He wraps both arms around his head, an unusually gawky, graceless move for him. “The truth? I was jealous.”
I furrow my brow and bite my lip, trying to assimilate everything he’s saying. “Because you were afraid Lukas would take Sylvie away from you? Even though he’s with Estelle?”
Filip doesn’t answer and covers his face with his hands. He starts to heave. At first, I’m afraid he’s crying, but then I realize he’s laughing, long and bitter.
I stare at him. Lukas’s crazed grief. How Filip let Lukas hit him over and over again, not lifting a finger to defend himself. “You were never romantically involved with Sylvie.”
He shakes his head, his eyes still clouded, but not with humor, with pain. His gaze is fixed on me and I understand.
“You thought that if she was found, he would be able to move on.” He had done it all for Lukas. Filip hadn’t been jealous of Lukas. He’d been jealous of Sylvie. I ask gently, “How long have you been in love with him?”
His face in the shadows is unspeakably sad. “Forever.”
I reach out my arms and he goes into them. We hold each other for a long moment. I breathe in his smell of cigarette smoke and Earl Grey tea. I mutter into his shirt, “I just want to make it clear that you were never my type.”
He breaks into a surprised chuckle. As we separate, we both have tears in our eyes. The air between us feels lighter now, as if a great weight has fallen away.
There is a thickness in my throat as I ask, “Did you ever tell him? I mean, you’re Dutch, for goodness’ sake. You live in Amsterdam.”
He rolls his shoulders and blows out a series of short exhales, as if to regain control. “Everyone except Lukas knows. I made it very clear to him once. We were the last ones in the locker room in high school and we’d just gotten out of the showers. He looked so beautiful, with the water crusted on his eyelashes, I just—” Filip breaks off and sighs. He works his jaw. “I made it perfectly obvious how I felt about him and he was horrified.”
I lay my hand on the silky fabric of his tuxedo. “I’m so sorry. He was young.”
He places a hand over mine and gives it a warm squeeze. “I know. We weave our own webs. Then they trap us. After that, I tried hard to convince him, myself, and my family that I was not gay, that the incident had been a joke. I married a wonderful woman. But it never works when you deny who you truly are. You know what she said to me when we got divorced? She said, ‘Lukas is your French Revolution. Once you loved him, everything in your life fell into a before and after. Nothing would ever be the same.’”
Filip looks me directly in the eyes. I shiver under the weight of his stare. He leans in close and whispers to me, “Lukas was my French Revolution and Sylvie was his.”
Text Message
Amy: I just spoke to Filip and a lot of things are clearer now. Okay, I’m sorry, I have a stupid question. Is Lukas your boyfriend?
Estelle: Oh, honey. Absolutely not.
Amy: But you always kiss him on the lips. You hold each other.
Estelle: I am physical with many people. Mothers kiss their children that way here. It does not mean anything. I am not the one for Lukas.
Amy: Sylvie.
Estelle: Yes.
It’s late when I get home, and Helena and Willem have already gone to bed. I have bitten all of my nails to the quick. My mind has been churning the entire trip over everything I’ve learned from Filip and Estelle. Could Lukas possibly have something to do with Sylvie’s death? Jealousy? I think about his wild eyes, his enormous hands. Was that why he didn’t want anyone to find the body? If there were any marks on her, we’d never know since the police refused to do an autopsy. Or was it something with him and Jim? But Jim has no real motive. I remember all the talk about the gold. Helena suspected Sylvie of faking the burglary. What if Lukas had deliberately cast the suspicion on her so when she disappeared, Helena would assume she had taken it? Could he possibly be such a good actor? But I can’t believe Lukas would have hurt my sister. If what Estelle and Filip said is true, then Lukas has been lying to me and everyone else about his relationship with Sylvie—but confronting him directly will only alert him to my suspicions.
I tiptoe into the unlit house and know what I have to do. I’ll search Lukas’s apartment while he’s gone. I wedge the door open with my foot so the outdoor light illuminates the key rack that hangs in the entryway. One key is labeled lukas. Probably so his parents can look after Couscous and his apartment when he’s traveling. Easy.
I take a deep breath. My fingers are numb with fear but I have to do it now while I have the chance. I take the key and gently pull the front door closed behind me. Half of the moon hovers suspended in the hollow sky, the other half obliterated by darkness. The sharp white stones paving the front lawn glint in the moonlight like bones. I take a step toward the converted garage but freeze as I catch sight of Lukas’s scooter parked in the driveway. The lights flick on inside. He’s back.
I stomp my foot on the hard earth, but a part of me is relieved as well. I rake my fingers through my hair and turn around, defeated for now. I whisper into the night air, “If only you could tell me what happened to you, Sylvie.”
Chapter 27
Sylvie
Friday, April 29
My grief and disappointment overwhelmed my system. I was listless with despair. The sharp edge had been dulled. I felt as if I were carrying a great weight on my back that dragged me toward the earth. Now that Grandma was gone, I had no excuse to stay any longer—unless Lukas asked me to, and I was not going to hang around waiting for him. He had not given me any indication that he felt the same way now that he had in Venice. I thought of that night over and over, but it was, in the end, nothing but a kiss. Who would want me now? I was a broken woman saddled with the prospect of a messy divorce.
When evening fell, I packed my things, took my cello, and went to Lukas’s apartment to tell him I was leaving the next morning. He could return the cello with its case to Filip for me. I rang the doorbell. No one answered. His bicycle and scooter were parked in the driveway. He was probably working and could not hear me.
I used my key to let myself inside and set my cello beside his front door.
“Lukas?” I called out.
I heard a faint noise from the back of the studio, where he had his darkroom. I walked toward the double-hinged doorway and knocked on the door. This time, he said something indecipherable from inside. I cracked open both doors and waited behind the dark curtain.
“Who is there?” he asked.
“Me. The lights are off. You do not need to worry.”
His voice grew warm and intimate. “Come in. Let me show you what I am doing here.”
In the glow of the overhead red light, I could just make out his tall figure. He stood beside one of the large washbasins. The scent of chemicals tickled my nostrils. He was hanging a photo to dry on a line. The darkroom was covered with pictures. I squinted to see but as I recognized them, let out a shaky breath. Perhaps I had not been as delusional as I had thought.
I stepped up behind him and wrapped my arms around his waist. “These are all of me. That one is my weak eye.”