Snow White Must Die (Bodenstein & Kirchhoff, #4) by Nele Neuhaus
Prologue
The rusty iron staircase leading downstairs was narrow and steep. He felt along the wall for the light switch, and seconds later the twenty-five-watt bulb illuminated the space with a dim light. The heavy iron door opened without a sound. He oiled the hinges regularly so they wouldn’t squeak and wake her up when he came to visit. Warm air, mixed with the sweetish scent of wilting flowers, rose to meet him. Carefully he closed the door behind him, turned on the light, and paused for a moment. The large room, about thirty feet long by fifteen feet wide, was simply furnished, but she seemed to feel comfortable here. He went over to the stereo and punched the PLAY button. The raucous voice of Bryan Adams filled the room. He didn’t much care for this music, but she loved the Canadian singer, and he usually took her preferences into consideration. As long as he had to keep her hidden, she shouldn’t lack for anything. As usual she said nothing. She never talked to him, never answered his questions, but that didn’t bother him. He moved aside the folding screen that discreetly divided the room. There she lay, motionless and lovely on the narrow bed, her hands folded on her stomach, her long hair spread out like a black fan around her head. Beside the bed stood her shoes, and on the nightstand a bouquet of wilted lilies in a glass vase.
“Hello, Snow White,” he said softly. Beads of sweat formed on his brow. The heat was almost unbearable, but that was the way she liked it. Before, she had always been sensitive to cold. His gaze drifted to the photographs that he had put up beside her bed. He wanted to ask her whether he could put up a new one, but he needed to save this request for the proper moment, when she wouldn’t take offense. Cautiously he sat down on the edge of the bed. The mattress sagged a bit under his weight, and for a moment he thought she had moved. But no. She never moved. He reached out his hand and placed it on her cheek. Her skin had taken on a yellowish hue over the years and now felt stiff and leathery. As always she had her eyes closed, and even though her skin was no longer as tender and rosy, her mouth was as beautiful as before, back when she still talked to him and smiled. He sat there for a long while looking at her. His desire to protect her had never felt so strong.
“I have to be going,” he said at last, regretfully. “I have so much to do.”
He got up, took the wilted flowers from the vase, and made sure that the bottle of cola on her nightstand was full.
“Tell me if you need anything, all right?”
Sometimes he missed her laughter, and then he felt sad. Of course he knew that she was dead, yet he still found it simpler to act as if he didn’t know. He had never given up hoping for a smile from her.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
He didn’t say “See you later.” Nobody who was let out of the slammer ever said “See you later.” Often, very often over the past ten years, he had imagined the day of his release. Now it occurred to him that he’d only thought as far as the moment he would walk out the door into freedom, which all of a sudden seemed threatening. He had no plans for his life. Not anymore. Even without the droning admonishments of the social workers he had realized long ago that the world was not waiting for him, and that he would have to deal with all sorts of obstacles and defeats in a future that no longer seemed so rosy. He could forget about a career as a doctor, which had once been his ambition after he passed his A-level exams for the university. Under the circumstances the training he’d received to be a locksmith, which he’d completed in prison, might come in handy. In any case it was high time he looked life straight in the eye.
As the gray, spike-topped iron gate of the Rockenberg Correctional Facility closed behind him with a clang, he saw her standing there across the street. In the past ten years she was the only one who had written to him regularly, but he was still surprised to see her. Actually he had expected his father to come. She was leaning on the fender of a silver SUV, holding a cell phone to her ear, and puffing nervously on a cigarette. He stopped. When she recognized him, she straightened up, stuck the phone in her coat pocket, and flicked away the cigarette butt. He hesitated for a moment before crossing the cobblestone street, carrying the small suitcase with his possessions in his left hand. He stopped in front of her.
“Hello, Tobi,” she said with a nervous laugh. Ten years was a long time. They hadn’t seen each other in all that time, because he hadn’t wanted her to visit him.
“Hello, Nadia,” he replied. It was strange to call each other by these unfamiliar names. In person she looked better than on TV. Younger. They stood facing each other, hesitant. A brisk gust of wind sent the dry fall leaves rustling across the pavement. The sun had slipped behind thick gray clouds. It was cold.
“Fantastic that you’re out.” She threw her arms around him and kissed his cheek. “I’m glad. Really.”
“I’m glad too.” The instant he uttered this cliché, he asked himself whether it was true. Happiness was not the same thing as this feeling of strangeness, of uncertainty. She let him go because he made no move to return her embrace. In the old days she had been his best friend, the neighbors’ daughter, and he had taken her presence in his life for granted. Nadia was the sister he’d never had. But now everything was different, and not only her name. The tomboy Nathalie, who had been ashamed of her freckles, the gap in her front teeth, and her breasts, had been transformed into Nadia von Bredow, a famous actress who was in great demand. She had realized her ambitious dream to leave behind the village where they’d both grown up, to climb all the way to the top of the social ladder. He, on the other hand, could no longer put his foot even on the lowest rung. As of today he was an ex-con. Sure, he had served his time, but society was not exactly going to welcome him with open arms.