Page 20 of The Expat Affair

Anna turns to me with a frown. “Does he do this at home, too?”

This, as in ignore when people are talking to him.

If I had the patience and the vocabulary, I’d explain for the millionth time that Sem isn’t like her other grandkids, that while his cochlear implants have helped significantly, he still can’t always distinguish Anna’s voice from all the other noises. The cooks banging around in the kitchen. The living room filled with six adults, their words tumbling over each other in a competition to be Loudest Prins. Gregory Porter playing on the Sonos speakers, a music choice that Anna thinks makes her painfully hip. In order to respond, Sem needs to know that someone is talking to him. He needs eye contact and visual cues, facial expressions and body language, and an unobstructed view of their lips. Anna knows this, but for some reason, she refuses to remember.

Thomas appears at my side just then. He drapes a hand over Sem’s shoulder, waiting until he looks up. “I hear the cookies are ready for decorating. Want to see if the chef needs some help?”

Sem might have not gotten all of that, but he definitely got the wordcookies. His face brightens, and he tosses the iPad to the couch.

Anna gestures the server over, ordering her to leave the tray andtake Sem from the room. I don’t stop either of them, even though I know there’ll be more icing in my son’s belly than on the cookies, that the sugar will keep him hyped up until well past his bedtime. I let him go because I understand what Thomas and Anna are doing: clearing the room of child-sized ears, even ones that don’t pick up on every conversation.

As soon as they’re gone, my father-in-law, Willem, clears his throat, a dramatic gesture that calls this meeting to order. “I spoke to Arthur this afternoon. He gave me an update.”

I frown, trying to place the name. Thomas sinks onto one of the plush velvet couches, and I claim the spot next to him.

Willem is back in his usual chair, a modern wingback of wine-colored velvet, one liver-spotted hand clutching his glass. He rolls his drink around a solitary ice cube, one of the cylindrical ones his staff makes from imported mineral water.

“Arthur says the building’s security cameras are useless. They were set up to be live stream only, meaning the doorman can watch things as they happen on the screen behind the reception desk, but the cameras don’t feed to a computer. There’s no hard drive where the footage is saved. Apparently, the company that installed the system never finished the job. They’ve been trying to get them to come back for months now.”

At least Ithinkthat’s what he says. My brain stumbled on a couple of the words, but I’m pretty sure I got the full picture. When it comes to Dutch, I understand a lot more than I can say.

“Typical.” Anna rolls her eyes. “People in this country don’t want to work these days. They just want things handed to them.”

She says this despite a house filled with an army of staff, or the fact that she’s never lifted even one of her manicured fingers to hold down a job herself. It’s a common refrain from the Dutch privileged class, especially since the pandemic. Taxes are too high. People aretoo lazy. Stop using my money to pay them to stay home. The first time I heard it roll off her lips, I wanted to scream.

“What about the doorman, didn’t he see anything? Is he a potential witness?” Fleur, God bless, keeping the conversation on point.

Willem shakes his head. “Not the doorman, not any of the building’s staff. None of the neighbors noticed anything out of the ordinary that night. Except for the woman who reported him dead, the police have zero witnesses.”

Fleur throws her hands up in disgust. “Why have cameras if they don’t record? Why have a doorman if he’s going to sleep on the job? At this rate, it could be anybody who took those stones. It could have been a junkie off the street.”

We’re talking about the missing diamonds again, and not the fact that a man was murdered. I tip up my wine, an ice-cold Sancerre that feels so good hitting my system it’s a little frightening.

Next to Fleur on the loveseat, her husband, Roland, mirrors her exasperated expression. He’s not the type of man I would have put with a woman like her, a bombshell heiress who’d look more at home next to a billionaire businessman, or maybe a professional footballer. Roland is the exact opposite, a spindly guy with thinning hair and cheekbones so sharp they look carved from stone. He doesn’t say much, but then again, he doesn’t have to. Roland is a baron, and his family owns half the countryside in Limburg.

Willem takes a pull from his drink, then puts the glass down carefully. “Arthur is investigating everyone connected with both the security company and the building, and he’ll let me know the second his background checks produce anything suspicious.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, glancing back and forth between Thomas and his father. “Who is Arthur?”

“Arthur Pronk, head of police for Amsterdam. We were in the corps together.”

Of course they were. Every Prins going back generations was a member of theStudentencorps, the oldest fraternity in Holland and a veritable network of who’s who in business and politics. Willem is a member. Fleur and Roland are members. Only Thomas is not.

“What about police cameras on nearby streets?” Fleur says, moving things along. “I assume they’ve looked at those, too?”

She looks at Thomas as she says it, even though the question is clearly meant for their father. It’s him she’s always trying to impress, his footsteps she’s always trying so hard to step in—the corps, an MBA from Erasmus in Rotterdam, a newly renovated villa in nearby Blaricum that’s been featured in international design magazines. And three years ago, as thanks for her efforts, Willem bypassed Fleur to appoint the younger Thomas CEO of House of Prins. Why? Who the hell knows. Thomas was as surprised as anyone.

Thomas leans forward on the couch, shifting to face his sister. “My understanding is that most police cameras are in the center of the city, in Oost and De Pijp, where crime is more concentrated. Not in Zuid, at least not further south than the Van Baerlestraat. There’s a map of the cameras on the city website.”

Fleur huffs a frustrated sigh. “Neighbors, then. Local shops. Plenty of people and businesses allow police to look at their camera feeds. Somebody must have seen something.”

“What about the woman?” I say, and every head swivels to me. The sudden attention, all those probing Prins eyes, makes me stumble over my words. “There was a woman. In Xander’s apartment when he was killed. An American expat. She found him.”

Willem sets his glass onto the side table with a thunk. “Yes, the whole world has seen the picture of her in that necklace, and if Xander were here, I’d fire him for a second time, but Arthur’s men will deal with that girl. Until they come up with enough evidence to make an arrest, though, we can’t sit still.”

An electrical current zaps through me, shooting my back straighter. Fire Xander for a second time, and whichweis he referring to? The Prins family? The House of Prins? Both, probably.

But more importantly: “Deal with her how?” I say it in clear, full-throated Dutch, but Willem ignores me.

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