Victoria leaned wearily on the kitchen table. She pressed her face into her palm, her skin creasing slightly under the weight. With her other hand she fiddled on the glass top, her fingers leaving faint streaks across the surface. Dark circles sagged under her sleepless eyes. Days of late nights had taken their toll. Her skin looked, if possible, even paler. She had clipped her hair up with a claw clip, but a few stubborn strands always fell across her face. She never managed to catch them all.
Bernard watched her with indifference. He didn’t pity her—if anything, he envied her.
“How much longer do you plan to stay here?”
“I don’t know. Honestly, I’d already be on my way, it’s just…” Victoria’s voice trailed off.
“Something wrong?”
“I’ve got a bad feeling.”
“Well, that doesn’t surprise me,” Bernard blurted, his disapproval raw.
“You don’t have to sit here.”
“We had an agreement.”
“I know. But as your client I’m telling you: go ahead, I’ll be fine.”
Bernard pulled a face but said nothing. He leaned back in his chair and shoved his hands into his pockets.
His eyes landed on the list of phone numbers stuck to the fridge: the complex’s maintenance man, the cleaning service, and the taxi, all scrawled in barely legible handwriting. Not exactly the work of a meticulous person. Bernard, on the other hand, had written in neat, looping script all his life.
The scream tore through the night like a runaway ice pick. They both jumped to their feet in terror. Victoria clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle a cry, while Bernard bit into his fist.
“What the fuck is that lunatic doing?” he growled.
Victoria was already taking the stairs two at a time. The Dutchman stayed in the kitchen, crouched like a spring, waiting for her signal. He leaned against the counter, his eyes darting nervously over the floor, as if searching for hidden patterns in the snow–white tiles.
How many had sprung out of bed at that horror–movie howl? The French–American couple were surely listening with pounding hearts—just like Noud. A deep, weary sigh escaped Bernard’s chest. Noud. He must be falling apart by now. Woken with a start, found his partner missing from their bed. He probably thought that desperate scream had come from Bernard—that it was the last sound of his life. Bernard longed to run home to him, to soothe him. But now it was too late. Why hadn’t he gotten up when Victoria told him to leave? He’d stayed because the German woman had a bad feeling. Truth was, so did he. His instincts whispered the same thing: trouble was coming. And here it was. Meanwhile Noud was likely imagining Bernard being flayed alive. What if he went looking? The window! Bernard’s head shot up. Could anyone see inside? In theory no—the glass was opaque from the outside, only vague shadows could show through. But what if…? Though the house was pitch dark, Bernard quickly dropped down onto the stone floor. Not the safest position, but at least he could be sure nobody would spot him.
He flinched when Victoria appeared in the kitchen doorway.
“What happened?” he asked impatiently.
“He ripped out his catheter.”
Bernard hissed and instinctively clutched his groin.
“Help me put it back in,” Victoria ordered.
“What? No!” he protested. “I’m not fiddling with Ted’s dick!”
“No one’s asking you to fiddle with anything,” Victoria hissed furiously. “You just need to be there and work under my hand.”
“You managed on your own last time,” Bernard argued hotly.
“That was last time,” she snapped. “Come on, we don’t have much time!”