Melanie Raabe - The Trap

Why? Why? Why?

“You’re obsessed with that question, Frau Conrads. It’s no good. You have to let go, live your life.”

I try to shake off Anna’s image and all thoughts of her. I don’t want to think about her because I know where that leads me; back then I almost went mad, knowing that Anna was dead, and that her murderer was still somewhere out there.

Not being able to do anything was the worst. It was better to stop thinking about it altogether. Distract myself. Forget about Anna.

I try to do the same now, but it doesn’t work this time. Why? Then the news reporter’s face flashes across my mind, and something in my head goes click. I realize that I’ve spent the past hours in shock.

And at last it’s clear to me. The man on television I was so distressed by was real.

It wasn’t a nightmare; it was reality.

I’ve seen my sister’s murderer. It may be twelve years ago, but I remember every detail. It is compellingly clear to me what that means.

I drop the watering can. It lands with a clatter, and the water spills out over my bare feet. I turn around, leave the conservatory, stub my toe on the way into the house, ignore the pain, and hurry on.

Swiftly, I cross the ground floor, take the stairs to the first, skid along the hallway, and arrive in my bedroom out of breath. My laptop is lying on the bed, vaguely menacing. I hesitate, then sit down and pull it toward me, my fingers trembling. I’m almost afraid to open it, as if someone might be watching me through the screen.

I open Google and enter the name of the news channel where I saw the man. I’m nervous and keep hitting the wrong keys; it’s not until the third try that I get it right. I bring up the homepage and click my way through to Reporters . I’m on the verge of thinking that the whole thing was just a figment of my imagination after all — that the man doesn’t exist, that I dreamt him.

But then I find him; it only takes a few clicks. The monster. Instinctively, I hold my left hand in front of the screen to cover his photo. I can’t look at him — not yet. The walls are starting to shake again, my heart is racing. I concentrate on breathing, close my eyes. Nice and calm, that’s the way. I open my eyes again and read his name, his profile. I see that he’s won prizes — that he has a family and leads a successful, fulfilled life. Something inside me snaps. I feel something I haven’t felt for years, and it’s red hot. Slowly, I take down my hand from the screen.

I look at him.

I look into the face of the man who murdered my sister.

I am choked with fury, and I can think only one thing: I’m going to get you.

I clap my laptop shut, put it away, get up.

My thoughts are racing. My heart is pounding.

The incredible thing is, he lives very close by! For any normal person, it would be no trouble to track him down. But I’m trapped in my house. And the police — the police didn’t even believe me at the time. Not really.

If I want to speak to him — if I want to confront him, to call him to account in some way — then I have to get him to come to me. How can I lure him here?

The conversation with my therapist flashes through my mind again.

“But why? Why did Anna have to die?”

“You have to accept the possibility that you’re never going to get an answer to that question, Linda.”

“I can’t accept that. Never.”

“You’ll learn.”

Never.

I think it over, feverishly. He’s a journalist. And I am a famous author, notoriously withdrawn, who’s had all the big magazines and TV channels clamoring for an interview for years now. Especially when a new book’s out.

I remember what my therapist said: “You’re only tormenting yourself, Linda.”

“I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“If you need a reason, invent one. Or write a book. Flush it out of your system. And then you must let go. Live your life.”

Every hair on my neck is standing on end. My God, that’s it! Gooseflesh spreads over my body.

It’s so obvious.

I’ll write a new book. The events from back then in the form of a crime novel. Bait for the murderer and therapy for me.

All the heaviness has left my body. I leave my bedroom; my limbs are obeying me again. I go into the bathroom and have a shower. I dry and dress myself, go into my study, boot up my computer again, and begin to write.

From Blood Sisters by Linda Conrads

1

JONAS

He hit her with all his strength. The woman crashed to the floor. She managed to struggle halfway to her feet, and tried frantically to escape, but didn’t have a chance in hell. The man was so much faster. He thrust her to the ground again, knelt on her back, grabbed her long hair and started to beat her head against the floor with full force, over and over again. The woman’s screams turned to a whimper, and then she was silent. The man released his hold. Only a few moments before, his features had been contorted with blind hatred; now he was incredulous. Frowning, he considered his bloodsmeared hands, while behind him the full moon rose, vast and silver. The fairies giggled and hurried up to the woman who was lying there as if dead. They dipped their slender fingers in her blood and began to smear it on their pale faces like war paint.

Jonas sighed. He hadn’t been to the theater for ages and he certainly wouldn’t have come up with the idea himself. It was Mia who’d wanted to see a play again; it would make a change from the cinema. One of her girlfriends had recommended the new production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream , and Mia had immediately booked tickets for them. Jonas had been looking forward to the evening. He had, however, been expecting a lighthearted comedy, and here he was instead watching nightmarish sprites, satanic fairies, and lovers, who — with intense physical effort and an inordinate quantity of fake blood — were tearing each other limb from limb in the dark woods. He glanced across at his wife, who was watching the action with shining eyes. The rest of the audience, too, was spellbound. Jonas felt shut out. He was evidently the only one in the theater getting no pleasure out of the violent display.

Maybe he had once been like them. Maybe he had once found horror and violence fascinating and entertaining. He couldn’t remember; it was probably too long ago.

His thoughts began to wander to the case he was working on. Mia would have given him a discreet nudge in the ribs if she had known that he was sitting in the darkness of the auditorium thinking about work again — but that’s the way it was. He thought of the scene of the crime, and ran over in his mind the hundreds of different pieces of the puzzle, painstakingly gathered by him and his colleagues, which would most likely lead to the speedy arrest of the victim’s husband. .

Jonas gave a start as the theater was plunged into darkness, and then flooded with light and filled with applause.

When the audience around him rose in ovation, as if by some secret agreement of which he alone had not been informed, Superintendent Jonas Weber felt like the loneliest person on the planet.

Mia didn’t say a word as he drove home along the dark streets. She had got her enthusiasm for the performance off her chest in the cloakroom queue and on the way to the car park. Now she was listening to the music coming from the radio with a cheerful smile that wasn’t meant for him.

Jonas flicked on the indicator and turned into the driveway. In the beam of the headlamps, their house emerged in grainy black and white. He cut the motor and was putting on the handbrake when his mobile began to vibrate.

He took the call, expecting Mia to react — to grumble or sigh, or at least roll her eyes. But she didn’t. Her cherry-red lips formed a mute “Good night” and she got out of the car. Jonas watched her go while his colleague’s voice spilled out of the phone. He sat and watched as his wife moved away from him, her long, honey-blonde hair, tight jeans and dark-green top fading to monochrome as she was enveloped by the darkness.