August 2024
Anneliese
AFTER TAKING AN aspirin, Anneliese threw open the bedroom window and sucked in the fresh air.
Below, the street was empty except for a cat slinking into the bushes, probably toying with a mouse, or possibly a rat. She always felt slightly sick when she imagined that the spaces between the walls of the building were overrun by tiny squeaking creatures with quivering whiskers—their bodies full of warm blood like water balloons on legs, ready to pop.
Ignoring her headache, she sat down on the bed and opened her laptop. Katja’s party had been a success, if not how she had expected. She was used to men flirting with her, but Willem was special. She had felt an immediate click.
He fit the stereotype she had in her head of a big Swede or a lumberjack. Tall, broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips, honey-blond hair, straight white teeth, but hazel eyes instead of blue. She pictured him wearing a red plaid flannel shirt. Only his profession and his weird hobby of fish-keeping struck a discordant note. His hands fascinated her, large and strong, with long fingers and short-clipped nails. Desire fluttered in her stomach.
With a gigantic effort, she pushed lovely Willem to the back of her mind. It was time to investigate Katja’s old friend from her university days.
Nico something.
She logged into Facebook. Katja’s friends numbered over two thousand. Too many to scroll through. So Anneliese typed the letters Nic and found a Nicolaus, a Nicole, a Nicoline, and two Nicks.
Bingo.
Nicolaus Peereboom.
He hadn’t bothered to apply any privacy settings. His relationship status was divorced, he had two sons, and he was a retired publisher, which might explain why he and Katja had stayed in touch. His hobby was breeding Silkies, an ornamental breed of chicken. Her stomach heaved at the photos—at the dark maroon combs, exaggerated breasts, fleshy wattles.
She snapped away the photos and scrolled through Nico’s posts, most posted by his two sons, who appeared to be in their early thirties. They were tall, with light brown hair. One was stocky, the other lanky like his father. Both had their father’s long face. There were photos of Nico and his sons skiing and sailing, but no photos of the ex-wife. Either they had divorced in the pre-Facebook era, or Nico had been thorough in deleting her digital existence.
She considered Nicolaus Peereboom’s date of birth, relationship status, the photos of his sons, the repulsive chickens. Was he a real possibility? Was she wasting her time? Her biological father might be dead. He might live in another country. If Katja knew who her baby’s father was, she would have banished him as she had banished her daughter. They wouldn’t be Facebook friends.
She opened a Word document with the innocuous name Tree, as in family tree, and started typing.
After a few lines, she stopped, suddenly remembering that Louisa Veldkamp had two sons. She thought back … but no … Willem hadn’t mentioned a brother. Did he live in the mansion too? She finished typing and reread what she had written. It was disappointingly little, but she had a date with Willem tomorrow night, a chance to fill in the gaps—if she could stay on point and not be distracted by the sexy shrink.