Page 43 of The Expat Affair

I’m looking around for an alternative escape route when a familiar voice comes from just behind me. “I thought I might find you here.”

I rearrange my face, making sure to park my expression firmly in neutral before I turn around. “Detective Boomsma. Hi.”

Honestly, I would have preferred running into a reporter.

The detective leans back on his heels. “Funny fact. Only ten percent of murder victims die at the hands of a stranger. Family members, colleagues, friends. Lovers. Those are the more likely suspects.”

“Not funny ha-ha, but I can see the point of you telling it, and I feel like this is an excellent moment for me to assure you that I’m here because Xander was a friend. I came to honor his memory, and okay, fine, maybe a little bit for myself, to give his tragedy some closure.”

“I take it you didn’t find any more trackers.”

I shake my head. “No, but there’s definitely a man following me. I’ve seen him twice now.”

“Did you get a description?”

By now, the lobby is starting to fill with bodies anyway—servers standing ready with trays of drinks and food for the mourners, who are probably getting up and out of their seats. The detective gestures to a side door overlooking a courtyard, and it’s not the worst place to talk. Open to the street but mostly concealed behind a giant weeping willow, dropping a thick waterfall of branches that hangs over the opening like a curtain. And behind that curtain, visible from the window but not from the street, are two benches, twin slabs of concrete sitting low to the ground. I zip my coat and follow the detective through the door.

Outside, the courtyard is quiet, though I can hear the reporters chatting through the branches. They’re still up at the street, but they’ve seen the movement in the lobby, and they’re getting ready, pointing their bodies and zoom lenses at the double doors. If they see us, though, it’s only our feet, stepping to the benches behind the swaying curtain.

“Young,” I say, taking a seat. “Early thirties or so. Tall. Light skin that’s mostly white. Hair is brown, I think. Both times I saw him, he was wearing a hat. And before you ask, no, I wasn’t quick-thinking enough to snap a photo, but you better believe I will next time.”

“Do you remember seeing him that night with Xander? Did he maybe... I don’t know, follow the two of you home?”

I frown. “I was drunk, and even then, how would I know? He looks like every other guy in this country. Who knows how many times he’s trailed me before I noticed him.”

“I’m asking because there’s been another murder. A woman reported a body bobbing in the weeds behind her houseboat on the Amstel. The victim was shot through the head.”

I shiver, and not just because the bench is a block of ice. Because another person is dead. Shot in a country where guns are illegal.

“And you’re telling me this, why? Because the two murders are connected?”

He dips his chin, not quite a nod. “The man was a diamond trader. Up until last fall, he worked for House of Prins.”

I don’t have to think too long about what this means, not just that another man is dead but that yet another murder is connected to House of Prins. “I’m very sorry for that man’s family, but surely now you must see that Xander’s death had nothing to do with me. I just happened to be there for it.”

“It certainly complicates things.”

“The press over there”—I wave a hand in their general direction—“they told me I was the lead suspect.”

“That’s not for the press to decide, and they only said it to get a reaction. Don’t give them one.”

“My roommate said the same thing. But they’re making it difficult for me to get through my own front door. Anytime I try to come or go, it’s an ambush. My neighbors hate me.”

“I’ll tell the patrols to start scattering them. You said you met Xander on Tinder, correct?”

I nod. “Yes. And if you give me back my phone, I can prove it. All our messages are still on there.”

He gives me a look, one that saysfat chance, and I’m guessing he’s already seen those messages. While iPhones are notoriously hard to break into, my passcode isn’t just a string of random digits. Like an idiot, I used numbers that meant something to me, ones that would be familiar enough for me to remember but also predictable for anyone who knows me: my birthday, the month followed by the year.

“Who initiated contact?”

“I’m guessing you cracked the code on my phone, which means you already know it was Xander. He’s the one who slid into my DMs, not the other way around.”

“Okay, but who swiped first, you or him?”

I frown, wondering where this line of questioning is going. “Xander did. Why?”

“Did he ever ask you about anything personal?”