Chapter 4
Dozens of lines of wire are strung throughout Maher’s kitchen and sitting room, with countless photographs clipped to them. But I only have eyes for one strand, featuring five images of the woman who killed my father.
I pull a photograph down, unable to breathe, unable to think, unable to see anything but those impossible eyes staring boldly back at me.
Maher is wasting his skills on police photography.
His portraits are stunning in their clarity and composition.
Or maybe I’d feel that way about any image of her.
“Funny, isn’t it?” Maher stands and stares up at his work. “She looks like a different person in each of these.”
Dávid sounds almost shy. “I didn’t know you did portraits. I would have sat for one.”
Maher’s replying grunt doesn’t sound particularly enthused.
I can’t pay attention to them, though. And I don’t know what Maher’s talking about when he says she looks like a different person in each individual photo.
She’s unmistakable. Singular. There is no one else on earth who looks like her.
Her face has haunted my waking and sleeping moments for so long now I could see her through a stained-glass window and recognize the shape of her bold nose, her dark eyebrows, her delicate chin, and those terrible eyes.
“When did you take these?” I ask.
“Five days ago.”
Five days. I’m too late.
Maher keeps talking. “She was lingering outside the murder house, watching. That’s not unusual. But she approached me as soon as she noticed my camera. Said she wanted to see my photos. I told her she could, if she sat for me. I’ve never seen anyone quite like her.”
“I have to find her,” I gasp, trying to get enough air.
“That’s easy enough,” Maher says. “She said she’d be in Budapest for another week and to contact her when anything like this happened again.”
“She said ‘when’? Not ‘if’?” I need to make certain we’re not experiencing a translation disconnect.
Maher smiles. “You caught that, too.”
“And you didn’t think to tell the investigators about her?”
“Well, but she’s a woman.”
“So am I, and I assure you I’m capable of great violence. How were you supposed to contact her?”
“She left me a card. She really killed your father?”
“Anneke,” Dávid says, putting a hand on my arm. I nearly shake it off. I can’t stand human contact right now. I want neither pity nor comfort. I only need that address.
“Where is she?” I ask.
Maher ducks under the lines of wire. He rummages around piles of papers and folders on the kitchen table.
“She was intrigued by the photos of the deaths, but they also made her sad. She doesn’t seem the murdering type.
There’s something about her that feels…I don’t know how you say it.
” He turns to Dávid and says something in Hungarian.
Dávid is watching me, though. He doesn’t respond, so Maher tries his best. “Like clouds. Or mist. A shadow. Like even when she’s in front of you, she’s not really there. That’s why I wanted to photograph her.”
The word he’s looking for is “ephemeral,” but I don’t give it to him. My hand is outstretched, trembling. Not from fear, but desperate rage. I need that card. Maher steps toward me, but Dávid puts himself between us.
“Anneke,” Dávid says again, his voice terribly soft. “We should talk about this.”
Maher lowers the card. The rational part of my mind knows they’re trying to help me. That Dávid’s kindness and protectiveness is why I tried to love him and why we’re still friends. It’s exactly what I’ve searched for my entire life after being denied it by my father.
But all I can see is my chance for revenge being withheld.
“It’s none of your concern, Dávid,” I snap.
“Anneke,” Dávid repeats in the slow, steady cadence of someone trying to talk down a child screaming in the streets. “Joren told me what happened. He did the autop—the examination himself. Your father was very sick.”
“Don’t,” I warn.
But Dávid doesn’t stop. “He killed himself.”
“I know they said that.” It’s why I dedicated myself to learning all the ways a body can break, all the forms wounds can take, everything that can be learned from them.
It’s why I’m better than any man at seeing the shape of a crime and the echoes of death.
No one cares as much or as fiercely as I do.
Because I know what happened to my father, and no one else could see it, and so she got away.
His killer is still out there—here, she’s here—and no one has looked for her because they think he did it to himself.
“Then tell me what really happened.” Dávid sits on the edge of the table. Maher leans next to him. I couldn’t whisper this to Dávid in the safety of a dark bed insulated by our body heat. What makes him think I can tell him now, in front of a stranger?
“There’s a connection,” I say, desperate to make him see. “The body in Amsterdam, dead by his own hand but with someone there, observing and recording it. And this family here, all lying patiently waiting their turn to have their brains scooped out, also staged for photography?”
“Was there a camera when your father died?” Maher asks, genuinely curious.
“No, but—”
“How do you even know it’s the same woman?
” Dávid asks, his voice still that infuriatingly gentle tone.
Dávid is playful and teasing and sardonic.
I cannot abide gentle Dávid. “I can barely tell it’s her from one photo to the next, her features are so indistinct.
And she’s been in Budapest for days, waiting for news from Maher.
Not in Amsterdam. Is it possible that she just reminds you of someone, and—”
“There are trains,” I say. “As I demonstrated today, it’s perfectly possible to travel between the two cities. We don’t even know if she’s still here, because you won’t give me that card.” I glare at Maher.
Dávid shakes his head. “Just tell me what happened that night. What you saw. Help me understand why you’re so certain.”
I hate myself even as I’m doing it, but I break down into gasping sobs. They rack my body as I lower my head and hide my face in my hands.
“Anneke, I’m sorry, I—” Dávid stutters. I stumble forward to the table to let him hold me. As Maher straightens to give me space, I snatch the card from his fingers.
I glance down at it and then look at Dávid, triumphant, my eyes completely dry. Even he’s not immune to thinking of me as an emotional woman. I hate to take advantage of it, but he left me no choice. The card goes into my pocket alongside the new image of my father’s murderer.
“I’ve waited five years for this. Stay out of my way.
” I twist from Dávid’s grasp. He calls my name at the top of the stairs, but I don’t stop until I’m several streets away, safe from his meddling.
I don’t care if he thinks he’s protecting me.
I don’t need his help. All I need is what’s waiting for me at the Hotel Varjú.
I duck into a shop selling ladies’ hats and ask for directions.
Once I consent to buy something, the sullen young clerk becomes much more helpful.
She suggests a lady’s top hat, worn with an evening dress instead of for riding.
She offers it with a wink that makes me think if I were to attend a certain type of club here in Budapest, she’d be there, waiting.
Interesting, but I don’t have time for flirtations. I buy the hat without protest, after which she happily directs me to the hotel, and then suggests I spend the evening at a nice club she knows. My intuition is rarely wrong.
I left my bag behind at Maher’s, so I have the clerk box up the hat in the largest parcel she can. That way it looks as though I have belongings with me as I’m checking in.
My heart beats faster with each block. I’m as close to my father’s murderer as I’ve been since that night. I’ve dreamed this so many times, both awake and asleep. What I’ll do, what I’ll say. And unlike in my dream from the train, I have a knife, and more besides.
The Hotel Varjú surprises me. I’d imagined her squatting in a hovel, or at least a building that asks no questions.
But this hotel is right at home among the historic buildings, with evenly spaced windows marching along the front and a dome crowning the whole thing.
It’s breathtaking, and that means expensive. Beauty always comes at a cost.
I glance down, wishing I’d taken the time to freshen up a bit.
I straighten my skirts and make certain my blouse is firmly tucked to show my figure at its best, then pinch my cheeks and bite my lips to draw color to them.
Finally, I feel my hair to tuck stray curls away and switch my plain traveling hat for the stylish-bordering-on-gauche top hat. That was a good choice, after all.
I smile at the porter holding the grand door open for me and step into the lobby.
The ceilings soar overhead, paneled and painted with romantic images of the Danube.
A glittering chandelier throws light across the marble-tiled floors and onto the scattering of velvet sofas and chairs.
The effect isn’t imposing so much as it is inviting.
This is a hotel for people with enough money to feel welcome wherever they go. What is she doing here?
At the desk a young man, clean-shaven more by necessity than aesthetic choice—he doesn’t look old enough to grow a full beard or mustache—stands perfectly straight, an expectant, pleasant expression on his face as I cross the lobby.
“How may I help you?” he asks in Hungarian.
My lack of finesse with the language works for me here.
I’m flustered and anxious, which hopefully he’ll assume is because I can’t communicate clearly.
“Yes, thank you,” I say, playing up my foreign accent.
“My friend? Room?” I slide the card onto the desk.
It’s branded with the hotel’s name, and a delicate hand has written “315” on it.
The clerk frowns down at it. “Is she expecting you?”
He may be assuming her gender based on mine, but I feel a rush of triumph regardless. She’s here. Unfortunately, he seems unlikely to hand over a key simply because I bat my eyelashes.
“I don’t understand,” I say. “I need a room? My friend says…” I pause, pretending to grasp for the words. “Good hotel?” I tap the card again. “Safe and good, she says.”
“Ah, you need a room! Yes, of course.” He hands me the guest register and I fill out my information.
Or rather, I style myself one “Mrs. de Lange” and give my address as the police headquarters in Amsterdam.
The idea of being married to de Lange is repulsive, but the idea of any potential inquiry showing up at his door is amusing enough to combat the feeling.
“How long will you stay with us?” he asks. Or at least, I think he does. I don’t need to pretend too hard to be confused.
“Two.” I hold up two fingers to make it clear.
“Weeks, or nights?”
“Nights.” I’m glad I opted for that, because the price he shows me is eye-watering. Mama and I are more than comfortable thanks to her inheritance, but I didn’t bring a small fortune with me. It’s a good thing I don’t plan on staying long.
“Money changing?” I gesture to my purse, which I allow to fall slightly open so he can see I have funds.
He assures me they accept guilders in addition to forints, then gives me directions to the bank as I pretend to pay attention. He slides a key across the counter toward me. 201. I would have preferred the third floor, but it doesn’t really matter.
“Thank you.” I flash him a relieved smile, just a woman grateful for a safe place to land in an unfamiliar city.
The porter from the door appears to carry my box up, which is probably confusing, as it weighs nearly nothing.
He has the grace not to comment. I follow, pretending like everything in me isn’t screaming to sprint to the third floor.
It feels like a lifetime before he leaves me alone in my room.
I give him to the count of one hundred. Once again I’m grateful for my paranoia and preparation.
Though there’s a secret compartment in my abandoned bag, I also loaded my hidden pockets with things lest I be caught off-guard exiting the train.
As if my father’s murderer would sense I was near.
As if I hold the same weight and fixation in her mind as she does in mine.
I take a quick inventory. My father’s lock-picking tools, the only thing I took from his desk.
A knife. A small pistol, which weighs down my skirts in a reassuring way.
A small wooden box with a vial and a syringe, which does a little to balance out the weight of the pistol.
It’s convenient that women’s fashions insist on such tight waistbands to show off our figures—it means my skirts don’t slip off when I overload them with weapons.
I leave the precious photographs, along with my consultation notepad containing my observations on every murder I’ve helped investigate, on the nightstand. I don’t want them ruined or contaminated with blood. And I sincerely hope there will be blood.
Pasting a pleasantly vague expression on my face, I step out into the hallway. It’s suppertime, which means most people will be down in the restaurant or out in the city. I can’t imagine her engaging in acts as banal as eating or sitting for an opera.
On the third floor, the gold-leafed door numbers count up from one. At the end of the hallway, 315 sits waiting. My heart hammers so loudly that anything could be happening in the room and I wouldn’t hear it. I pause, staring at the door.
It’s just wood. Just wood, separating me from who I was before that night, and who I’ll be after this one.
I’m tempted to knock, but I won’t do her the dignity. Instead, I reach out and try the knob. It turns. The door swings open as though I’m expected.