the note up waving it in the air, his face frozen in a smirk, his head held loosely on his neck.
“Looks like you might be in a little more trouble than we expected.”
He looked to Marko, staring at him, taking his sweet time, it was so obvious he was trying to draw out the moment. “Says here,” he drug his tongue across his teeth under his top gums, “says here that there’s more than just one child involved.”
“Really?” I asked sarcastically. Now I knew he was bluffing. I finally felt confident that he didn’t know as much as he claimed, “You’ve been to my apartment,” I snapped, “you’ve actually searched my apartment. Remember?” I felt I may have been raising my voice, but I wasn’t sure I cared. “If someone was there… if a child was there… if more than one child was there… don’t you think you would have found them? Good Lord, you didn’t leave so much as a hand-crocheted doily unturned!”
He stood up abruptly, “I’ll ask the questions!” he yelled.
I glanced at Marko, his eyes were wide, he shook his head, a quick, tight, shake. He was telling me no. But what did that mean? He was telling me not to do something. But what was it that I wasn’t supposed to do? Friedrich realized we were looking at one another, he whipped his head back and forth between us and his eyes lowered resentfully, he turned to Marko and cleared his throat. Marko nodded, he seemed embarrassed by the reprimand and looked away. I could see that Friedrich had quite successfully conditioned all of his co-workers to be fearful of his dramatics.
Friedrich sat back down, he reminded me of a doll that I’d had when I was about seven years old. As you turned the head from left to right the expression changed. Laughing, happy, sad, laughing, happy, sad. Friedrich was this doll. Someone had just returned his head to the center and here he was again smiling. He was certainly the most erratic person I had ever met, but to be honest, it was hard to discern how much of it was just an act and how much of it was genuine instability. He opened my folder, carefully positioning it so that I couldn’t see what was inside. He looked over the top of it, taunting me as he turned the pages, slowly, stopping to read the different entries, nodding to himself, frequently stopping to check my reaction, making sure he was properly getting under my skin.
“Oh yes, the winter formal, the winter formal.” he repeated several times, “I remember the winter formal.” He looked at me again over the top of the folder, “The winter formal.”
“Yes, yes, okay, the winter formal.” I finally snapped. “What is it about the winter formal?”
The fingers of his free hand rolled one after the other across the top of the table. He looked even more disturbed when his eyes were the only part of his face that could be seen. He shut the folder abruptly. “Let’s cut to the chase,” he said, “we know you were seen in the garden with a little girl on Tuesday night.”
We’d sat in the garden for over two hours, of course someone had seen us. I was sure many people had seen us. Everyone that had passed by on the sidewalk that night, everyone that drove by in a car, a cab, a bus, they’d all seen us, everyone in the shops and buildings that surrounded the garden, they’d all seen us sitting together on the bench. Why was it such a big deal to be seen in the garden with a little girl? I wanted to say something. I couldn’t not say something.
“Yes. I was in the garden with a little girl on Tuesday.” I blurted out. “She was waiting for her grandmother.”
I instantly regretted my decision. Why did I say anything? Anja would be so disappointed. I imagined trying to tell her that it was no big deal, that it was all really very harmless, it was harmless for me to admit to something they already knew. She wouldn’t say anything, she would just shake her head, the disappointment would be unable to leave her face.
“Who was
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