it didn’t work out first time around. Are you better now?”
What’s going on here?
“Yes,” I say, swallowing.
“Great,” says Henkel. “Victor said you hadn’t felt well and that the interview couldn’t take place. But we’d still love to have you in one of our next issues. I wanted to ask you if it would be possible to repeat the interview at a more opportune time. The sooner the better.”
I catch my breath.
“Repeat it?” I exclaim. “With Lenzen?”
“Oh, yes, I should perhaps have mentioned that to begin with. I’m afraid Victor Lenzen won’t be available. He’s made a spur-of-the-moment decision to leave for Syria tonight on a lengthy research trip. But if you wouldn’t mind making do with me or one of my other colleagues…”
“Victor Lenzen’s leaving the country tomorrow?” I gasp.
“Yes, the crazy fellow,” Henkel says in an offhand manner. “It was probably only a matter of time before he got itchy feet again. I know he was your preferred interviewer, but perhaps we can…”
I hang up. My head is ringing. Tonight is all I have left.
I’m so sunk in thought that I jump when the living-room door opens and my mother pops her head around the side.
“Is everything all right, love?”
My heart leaps with joy. She hasn’t called me that for years. My father’s face appears behind her. I smile, in spite of my panic.
“Yes,” I say. “But you’ll have to forgive me; I’m afraid I’ve got to be going again.”
“What — now?” my mother asks.
“Yes. I’m very sorry, but something’s cropped up.” My parents look at me in horror.
“But we’ve only just got you back. You can’t leave again straightaway,” my mother says. “Please stay the night.”
“I’ll be back soon. Promise.”
“Can’t it wait till tomorrow?” my father asks. “It’s late.”
I can see the concern on their faces. They don’t care what I write or how I live; they only want me to be with them. Linda. Their elder daughter, their only remaining daughter. My parents look at me in silence and I almost cave in.