Melanie Raabe - The Trap

He watches me with complete composure.

“I don’t doubt that you believe that,” he says.

We look each other in the eye and I see that he is sincere. I see his fear and his relief, and something else that I can’t put a name to — maybe pity.

We are silent again. I’m glad I don’t have to say anything. My brain has ceased its unrelenting deliberation and has fallen quiet from exhaustion. A good thing, too — I don’t want to have to think about criminal charges and scandal and prison or the psychiatric ward right now. I only want quiet, for as long as possible.

I look at the face of the man before me. I seldom have the opportunity to have a really good look at a face. So I look at Lenzen and watch as the monster turns into a perfectly normal man.

I sit there, sniffing, and listening to my tears falling on the parquet. Then Lenzen takes a step toward the table and makes a grab for the gun. I watch him, but it’s not until he’s holding the gun that I realize I’ve made a huge mistake.

“You still don’t believe me,” he says.

It’s not a question; it’s a statement of fact. He looks at me for a moment, then says, “You really do need professional help,” and turns and leaves.

Deep in shock, I stare after him. It’s a few moments before I am able to ease myself out of my stupor. I hear him open the front door, and the noise of the storm swells, as if someone had turned an invisible control knob. I hear his footsteps recede down the gravel path.

I get up onto legs that scarcely bear my weight and I go after him. When I see the front door wide open, my heart begins to race. What is he doing? I glance cautiously out of the door. I have no idea what the time is, how long we’ve been talking, how long we’ve been circling one another, but it’s been dark for ages.

I spot Lenzen in the moonlight, walking purposefully toward the lake, the gun in his hand. Between the lake and the edge of the woods he stops and seems to hesitate. Then he raises his arm and throws my pistol into the water. It seems to me that I hear the sound it makes as it hits the smooth surface, but that is impossible; I’m too far away. In the black and white of the moonlight I see Lenzen turn to face me. I can’t make out his features — he is only a silhouette — but I can feel his gaze. I wonder what I must look like for him from out there, a small blur in the doorway of my enormous, brightly lit house. We look at each other across the distance, and for a moment I think that Lenzen is going to turn and walk away. But he does the opposite: he begins heading toward me. He’s coming back of his own free will.

Stockholm syndrome is the name given to a psychological phenomenon in which hostages develop a positive emotional relationship to their aggressors. I know things like that; I’ve had a lot of time to read over the past decade.

I shudder — not only because of the cold that’s blowing in from outside, but because I realize that in this scenario I am the aggressor.

My God, Linda.

I have threatened an innocent man with a gun, hit him and detained him in my house. What’s more, I’ve recorded everything. I will never find my sister’s murderer. The best thing to do would be to put a bullet in my head. But Lenzen’s sunk my gun in the lake.

He’s standing right in front of me.

“Now do you believe that I’m not going to hurt you?” I nod feebly.

“Why don’t you call the police?” I ask.

“Because I want to talk to you first,” he says. “Where can we sit?”

I lead him into the kitchen. The coffee cups and newspapers that the photographer arranged on the table in another age, another lifetime, are still there. As if the birds hadn’t fallen from the sky after all.

“Why did you throw the gun in the lake?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” Lenzen replies. “A displacement activity.” I nod. I know what he means.

“I…” I begin, and immediately falter. “I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how I can apologize.”

“You’re trembling,” says Lenzen. “Sit down.”

I do as he says and he sits down opposite me. Once again we are silent for a long time. The silence is no longer a trial of strength; I simply don’t know what to say. I count the wrinkles on Lenzen’s forehead. When I’ve almost reached twenty, he jolts me out of my thoughts.

“Linda? If I may call you Linda…”

“Anyone I’ve held at gunpoint has the right to call me by my first name,” I say.

I cringe at my pathetic attempt at a joke.

Lenzen ignores it.

“Do you have anybody you could ring up?” he asks. “Family? Friends?”

It’s only now that I realize what a mellifluous voice he has. It sounds like the dubbing voice of an aging Hollywood actor, but I can’t think who.

“Linda?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I have the feeling you shouldn’t be on your own right now.”

I stare at him. I don’t understand. I attacked him; he has every right to call the police. Or retaliate.

“Unless he really does have something to hide and would rather not get involved with the police.”

It’s not until after the last word is out of my mouth that I realize I didn’t think that; I said it out loud.

Lenzen takes that on the chin too. He seems to have resigned himself long ago to the fact that I’m completely insane. And I am, too — insane, mad, a public menace.

Best-selling author, 38, shoots journalist, 53, during interview.

Lenzen has an alibi. Lenzen is innocent. It’s going to take me some time to get used to this new state of affairs.

“Maybe your parents,” he says.

“What?”

“Maybe you could give your parents a ring. So you’re not on your own.”

“No, not my parents. My parents and I, we…” I don’t know the end of that sentence.

“We don’t talk much,” I say eventually, although I had been going to say something else.

“How unusual,” says Lenzen.

His suntanned hands lie on my kitchen table and I feel a terrifying urge to touch them. I tear my gaze away. His pale eyes are resting on me.

“What do you mean?” I ask, when his remark finally gets through the membrane that surrounds me.

“Well, you told me your sister was murdered. And, of course, I’m no expert, but a tragedy like that normally welds a family together rather than driving them apart.”

I shrug. The word “normally” has no meaning in my world.

“With us, it’s different,” I say.

It’s no business of his, but it does me good to say that. My parents aren’t interested in me; they’re not interested in my books. They won’t even let me buy them a bigger house. All they’re interested in is their dead daughter.

Lenzen sighs. “I have a confession to make, Linda,” he says. Every hair on my neck stands on end.

“I wasn’t entirely honest with you regarding the premise of this interview.”

I swallow hard, can’t say a thing.

“I knew about your sister.” I’m gobsmacked.

“What?” I croak.

“Not the way you think,” Lenzen says quickly, holding up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “I came across the murder case when I was researching for the interview. In fact, I’m surprised no one had unearthed it before, but then the Internet wasn’t as crazy at that time as it is nowadays. There wasn’t such detailed documentation of everything.”

I can’t follow him.

“Well, at any rate, I know about your sister’s case — a dreadful affair. I understand you, Linda; it’s not easy coming to terms with a thing like that.”

“But you pretended you didn’t even know I had a sister.”

“I’m a journalist, Linda. Of course I didn’t start by laying all my cards on the table; I wanted to hear what you had to say first. Put yourself in my position. A woman who was the main suspect in a murder case many years ago writes a book in which that very murder is described down to the last detail. It’s a bloody sensation! But if I’d known that you’re so”—he falters—“that you’re so fragile, then…”