Snow White Must Die (Bodenstein & Kirchhoff, #4)(35)

“Just ask her,” she suggested. “She’s not going to lie to your face.”

“No,” he replied firmly. Pia sighed. Oliver von Bodenstein was not like other people. He might even accept a potential rival and suffer in silence, simply to preserve appearances and protect his family. In the area of self-control he had already earned top marks.

“Did you write down the cell phone number?”

“Yes.”

“Give it to me. I’ll make a call. With caller ID suppressed.”

“No, I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Don’t you want to find out the truth?”

Oliver hesitated.

“Listen here,” said Pia. “It’ll eat you up inside if you don’t find out where you stand.”

“Damn it!” he burst out. “I wish I’d never seen her in Frankfurt! I wish I’d never called her.”

“But you did. And she lied.”

Oliver took a deep breath and ran his hand through his hair. Pia had seldom seen her boss look so helpless. The present dilemma seemed to be making him feel worse than ever before.

“What am I going to do if I find out that she … that she’s cheating on me?”

“You’ve jumped to the wrong conclusions about her behavior before,” Pia reminded him, wanting to calm him down.

“This time it’s different,” he said. “Would you want to know the truth if you suspected you were being cheated on?”

“One hundred percent.”

“And what if—” He broke off. Pia kept quiet. They had arrived at the cabinet shop of Manfred Wagner in the Altenhain industrial park. Men, she thought. They’re all the same. No problem making a decision on the job. But as soon as it’s about a relationship and emotions come into play, they’re all a bunch of damn cowards.

* * *



Amelie waited until her stepmother had left the house. Barbara had believed her without question when she said that her first class of the day had been canceled. Amelie smirked. This woman was so gullible that it was almost boring telling lies to her. Entirely different from her own highly suspicious mother. She basically never believed a word Amelie said, so it had become a habit to lie to her. Her mother often swallowed the lies more easily than the truth.

Amelie waited until Barbara had driven off with the two toddlers in her red Mini, then she slipped out the front door and ran over to the Sartorius farm. It was still dark and no one was on the street; even Thies was nowhere to be seen. Her heart was pounding as she sneaked across the dismal yard, past the barn and the long stall building where no animals had lived for ages. She kept close to the wall, turned the corner, and almost had a heart attack when two masked figures suddenly appeared in front of her.

Before she could cry out, one of them grabbed her and pressed his hand over her mouth. He brutally twisted one of her arms behind her back and shoved her against the wall. The pain was so intense that she practically stopped breathing. What the hell was the matter with this guy, hurting her like this? And why were these characters waiting for her at seven thirty in the morning? Amelie had dealt with many threatening situations in her life, so after the first shock, her fear turned to fury. She doggedly struggled against the iron grip, kicking and flailing her free arm, trying to yank off the attacker’s mask with the eye slits. With the strength of desperation she managed to get her mouth free when she saw a patch of bare skin right before her eyes, a spot between glove and sleeve. She bit down as hard as she could. The man uttered a muted cry of pain and shoved Amelie to the ground. Neither he nor his pal had reckoned on such ferocious resistance, and they were panting with exertion and anger. Finally the second man gave Amelie a kick in the ribs that took her breath away. Then he punched her in the face with his fist. Amelie saw stars, and all her instincts screamed at her to stay down and keep her trap shut. She heard footsteps hurrying off and then it was completely still except for her own labored breathing.

“Shit,” she cursed, trying with an effort to get up. Her clothes were soaking wet and muddy. Blood ran down her chin and dripped onto her hands. Those shitheads had really hurt her.

* * *



The Wagner cabinet shop and the attached residence gave the impression that the owner had run out of money in the midst of construction. Unplastered walls, the front yard only partially paved, the rest covered with asphalt and full of potholes. It was actually just as depressing as the Sartorius place. Stacked up everywhere were boards and planks, some of them covered with moss, looking like they’d been lying there for years. Doors shrink-wrapped in plastic leaned against the wall of the workshop, and everything was filthy.

Kirchhoff first rang the bell of the residence, then at the door marked OFFICE, but there was no answer. Inside the workshop the lights were on, so she pushed the metal gate open and went in. Bodenstein followed her. It smelled of fresh wood.

“Hello?” she called. She walked through the shop, which was a terrible mess, and found behind a stack of boards a young man wearing earbuds and nodding in time to the music. He was busy varnishing something with one hand and had a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. When Bodenstein tapped him on the shoulder he spun around. He tore the earbuds out of his ears, looking guilty.

“Put out your cigarette,” Kirchhoff said to him, and he obeyed at once. “We’re looking for Mr. or Mrs. Wagner. Are they here somewhere?”