December 2024
Anneliese
THAT NIGHT ANNELIESE perched on the edge of the bed, listening to Willem get ready for bed in the bathroom.
As soon as she heard his electric toothbrush buzz, she jumped into action. She dragged his cardigan from under the bed, where she had stuffed it when they got home from Zorgvlied. It was unlikely Willem would hunt for his cardigan tonight, but she wasn’t taking any chances. She had at least two minutes. She reached into the pocket, and her fingers curled around the small book inside, but even before she withdrew it, she knew something was wrong. It was the wrong size, wrong weight, wrong texture. She looked at the paperback novel in her hand.
She blinked several times and willed the paperback to transform into Katja’s diary. She wondered if the diary had been a novel all along. Was it a case of her seeing what she wished to see? Was she delusional? She searched the other pocket. The letter and the key to the filing cabinet were also missing. She hung her head over the side of the bed and peered into the gloom underneath. Nothing apart from a dust bunny.
Willem’s toothbrush fell silent.
Swearing, she shoved the paperback under her pillow, hung the cardigan in Willem’s wardrobe, and flung herself down on the bed a moment before the bathroom door opened.
Her thoughts spun. She had left the cardigan in the kitchen when she had drunk tea with Hendrik. It had hung on a chair the entire afternoon, which was ample time for someone to substitute the paperback for the diary. How could she have been so careless? So stupid?
Hendrik must have waited for the chance to steal it back. But why hadn’t he confronted her when he caught her red-handed in Katja’s study? It made no sense. She supposed Katja or Willem could have taken the diary. Or Jurriaan, who had stayed for dinner. But why would one of them check the pockets? Did someone search her things regularly? The thought made her slightly sick.
Willem sat down on the bed and laid his hand on her knee. “Let’s talk,” he said.
His serious tone set off her alarm bells. The cardigan belonged to Willem. It was only logical that he was the one who had found the diary in the pocket.
“About what?” she asked guardedly, a confession on the tip of her tongue. She might have to admit she was Katja’s daughter. Otherwise, he would think she was plain nosy and untrustworthy. She had to make him understand.
“I want to talk about your behavior at the cemetery today,” he said.
Okay. Not the diary, then. “What behavior?” she asked as innocently as she could.
“Your competition with Katja.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?”
“I wanted us to have a pleasant drink together at the Boathouse.”
“Anneliese, you’re new to the family. You don’t understand how we do things.”
“You’re right—I don’t. Take the performance at the cemetery. That was pretty weird, if you ask me.”
“How was it weird?” He cocked his head to one side.
She actually didn’t know how people normally behaved when they visited a loved one’s grave, never having visited one herself, but it was too late to take back her words.
“Okay, Dr. Willem. Why visit a grave, if not to reminisce about the person who’s gone? To remember them properly?”
He studied her for several moments, and heat flooded her face. Her cheeks must be glowing. Was he thinking that she had never talked to him about Daan, her dead brother? As a shrink, he must be constructing theories for her silence. He might throw Daan in her face. She braced herself.
“We were devastated when Louisa died, especially Hendrik,” Willem said, his condescending tone so like Dr. Hummel’s that she wanted to puke. “He never worked again. He stopped talking. He didn’t eat. Katja saved him, and the four of us made a pact. We promised not to dwell on what happened to Louisa. It seemed like the best way to move forward with our lives.”
“Isn’t talking supposed to be therapeutic? Isn’t that what shrinks preach?”
Willem acknowledged her sarcasm with a faint smile. “I wasn’t a psychiatrist back then. Besides, Hendrik refused to talk to a therapist.”
“Did any of you have grief counseling?”
“No. In hindsight, I think counseling might have been beneficial.”
Or maybe not, she thought, recalling her sessions with Dr. Hummel. The doctor, blindfolded, trying to pin the tail on Anneliese.
“Why do you visit her grave?”
“Hendrik says it’s the least we can do to honor her memory.”
Anneliese thought about Louisa’s masterful compositions; her brilliant performances; her beauty; and her lonely, watery death.
“Suppose your mother didn’t drown? What if someone killed her?”
She meant nothing by it—not really. But the effect on Willem was instantaneous. It was as if a mask fell over his face or lifted from it. He looked like a different person. He looked like someone dangerous. He gazed at her in the same way Daan used to do. She was nine years old again, back in her parents’ shed, fumbling in the dark for a box of rat poison.
“Finding out what happened to Louisa was a job for the police. We accepted the coroner’s verdict.”
Anneliese’s heart gave several irregular thumps. “Of course,” she said, backtracking. “I’m sorry. What do you want from me?”
“Promise not to mention my mother to the others.”
“The others?”
“Katja, Hendrik, and Jurriaan. Come to me with your questions. Go along with our weird ritual.”
“But—”
“Then you’ll be part of this family.”
His words stopped her dead. Magic words. A frozen place buried deep inside her started melting. She didn’t dare speak, afraid of breaking the spell. She said, “I want that, Willem.”
“Good.”
“Is there a ceremony? Do I swear on a Bible?” she asked lightly, trying to break the tension.
His eyes locked on hers. For a disorienting moment, she was looking into Daan’s dark eyes. Eyes that were burning with a familiar intensity. Her mouth went dry.
“No Bible. Just a promise.”
“I promise.” Her voice was a croak.
He kissed her, his lips cold and hard.
“Thank you, Anneliese. It’s been a long day. Let’s get some sleep.” He turned out the light. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” she said, but the words rang as hollow in her ears as she felt inside. She listened to his breathing slow down until she couldn’t hear it, and she knew he was sleeping. Willem, not Daan. Willem, not Daan. Willem, not Daan.
Dr. Hummel had said the need to belong was one of the core human needs. He’d said it was her vulnerable spot. Willem was a shrink too. He knew which buttons to push. Had she been played?
She stared at the dark ceiling, laid her hands on her round belly, and tried to empty her head. Sleep was far away, and she felt heavy with foreboding.