Page 47 of The Expat Affair

I clear my throat. “What about Sem?”

Fleur looks up, letting the silence stretch. She frowns like she just noticed me standing here, four feet away. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I said, what about Sem? Sem is next in line, too.”

She gives me a tight smile. “Of course he is, but Yara and Esmée are older. They’ll get there first. That’s all I meant by it.”

I press my lips together, my gaze wandering to Thomas pacing the spot two cars just left empty. He ends the call, sliding the phone into his pants pocket as he heads back our way.

“Martin saw the newsflash, too,” he says, more to Fleur than to anyone else. “He’s spent the past hour calling everyone we do business with. He’s just as clueless as we are.”

“Still. That doesn’t mean—”

“It’s Frederik.” Willem announces the name in a voice so commanding, even the sheep at the dike raise their heads. He shuts the door to the Mercedes with a sharp pop that echoes over the field. “The media hasn’t announced it yet, but it’s Frederik Albers. He’s the trader they pulled from the Amstel.”

His words land like a bomb in the parking lot, which by now has mostly cleared, leaving only a few dark and silent cars and the smokers up by the sidewalk. Fleur curses under her breath. Thomas looks panicked.

Frederik Albers, who Thomas fired last year, whose name police found on an invoice for a low-light video surveillance system like the one in the Prins vault, and who just a few days ago Thomas threatened to kill. We were in a private board room at Willem’s private social club, but still. It doesn’t look good.

That makes two. Two former employees of House of Prins, two men fired by Thomas, both dead.

“Are you absolutely certain?” Fleur asks, whirling around to face her father, now coming across the lot. On the opposite side of the Mercedes, Anna stands in the open passenger’s door, watching us across its gleaming roof.

“The dental records match up,” Willem says. “Arthur’s men are notifying the family now.”

Thomas shoves a hand in his hair, making it stick up on one side. “Fuck.Fuck.”

Fleur thrusts a hand at the twins. “Esmée, give me the keys. Now.”

Esmée stands frozen, one arm still deep in her mother’s Dior. “What about hockey practice?”

“Your father will call an Uber.” Fleur’s stabs the air with her hand. “Give them to me.”

Esmée hands over the bag, then turns to where her father is still standing by the ivy-covered wall, a cigarette clamped between two fingers. “Papa!”

“The coroner hasn’t filed the report yet,” Willem says, “but Arthur is pretty certain Frederik’s body wasn’t in the water all that long. They should have a window for time of death narrowed down by the end of today.”

“Did he say if it’s the same killer?” Fleur asks.

Willem lifts both hands. “Methodology is not the same, but Arthur says it’s possible. We’ll know more after they’ve analyzed the bullet.”

At the last word, Fleur and Thomas exchange a look. Frederik was killed with a bullet, in a country where guns are illegal but can be built by a 3D printer. I stare at Thomas, whose face has gone ashen, and my thoughts tip into something darker.

Willem starts barking orders. “Girls, get your father to take you home. Anna, you take Willow. Thomas, Fleur and I will ride with you. We’ll hammer out a strategy on the way. Let’s go.”

And because he’s still the supreme authority where House of Prins is concerned, his words set everyone in motion. The girls shriek for their father, who flicks his butt in a ditch. Anna hustles around the idling Mercedes for the driver’s seat. Fleur and Willem pile into Thomas’s BMW and slam the doors. Thomas follows behind, then stops halfway there, pivoting on his heels toward me. Almost like I’m an afterthought, which of course I am.

“You going to be okay?”

I nod.

“I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

I do. News like this means Thomas won’t be home anytime soon. I don’t tell him that I’m used to it.

“It’s fine. Do what you have to do. I’ll be fine.” I always am.

He gives me a brusque nod. “I promised Sem I’d be home for bedtime. Tell him I’ll take him to school tomorrow instead.”

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