Chapter 11 #2
I unlock the wall and slide the panels open.
Alongside an assortment of old papers and books from my school days and my collection of case notebooks not actively in use is the most beautiful object I own.
It’s a silver box, delicately wrought and inlaid with mother-of-pearl patterns.
My mother gave it to me when I was twelve, perhaps thinking it would be the start of my own silver collection.
But I always felt it was too singular, too perfect to sully with imitations.
I never had any treasures to put in it, forever waiting for just the right thing.
Then I had two letters from Diavola, and the silver box was exactly the right size, and I knew it would keep them safe until I didn’t need them anymore. But that day never came. It still isn’t here. I need these letters, desperately, and I’m going to share them anyway.
I suppose I did end up with my own collection, after all.
Instead of miniature silver pieces to remake our home on a tiny scale, I have sheets of paper.
My mother is trapped in our home, constantly tinkering with her dollhouse to re-create a model of her prison; I’m trapped in this chase with Diavola, constantly rereading my letters to refresh my pain and determination.
The box sits, waiting, and I think of all the hours I’ve spent running my fingers over the top, a whole ritual of touch before I open it and explore Diavola’s words once more, always searching for a meaning I missed, a detail I overlooked.
Maher and Dávid are right. This goes beyond investigating, beyond crusading, even. This is an obsession. She is an obsession.
I pull out the letters and carry them to the other room. I mean to set them down in an orderly pile, but there are so many that they slide and fan out across the entire table.
“Anneke,” Dávid says, his voice soft with horror.
“These are all from her?” Maher is already opening the one closest to him.
“Careful!” Inge says. “Keep them in order.”
“I know the order.” I open one and glance at it. “This was from Helsinki, two years ago. It was dusty when I got it. Sometimes they’d been sitting for months before they found me.”
“Where does she leave them?” Inge’s angry and rightfully so, but she’s already taking notes. She doesn’t waste time.
“Usually with someone at the police headquarters. When they hear my name, they remember they have a letter for me. Sometimes she has them delivered to our hotels, though.”
“She’s been places at the same time as us before Brussels?” Maher asks, appropriately horrified.
He’ll know the extent of it soon enough.
They all will. She’s not only been in the same location as us, sometimes she watches us.
I nod. “Yes. But most of the time the letters are already there when we arrive. I don’t always get a letter, though.
In those cases, I assume either she didn’t know where we were staying, or the person in charge of the letter forgot they had it, or she never wrote one for that city. ”
Dávid looks the most hurt of any of them. His arms are crossed and his jaw twitches where he’s clenching and unclenching it. I wish I could hug him or break the tension with a joke, but I deserve his anger. “What else are you keeping from us?” he asks.
“I dream about her,” I say. “Nearly every night. She haunts me. Sometimes it feels like we’re chasing a ghost, and I worry that I’ve ruined all our lives for nothing. I needed to keep the letters close, because they remind me she’s real. If she can put ink to paper, she exists.”
Inge’s tone is flat. “I think the trail of bodies she leaves in her wake is evidence enough.”
“But it isn’t, because she never touches them!
Not that we see.” I don’t know how to explain the hold she has on me, the terror I have when I wonder if we’ve been doing all this for nothing.
If my father really did kill himself and I’ve dedicated my life to hunting for a reason to believe otherwise.
If I’ve convinced three brilliant, good people to follow me into madness, finding connections between violent deaths where none actually exist.
I didn’t read all my father’s journals, but what I saw was enough to prove that insanity is in my blood. Diavola’s letters are my life ring in a sea of doubt. But they’re also the crumbs leading me deeper into the forest of my own obsession.
Maher puts a hand on my shoulder in a soothing way. “Are there clues in the letters?”
“If there were, I would have told you.”
Dávid lets out a doubtful hum.
“I would have,” I insist. “Just like I’m telling you now, so we don’t get our hopes up about this lead. She’ll cover her tracks.”
“I’m not so certain,” Inge says. Before I can ask why, she holds up a hand to cut me off and gets to work.
No one reads faster than Inge. Within minutes she’s consumed the letters that have consumed me for three years.
She begins sorting them in a way I don’t understand, occasionally shifting them based on whatever categorization she’s applying.
“Have you ever received a letter in a city where we actually solved a murder?” she asks.
“Yes. Three times now, with Brussels. The other nine, no.”
“So, three times she was in a city where we were, and where, as far as we know, she wasn’t involved in the crime. Where were those previous letters delivered?”
“Both times in the hotel where we were staying.”
“And all within the last year, too.” Inge looks up. “We’ve been following her for the most part, but sometimes she’s following you.”
“What?”
“Not always. You’re right that most of her letters predate our arrivals. But there was no reason for her to be in Brussels. She wasn’t the murderer. So why was she there?”
“Because of the theater. The cinematograph connection,” Maher says.
Inge shakes her head. “We had no plans to visit, and no reason to know Louis Lumière would be in the city; he’s usually based in Paris.
So how would Diavola figure out that I’d notice the theater, go back for a visit, and then stay behind to flirt with the projectionist and end up seeing the one reel out of dozens that’s connected to a victim? ”
“It’s a lot of coincidences,” Dávid admits. “Especially since she was following Anneke to the crime scene, not you around the city.”
“Exactly. And I know something you all don’t.
” Inge taps the letter I received in the restaurant.
“I had originally planned for us to stay in the Hotel Métropole. That was the contact information I left with de Haas. But when we got to the train station in Brussels, I saw an advertisement for rooms to rent and thought how much nicer it would be to stay in a home.” For a moment she looks so young, and I once again regret the path I put her on.
I never had any choice about stepping onto it.
My way was paved in blood and horror. But hers wasn’t.
Not until me.
Inge clears her throat. “So, I think she actually wasn’t following any of us that day.
She was waiting. Lurking at the hotel we were supposed to check into.
When she saw Anneke come in, she found someone to deliver the letter.
There’s still reason to hope she doesn’t know we’ve made the connection to the cinematograph cameras at all.
There’s no mention of them in her letter, and she loves giving details to let Anneke know she’s paying attention. ”
“If you’re right,” Maher says, “the question becomes how she knew we were going to Brussels and where we’d stay when we got there.”
“Does she have an informant?” Dávid’s face clouds with anger. “Maybe it’s de Lange. He never liked us.”
Inge sits across the table from me, the letters between us practically pulsing with my guilt.
“We’ll figure that out later. Right now, we need to talk about these.
” She taps the nearest sheet. I can tell just from a glimpse of the writing that it’s the letter where Diavola talks about her sister.
It’s the only letter that gives any sense of her history.
I’ve read it even more than I have the others.
“You’re right that there aren’t clues. She never admits to the murders, or gives details on how she does it, or hints of what she’s planning next.
But, Anneke, they sound like…well, they sound like love letters.
At least when they don’t sound like threats. And sometimes both at the same time.”
Maher picks one up, his frown deepening as he reads. Dávid takes it from him and they begin working through them. I can feel the shame burning ever brighter on my face.
“She’s obsessed with you,” Dávid says. He looks angrier than ever, but this time I know it’s because he’s feeling protective.
“It’s mutual.” Inge doesn’t say it unkindly, but I flinch regardless.
“That’s why you didn’t show us the letters.
They felt personal. But this isn’t personal.
It can’t be. We need to know you understand that, Anneke.
We aren’t doing this for revenge. We’re doing this because Diavola needs to be stopped. That’s all.”
I close my eyes and nod. “I know. I’m sorry. I’ve never been capable of distancing myself and my feelings from our work. And I’ve betrayed you all by hiding the letters.”
“Where does this leave us, then?” Dávid sounds cold once more.
I hate the distance these revelations have put between us.
A new cruelty to add to Diavola’s list of crimes.
But can I really blame her? She didn’t make me hide the letters.
I chose to do that. I’ll have to work hard to fix my relationship with Dávid.
Maher puts a hand on my shoulder again. He’s probably angry with me, too, but primarily he’s worried about me. Which is more than I deserve. I place my own hand on top of his and open my eyes, ready to get to work.
“Right,” I say. “Inge’s point about Brussels is a good one.
We can’t assume Diavola knows we’re onto her.
We should still follow up on the cinematograph leads, and there are a lot of them.
Louis Lumière invited us to Paris to view all his other stored reels.
He has them dating back to the very first devices that he loaned out, and we can’t risk overlooking any clues or leads.
As far as the men who have the cameras, we have the names and addresses of the two men with cinematograph cameras in London. Those are our starting points.”
Inge nods. “I suggest we divide and conquer. Dávid, you speak the best English besides Anneke, so London is yours. Maher, you understand the world of photography, so you can navigate that with the most insight. Plus, Louis seemed impressed with you, and we need to maintain that relationship. Paris is yours. Anneke and I will stay here.”
I want to argue, but I have no right. “That’s fine,” I say meekly.
Inge cuts a sharp look at me. “Not for you to sulk and think about what you’ve done wrong,” she says. “For us to figure out how Diavola is tracking us. Because if we can anticipate where she’s going to be…”
“We can set a trap,” I whisper, a thrill going down my spine.
“But not until we get back.” Dávid holds my gaze to make certain I’m listening. “Whatever we do, we do together. From now on. We’re a team.”
“We’re a team,” I echo. “And we can’t set a trap until we’re certain we’ll be safe. We still don’t know how Diavola convinces her victims to harm themselves, and I won’t put any of you in more danger than we already are.”
“And when we get back,” Dávid says, “we’re going to discuss taking on more cases.”
It was his idea all along. He made Maher bring it up, because he knows I’m less likely to argue with Maher.
My jaw clenches. I have no right to be angry, but I am.
Dávid doesn’t know what’s best for me. What’s best for me is at last avenging my father’s death and killing his murderer.
Only then can I let go of the iron grasp Diavola has on my mind and my heart.
Inge ignores the simmering tension as she puts together standard evidence packets for Dávid and Maher.
They include copies of all our photos of Diavola, local contacts for their respective destinations, and their various certificates and documents to prove they’re employed by the Amsterdam police and consult with departments across Europe. “I’ll get your tickets and—”
“No,” Dávid says. “It’s best if no one else knows where we’re going, where we’ll be, or how we’re getting there.”
“She’s not stalking the rest of us.” Maher’s gaze is still filled with worry.
“She always knows where to find me here.” I shrug, trying to make my tone light. “She hasn’t bothered visiting the house again since the first time. Nothing has changed. But I don’t like splitting up. Dávid, if you meet this photographer and anything feels strange, you run.”
“And if I receive any love letters from Diavola, I’ll be certain to tell you about them.
Eventually.” Dávid’s haughty, mocking expression fills me with relief that I haven’t lost him forever.
If he’s willing to tease me, he doesn’t hate me.
I don’t like parting on such uncertain terms, but it can’t be helped.
They’re right. This lead is still worth pursuing.
And they’re probably right that they can be put to better use by focusing on cases that can actually be solved.
They deserve to take full advantage of their brilliance and skills.
I have to end this now and free them. If we can find out who is feeding information to Diavola, it’s the perfect opportunity to catch her off-guard.
I won’t put any of my friends in more danger than I already have, though. I’m going to set a trap for Diavola. And only one of us will be there to spring it.