Page 31 of The Expat Affair

Had I locked it when I left? This building is literally ancient, and it hasn’t been renovated since sometime in the last century. The doorknobs are old-school, the kind you have to secure with a key from the outside. It’s a system that makes it impossible to lock yourself in the house, and why I never forget my keys. But did I actually lock the door, or did I just pull it closed?

“Is anything missing?”

There’s a loud thump from inside the apartment, followed by a stream of the most colorful Dutch cuss words. “Kut.Godverdomme. Fuck.” The last one is apparently universal.

I nod into the phone. “Sounds like it, yeah.”

“I’m nearby. Wait outside.”

The line goes dead before I can tell him it’s too late. Ingrid is already inside.

I pocket my phone and peek into the apartment. The hallway is empty and still, and so is what I can see of the living room, a flat-screen hanging above a console shoved against the wall, a fiddle leaf fig in a pot in the corner, its leaves brown edged and dusty.

“Everything okay in here?”

Ingrid’s voice comes from the opposite direction, her bedroom down a tiny hallway. “No. It’s gone. It’s all gone!”

“What’s gone?”

“Kuuuuuuuuut.”

I creep into the hallway and hang my head around her open door, taking in the mess. Her mattress, hanging off the bed. The chest of drawers, open and emptied out. The clothes and the bedding and her teddy bear coat, now lying inside-out where she dumped it on the floor. She steps to the wardrobe and heaves the double doors wide, shoving the hangers and clothing aside.

“Did you make this mess, or did he?”

“I did.” She reaches an arm into the back right corner of thewardrobe, behind a jumble of fabric and a messy pile of shoes, grubby sneakers, and floppy boots, what looks like the entire collection of Havaiana sandals, well-worn and in need of a bath. When she doesn’t find what she’s looking for, she falls backward onto the floor, tilting her head back to shout at the ceiling, “Neeeeeeeee.”

A long, defeatedno.

“What did they take?”

She drops her head in her hands, her hair falling across her face. “Cash.”

I wince. “How much?”

“Lots.” She looks up from between her fingers, and her eyes are wet. She’s trying very hard not to cry. “Somuch.”

“How much?” I ask again, guilt pushing up in a sour surge. I think of the door I may or may not have locked, the tracker I shoved under the seat on the tram, the detective’s warning that whoever might be looking for the diamonds would be coming to me first. Is that what this is? Did I leave the door open for a thief and a killer? Is thismyfault?

She shoves her fingers into her hair and makes two tight fists, yanking big chunks at the temples. “All of it.Verdomme.”Dammit.She says more, a stream of fiery, feverish Dutch.

“Shit, Ingrid. I’m... I’m so, so sorry. Is it... Are you insured?”

Her head whips up, her eyes squinting. “It’scash. Of course I’m not insured.” She makes a sound deep in her throat and pushes herself off the floor.

I watch her shove everything back in the wardrobe, telling myself this is just her anger talking. And I don’t blame her for being pissed. Someone was here, in her things, taking her cash, all of it. I’d be furious and heartbroken, too.

I think of the twenty-euro bill I left on my nightstand, the jar ofcoins on my dresser. Neither of them are worth crying over, but my laptop is. My passport, too. A fully loaded Kindle my sister shoved in my carry-on as I was leaving for the airport. I’m not insured for any of those things, either.

I look over my shoulder, peering down the hallway toward my bedroom, wondering if there’s someone in there with a knife or a zip tie, just waiting for me to get close enough to ambush me. Late afternoon sunlight filters through the window high on the slanted wall, casting a yellow glow on the hallway floor. Did I leave that door open, too? Honestly, I can’t remember.

“What if they’re still here?” I whisper, turning back to Ingrid. “Detective Boomsma said to wait outside.”

“You have a detective on speed dial?” She uses her normal voice, at normal volume, and I cringe, casting another panicked glance down the hallway—still empty. “Jesus, Rayna. I can’t believe this.”

“He said he was nearby.” I say it loudly, too, just in case someone’s down there, listening.

A buzzer rips the air just then, startling me hard enough that I catch air. I step to the intercom system, hitting the button to speak to whoever’s downstairs. “Hello?”

---