Between the glossy photos, I find an old Polaroid. The edges of it are worn as if it’s been handled often in the intervening years. It’s yellowed and fading but the image is still clear: an awkward, homely Chinese girl, about eight years old, sitting on the floor and tucking herself into the corner like she wishes she could disappear. Her shoulders are hunched as if to ward off a blow that she knows is coming. One eye is hidden by a dark blue eye patch, the other glares from beneath her uneven bangs. She’s scowling, staring at the camera as if daring it to unveil her secrets. She is so different from the impeccably dressed, poised sister I’ve known most of my life that it takes me a moment to realize it is Sylvie. She’s in handmade clothes, probably sewn by Grandma: a funny little shirt with a Chinese Mandarin collar. That shirt could not have done a better job of marking her as different in this country.
Her mouth is strange and thick. I realize it’s because of the crooked front tooth that protrudes from her front lip. I’d completely forgotten. Sylvie had it fixed as soon as she went away to college. Was this what Sylvie had been—a child driven into the corner? I see resentment and a fierce intelligence on her expressive face, but there’s fear too. What had Willem and Helena done to her? I clutch the photo to my chest. This is why I have to find out what happened to her. This girl is counting on me.
More photos: Sylvie against the open Dutch sky, the flat fields laid out behind her. Sylvie on a bicycle in Amsterdam. Sylvie drinking tea at a café. Sylvie playing the cello in Helena’s living room. Sylvie laughing beside a bunch of trees, water behind her, a half-eaten sandwich in her hand. I recognize the spot. That’s where we found her body.
I look through all the photos and then rummage through the rest of the bag. Nothing.
I hear a car pull into the driveway outside. Oh no. I still haven’t found anything, except for evidence that Sylvie and Lukas had an intimate relationship. What was I expecting anyway? I quickly replace the photos and slide the portfolio back into the bag.
Couscous has padded upstairs by now and is playing with a part of the cello case. She wiggles her butt and then pounces on the frayed shoulder strap that is lying on the floor. I pause. Why isn’t the cello inside its case?
I hear voices from the lawn. They’re getting out of the car. Lukas will be back at any moment and I’m still inside his apartment. I hesitate, then run over and swiftly flip open the case.
There’s a worn velvet bag stuffed inside. I know what it is from the way it feels: Grandma’s missing jewelry. I am frozen in shock before I make myself move. Oh gods. It can’t be. It was Lukas after all. He took the treasure from her, then killed her. I can’t be caught in here when he comes back alone. The only exit is through the front door. The family must have gone into the main house by now. They’ll realize I’m not there and he might come looking for me.
I hear the key in the lock downstairs. I’m breathing so shallowly, I think I’m going to hyperventilate. As quickly and quietly as I can, I race down the stairs, still lugging the jewelry bag. The door is half-open now and I shove against it hard.
It bounces against Lukas, who lets out a yell, and then I’m through to the outside. He reaches to grab my arm. He has me, his grip bruising, he’s pulling me inside. I’m twisting and kicking and then I’m loose and I run for all I’m worth.
He yells, “What the—? What is that? Amy! Stop!”
I hear his footsteps heavy and swift behind me, his longer legs gaining on me quickly. The stones are slippery and I slide, almost trip, then I recover my balance and keep going.
In front of me, the living room lights are switched on in the main house and I can just make out the familiar figure standing behind the gauze curtain: Ma.
I pound on the door. I ring the doorbell again and again. Now Lukas is upon me. His giant hands are grabbing the back of my jacket. He is pulling me backward.
I hang on to the doorknob. “Open up! Please!”
The door falls away and Helena is staring at me, her mouth open. Lukas and I both freeze. I tear away from him and burst into the house, heaving and panting. I am drenched in clammy sweat. Everyone’s gaze is fixed upon us. I hear Lukas’s ragged breathing, and then focus on Ma’s and Pa’s familiar faces. It’s strange to see them in this foreign place. They’re sitting on the couch; Willem has stopped short before them with a tray of coffee and tea in his hands.
Ma is deflated like an empty trash bag, wrinkled, old, and sagging in a way I’ve never seen before. It’s as if the life has drained out of her with the passing of her mother and daughter. “Amy, what going on?” she says.
I catch my breath. I can’t believe what I have discovered. Am I somehow wrong? How can I devastate them further? Should I stay quiet as I always have? I am clutching the bag to my stomach. It’s hidden inside the folds of my unzipped jacket. I could take the treasure home with us and let it all be over. Except I can’t go back to the person I used to be. Lukas murdered Sylvie. The shock and horror of it echoes through my mind. In a trembling voice, I say, “We need to call the police.”
Lukas looms behind me. I can feel the heat of him, his rage and frustration. What will he do now?
Willem’s face is a polite mask. He sets down the tray with a clatter, but his voice is deliberate and calm. “Why would we need to do that?”
I am breathing so shallowly, I can barely say the words. “Because your son killed Sylvie.”
Helena gasps; her face blotches. Ma jerks as if I’ve dealt her a physical blow and Pa’s eyes bulge like those of the fish he kills. Lukas lurches toward me. As I wince away from him, he grabs the back of a chair and uses it to brace himself. He hangs his head so his hair curtains his face.
The stunned silence is broken by a long peal of laughter. Willem says, “A very dramatic joke, Amy.”
I open my jacket and reveal the velvet bag. The mocking smile disappears from Willem’s face. From the stricken look in Ma’s eyes, I know she recognizes it. I drop to my knees in front of the low opium table and pour out the contents. At first, a small plastic bag emerges and I’m afraid that I was mistaken. But then pouches of silk envelopes tied together with ribbons appear. I open one to reveal a gold necklace formed of apple-green jade droplets, each teardrop setting wrought in the shape of a lotus flower and studded with diamonds. Both Helena and Ma stare with longing on their faces, whether for the jewelry or Grandma’s love, I cannot say.
I stare at all of them. “I found this hidden in Lukas’s room.”
“What the hell were you doing in my apartment?” he bellows. He has his arms wrapped around himself, his teeth bared like a feral animal’s.
“That does not prove anything.” Helena dares to come over and start stuffing the jewelry back into the bag, as if she plans to return it to Lukas. She doesn’t meet our eyes. She speaks so rapidly I can barely understand her. “He has a right. Grandma raised him. Grandma must have given it to him. If Sylvie had the jewelry, she stole it.”
“Stop!” I am screaming as I grab her by the wrist. She freezes and her entire body goes rigid. “How dare you? Sylvie’s dead!” I cry out, keening. I dump out all of the contents again. No more hiding. “Why? What did she die for if he didn’t kill her? He has a photo of her at the exact spot where her body was found. They had a secret relationship. Sylvie was in love with him.” I hear Ma’s sharp intake of breath. I pull out the scrap of paper from my pocket. “Look at this. She wrote ‘Sylvie Tan,’ like a schoolgirl in love. Grandma meant the jewelry for Sylvie. He seduced Sylvie, took the gold from her, and then got rid of her and made it look like she ran away with it.”