Page 19 of The Expat Affair

I hear the thump that sent me racing out of the penthouse, picture a nameless, faceless killer fetching another zip tie in another room so he can wrap it around my neck and silence me, too. A shiver goes down the skin of my back, a feverish kind of panic that feels like the start of the flu.

“What about the building’s security cameras? Did you see anyone on the footage?”

Because I was lucid enough when we got there to remember that Xander’s building had dozens of them. That he used a fob to operate the elevator, and it opened straight into his apartment. There’s no way the killer could have gotten inside without passing multiple cameras, not unless he scaled the outside of the building like Spiderman, and even then, a building like Xander’s would likely have outdoor cameras, too.

“How do you know Xander didn’t buzz his killer up?”

“Excuse me?”

“If you slept through a fight to the death between two large men and possibly a killer emptying out the drawer next to your head, then how do you know you didn’t miss something else? How do you know Xander didn’t invite his own killer upstairs?”

I don’t answer, because Idon’tknow. I have no idea what else I might have slept through. Is that what happened? The killer was someone Xander knew? Or is the detective implying that he thinksI’mthe killer Xander invited upstairs?

“Is that an accusation? You don’t really think I had anything to do with his murder, do you?”

“I’m simply trying to put together the chain of events that ended in a man’s death. And now there’s this picture of you in a priceless necklace floating around the internet, one someone was presumably willing to kill for once. All those people on Reddit right now, all the people on the other sites? If one of them wants that necklace just as badly as the killer did, where do you think they’ll look first?”

To me.They’ll assume thatIhave the necklace.

“But I don’t have it,” I say, as emphatically as I know how, even though a smarter part of me says it’s not the detective who needs the most convincing. “I don’t have the necklace.”

“Thanks for calling, Ms. Dumont. I’ll be in touch.”

There are two quick beeps, then nothing. I wriggle the mouse, and he’s ended the call.

Willow

“Oh, look,” Fleur says as we come into their parents’ living room. “It’s darling baby brother here to save us from ourselves.” She’s immaculate as usual, in monochromatic burgundy down to her shoes and nail polish. Even the lipstick lining the edge of her wineglass matches—and by the looks of things, it’s not her first.

I shoot Thomas a commiserating look. There was a time when we could laugh about his sister’s backhanded digs, but those days are in the past. His eyes look everywhere but at mine lately, and there’s a rigid politeness to his posture that I haven’t seen since that first day at the restaurant. I don’t know when this happened, exactly, or how, but it’s been this way for longer than I’d care to admit.

We start with his mother standing by the windows, the glass lit up with a view of the glittering Amstel canal. Uniformed servers skim the edges of the room, offering up complicated hors d’oeuvres from silver trays: tiny bite-sized quiches filled with leek and Italian ham, ornate cucumber slices topped with crème fraîche and beluga caviar. Sem turns up his nose at the food, flopping instead onto a chaise with my iPad—minus the messaging app.

Not that there have been any new messages, not on my cellphone and not on the burner, either. Even worse, when I copied the number into the burner and hit Call, I was greeted by a recording:Ditnummerisnietingebruik.

This number has been disconnected.

I’m not foolish enough, though, to think that’s the end of things. The person behind those texts knows my cellphone number. He thinks I owe him diamonds. This is like the quiet hours after a devastating earthquake. You just know there will be aftershocks.

“Hello, Mama,” Thomas says, giving his perfectly coiffed mother the standard Dutch greeting, three kisses to the cheeks. “You’re looking particularly lovely tonight.”

Anna bats away the compliment with a tut, even though everybody here knows she’s never looked anything short of immaculate. Tweed Chanel hanging from birdlike shoulders. Flawless makeup. Hair like she spent the entire afternoon in a salon, which she does every two weeks to ensure her highlights stay fresh, four different shades of blond that curl perfectly around her face. She pats him on the cheek and turns to me.

“Willow, darling.” It’sdarlingnow, but it only took forever and I’m still not convinced she means it. Anna only tolerates me because I gave her a grandchild. “I’m so glad you and the boys could make it.”

Her Dutch is slow and perfectly enunciated, but I still need a second or two of processing time to translate her words in my head. Even in a foreign language, though, I know a dig when I hear one.

I smile and respond in my best Dutch. “Thank you for having us. Everything smells delicious.”

She gives a nod of approval at my correct grammar, and then another as her gaze wanders down my outfit, a burgundy cashmere sweater over tan suede pants she recognizes from a boutique on the Beethovenstraat. The smile sticks to her cheeks, though, when she gets to my shoes, clunky brown combat boots that squeak when I walk. Dior makes a similar pair, but these are knockoffs, and a million times more comfortable. Anna sees them for what they are, a clear sign that while I’m able to mostly look the part, I’m not quite willing to commit.

I excuse myself and make the rounds, doling out hellos toThomas’s sister and her husband, Roland, their preteen twin girls, Yara and Esmée, ending with the most important stop, at Willem’s wingback chair under the antique mirror, a twin to ours.Kissing the ring, I once called it, but Thomas didn’t share in the humor. For a Prins, there’s nothing funny about these Sunday suppers.

By the time I make it back around to Anna, she’s sidling up to Sem. “Sem,lieverd, the girls are putting together a puzzle in the upstairs study. Wouldn’t you prefer to play with them?”

The girls are a good eight years older than Sem, who isn’t crazy about either of them. He says they treat him like a baby.

Sem doesn’t lift his gaze from his iPad.BrainCraft, by the looks of things.

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