December 2024
Willem
WHILE THE DETECTIVES were interviewing Katja, Jurriaan made tea. Willem watched him bump his head on the cabinet; drop a spoon on the floor; and, when he set the cups on the table, slosh scalding tea on the saucers.
“Sorry,” Jurriaan said.
“No worries, twinnie. Are you okay?”
“I guess.” He sat down and stirred in sugar. “I shouldn’t have said I was Mom’s favorite.”
“Forget it.”
“Do you think they’ll want to talk to me again?”
“If they do, don’t volunteer information. Answer their questions and stick to the story. Promise?”
“Promise.”
Willem was more worried about what Hendrik might say, his illness making him unpredictable. He looked at his watch and wondered if the detectives would call everyone back to the sitting room after concluding their interview of Katja.
A half hour later, she came into the kitchen, with Terpstra and Rijkaard in tow. She raised her eyebrows at Willem in a gesture of helplessness as she walked past and turned on the teakettle.
Terpstra said, “Dr. Veldkamp, we request your permission to look around the property. We can get a search warrant, if necessary.”
Willem’s heart raced as he imagined the detectives poking around in their things, lifting rugs, opening closets. He remembered Katja’s manic cleaning twenty years ago, scrubbing real and imaginary blood spatter from the kitchen floor, cabinet doors, and walls. He remembered Hendrik going through Louisa’s suitcase and the boxes in the attic. And Hendrik burning photos and letters—to protect her privacy, he’d said. But he had missed the damn letter from the hockey club, which made Willem wonder what else he had missed.
“You’ll have to ask my father for permission, but I’m afraid he’s taking a nap.”
“Do you mind if we wait here until he wakes up?” Terpstra asked.
Willem’s impulse was to order the detectives out of the house, but they would come back with a search warrant. Perhaps it was better to keep up the appearance that they were cooperating with the investigation.
Willem knocked on Hendrik’s bedroom door. Getting no reply, he went inside. Two folded sheets of paper lay in the center of the bed, one with Willem’s name on it, the other with Katja’s. He unfolded the one addressed to him. As he read, his hands started shaking, and he sat down on the bed, turned the letter over, and read the back. The handwriting was small and cramped—illegible in places, Hendrik’s cognitive decline evident. There was a rambling account of how Louisa had died, and an incoherent passage about someone named Mirella, whom Hendrik seemed to confuse with Anneliese—something to sort out later.
He buried his head in his hands, a low groan escaping his lips. His hands curled into fists, and he pounded the bed until his anger seeped away, leaving bitter relief—he finally knew what had happened to his mother. He unfolded the other letter, this one brief.
After reading it, he jumped up and ran from the room, with the letters in his hand. He flung open the door to his old bedroom, hoping to find Anneliese curled up under a blanket. Although the bed covers were in disarray, there was no sign of her. Nor was she in the bathroom. A chill ran down his spine. He folded the letters into quarters, and slipped the one addressed to him into his trouser pocket and the one addressed to Katja into his shirt pocket. He bolted down the stairs, two steps at a time. Without stopping to put on his coat, he ducked out the front door and raced toward the carport. Slush from the overhanging trees splattered his face. The carport was empty.
He tried to harness his thoughts, which were scattering in all directions, as he hurried back to the house, his heart hammering against his ribs. The detectives were sitting at the table with Katja and Jurriaan, cups of steaming tea in front of them.
Willem pulled the letter to Katja from his shirt pocket and slapped it on the table in front of Terpstra. “Read this.”
Terpstra picked it up.
“What’s going on, Willem?” Katja asked.
Terpstra read the letter to himself, then out loud.
Dear Katja,
The truth will out. I killed Louisa because she deceived me with another man. I’m taking Mirella. I know you’ll understand. This is goodbye.
Love always,
Hendrik
“Who is Mirella?” the detective asked Katja.
She bit down on her lip. “She’s the baby I gave up for adoption. Oh my God. Hendrik thinks Anneliese is Mirella.”
“Is she?” Terpstra asked.
“It never … I don’t know.”
Questions shot through Willem’s head. Was Anneliese Katja’s daughter? Did Anneliese know? Was it more than a coincidence that she had come into his life? But he pushed his questions aside for the time being and turned to the detectives. “My father’s not well. I think he took Anneliese. The car’s gone. She may be in danger. We have to go after them.”
Terpstra jumped to his feet, his keys jangling in his hand. “We’ll take my car. Where to?”
Good question. Fear crushed Willem’s chest. Hendrik could head for anywhere on the island. The dunes, a bunker, the harbor, the dune lake. But then it came to him. It was a guess, but it made sense from a psychological point of view.
“He’s taking Anneliese to Lutine.”
“Are you sure?” Terpstra asked.
“I know my father.”
“Won’t he need a boat?”
“There are boats moored at the old pier.”
“Let’s go,” Terpstra said.
“Me too.” Jurriaan jumped up, nearly toppling his chair.
“We’ll all go,” Katja said.
The detectives’ car was parked in the lane. Terpstra and Rijkaard climbed into the front seat; Willem, Jurriaan, and Katja into the back. Willem leaned forward, giving directions to the detectives. The wipers swept hypnotically over the windshield in time with Willem’s heartbeat and whispered hurry, hurry.
He did the math. Anneliese celebrated her birthday on her adoption day, March 28, 2001. Her birthday was probably a few months before. Louisa had been on tour in the summer of 2000. She had engaged Katja to be their housekeeper. Katja had been taking a hiatus from university. Louisa’s secretary quit without notice, and Katja replaced her. She didn’t look pregnant when she left Amsterdam, but he might not have noticed: he had been only twelve. He couldn’t recall when he saw her next, months later, possibly not until spring. She’d had a baby and never told him. He glanced at her, sitting on the other side of Jurriaan, her lips clamped together, her face drained of color. He couldn’t help wondering what other secrets she was keeping. It hurt more than it should have.
Jurriaan stifled a groan.
“What’s wrong?” Willem whispered.
“I remember … I remember everything.”
Willem shot him a hard look, and Jurriaan fell silent.
Katja took Jurriaan’s hand and squeezed. “It will be all right. I promise.”
Willem wondered if it was a promise she could keep.