by Noah Fitz
VELOX BOOKS
Published by arrangement with the author.
Not Her copyright © 2021
by Noah Fitz.
Originally published in German as Nacht sie.
All Rights Reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.
Chapter 1
On the Bridge
Yara Michel is two-faced and always wants to be the center of attention. It is one reason I chose her. She should be the first to die.
She is not quite fifteen, has black hair, and a beautiful figure, and she is spoiled. Although she is popular at school, she has one true friend: Enno. He will be next.
On her Instagram profile Yara posts photos of herself, her boyfriend, and cats, even though she doesn’t have cats. Only a few people know that. Yara has a dog named Knurr, who has been a member of her family longer than she has. He is old and almost blind. Knurr is a sheepdog and therefore not as cute as the kittens in Yara’s pictures, which she gets from the internet.
Rain claps me in the face, and I wipe it away. I stay hidden from the headlights of passing cars. Yara is on the way to the bridge with her boyfriend. Because of a partial road closure, Enno’s yellow Fiat and the other cars crawl forward. Yara doesn’t know what to expect, so she hasn’t written a farewell letter.
I originally had no intention of killing them, but then I’d read a book about how manipulable the human species can be if you press the right buttons, or triggers. Looking back, I realize how quickly I got used to the idea of hurting others. My initial remorse is gone. I have no scruples now. Often when I reminisce about it, I see their pale faces and feel only a surge of satisfaction. I had wished them all death, without knowing how to cause it.
Now I know. I swore to myself to always play fair, but sometimes you have to break the rules, even those rules you set for yourself. Whoever plays with the devil must have no conscience.
I take a quick look at my watch. It’s time. The wind tugs at my hair and clothes. The traffic light at the construction site wobbles in the wind and switches to green. The cars move faster. The sound of tires and the honking of horns are almost deafening. A truck spits out a cloud of smoke. I turn up my nose and reach for my cell phone. A car stops. Enno’s yellow Fiat Punto.
Enno is older than Yara. He is eighteen.
The brake lights of several vehicles light up, but my attention is focused on the compact car as Enno rolls up onto the curb. One wheel is hanging in the air, and the Fiat is tilted. The passenger door opens. Yara gets out and looks around. She is wearing a red mini dress.
Even more brake lights. The queue becomes longer as traffic stops and goes. Enno gets out of the car and is almost hit by a white pickup truck. The Fiat’s hazard lights pulsate in the gray light of the evening. The sky is covered with dark clouds. The bridge is submerged in mist. I creep toward the pretty couple, but remain invisible to them.
Yara believes she is the envy of many. Enno has a car; she has a pretty face. Both are popular. She is adored by the horny teenagers, and he slips into bed with her best friend, because he won’t admit to himself that he is different from most boys. Because he doesn’t like girls. Yara has no idea about that, because she is always too busy with herself.
“You have to film me doing this!” she screams and tries to pluck her styled hair from her face, which is soaked with rain. The fine drops of water become larger. “Enno, you have to get closer!” Wet strands stick to her cheeks and forehead.
Enno calls back, but the words are drowned out by the cars and the wind: “That… is… but… brain dead! Don’t do it! The guy is just a nutcase!” Yet he points the smartphone at her anyway. His left hand cups protectively over the display.
In the distance, a tiny flash of lightning appears like a dying firefly.
Yara takes off her jacket and throws it to her boyfriend. She is trembling, but she wants to look beautiful—sexy, but aloof. This is supposed to be her final test, posing for this picture, so she looks relieved to be freed from the burden. She radiates style.
Enno looks around quickly. I turn my back to him for a moment and dial a number. In the gray trench coat, I don’t just blend in with the background. I am the background. Enno is also dazzled by the passing headlights. The crescendo of honking cars never stops.
I press the green button and hold the phone to my ear.
“Michel,” says a voice on the other end of the line. Yara’s father. Perfect. “Hello? Who is this?”
“Good afternoon,” I whisper.
“Hello?!” He barely understands me but doesn’t hang up. Parental intuition. He already suspects this call might have something to do with his daughter. “Who is this?” His voice trembles.
I am freezing, too. My teeth chatter slightly. The rain runs in streams and sneaks into my shoes.
“Is this Mr. Michel?” I know the answer to this. But I want him to realize I know who he is.
“Yes,” he says. “Who is this? Hello?”
Once again, a truck rushes past me. The force of the displaced air pushes me a little to one side. A splash of water slaps my back. I cling to the railing and glance into the depths. I can hardly see the water; I can only hear it, a constant roar. On this side of the bridge the air smells… colder? No, that doesn’t describe the feeling in my chest. I keep searching, digging in the back of my brain, and find something else. A scream. Pia, afraid. Calling for help. She is alone. She lies injured on the floor. She is dying. I smell her breath, cool and fresh. The air smells the same here, for the better.
Farther down the bridge, Enno yells at Yara, still filming her on his phone. She has bent over the handrail and is looking down. “You must go to the marked spot!” Enno yells.
On the phone, Mr. Michel is still trying to figure out who I am. I take my time answering him. Of course I intend to scare the man even more. He expects the unexpected. I will not withhold that from him, either.
“Your daughter is really pretty,” I say, raising my voice a little, to cover up a brief flutter of uncertainty. “A happy girl,” I say.
Michel is silent. I can hear him breathing.
“Do you know where Yara is now?” I ask. I’m curious to hear his answer.
Now we both remain silent.
“What do you want?” he finally says. He’s about to go nuts. “Do you want money?”
I did not expect that. I waited too long. He curses and produces an impatient wheezing sound.
I keep quiet.
“Well, I have none,” he says. “I have no money! I’m hanging up now.”
Does he not take me seriously? I increase the pressure. “Your daughter is about to kill herself.”
“What?” he says. He swallows audibly, then stammers and chokes. “What?” he says again. At last, now he understands.
“She is wearing a red dress. Enno is with her.”
“Who the fuck are you?”
I hear Mr. Michel’s footsteps over the phone. Doors are being ripped open and slammed. He’s looking for his daughter. “Yara?” he says. “Yara!” He’s crying. “Where is my daughter?”
Is he talking to me now?
I keep quiet.
“Where is my daughter, you bastard?”
Yeah, he’s talking to me.
“Yara!” yells Enno on the bridge.
“You’ve got to make the fucking video!” she says. “This bridge is shaky! Hurry up, or I’ll fall in the fucking river
!”
Mr. Michel must have heard her, because his voice changes. “Is that my daughter? Is she with you?” His fear. It’s palpable. Goosebumps shiver down my arm. I stand closer to the couple so he can hear them even better.
“Please!” he says. “What do you want? Can I speak to my daughter?”
“No.” I move even closer.
“Yara, no!” yells Enno.
“How much longer?” Yara says. Her voice is nearly inaudible from wind and the noise of the cars, which have increased in volume.
I take a second cell phone out of my pocket and start the countdown. At the same time, Enno counts down from ten. In my head, every number sounds like a death sentence.
“Three!”
“Two!”
“One!”
“She wasn’t in school today,” I say calmly into the phone.
“What’re you doing with my child?” Michel’s concern sounds almost sincere, like a father who cares about his children, even if he hasn’t had much to do with them lately. Yara has a brother.
“Leave us alone!” he says.
I look at the screen and see Yara. Her image is slightly blurred because a raindrop has clung to the lens. She tries to cover her fear with a smile.
“I really like your daughter,” I say.
Silence.
That is not quite true, but I want to coax him out of his shell. Besides, those words spoken on the phone sound like a threat.
“I’m hanging up now,” he says, trying to challenge me. But suddenly he screams with both horror and relief: “Hannah!”
I hear a muffled dog barking.
“What happened?” a woman says on the other end of the line.
“There’s a crazy man on the phone. He has our daughter.”
“Hello?” Yara’s mother breathes heavily into the phone. “Hello?”
“Your daughter had a fight with you,” I say calmly.
“Where is Yara? Did something happen? Where is my daughter? Please tell us what you want, and we’ll…” She bursts into tears. Maternal instincts cannot be suppressed. Yara’s mother already fears the worst. It’s just a feeling, and yet that feeling is more real than anything you can imagine.
“Please,” she says. She begs with me. I hear her crying.
Yara is standing on the wooden railing, which is barely the width of a human hand. “Get on with it!” she yells. “You have to tell me when I can get down!” She holds on with her left hand to one of the steel cables that give the ailing bridge additional stability.
“I don’t know!” Enno’s finger wipes across the lens. The image becomes clearer. The corners of Yara’s smile tremble. The water has pressed her hair flat. The black make-up around her eyes trickles over her high cheeks and along her narrow nose. A lightning bolt, closely followed by thunder, illuminates the area.
I turn toward the river and kick violently against the handrail. The muffled reverb creates a vibration. I feel the shock in my knee. The metallic thrum resonates down the railing, moving away from me.
Yara loses her balance for a second and cries out in horror. Her fingers slip off the wet wire cable. She stumbles.
“Yara, don’t!” screams Enno. In a pitiful attempt to catch her, he reaches out for his girlfriend’s legs.
“Yara?” Her mother whimpers.
A part of the railing breaks away under Yara’s feet. She is not wearing shoes. That was a condition. She was not allowed to wear shoes while she streamed a video on the bridge, on the marked section, which I had painted green three days ago, and weakened in several places with the help of a grinder.
“Where is my child?” Mrs. Michel yells at me.
I can hardly hear her.
I watch as Yara sails down. She doesn’t even scream or wave her arms. I imagine that, just before the impact, she turns her head in my direction.
She has fulfilled her part of the bargain; I have fulfilled mine.
“Where is Yara?”
“She’s dead,” I say quietly.
Silence.
Fear closes the mother’s throat. She sobs into the phone.
“Hannah?” Mr. Michel says in the background. “What happened? What’s going on?”
We all have something to hide. Most of us are willing to give a lot to keep our secrets hidden.
Yara misses the river. Her body hits the ground with a dull thud. In the dim twilight everything appears dubious and unreal. The cold rays that turn this side of the river a dull gray reveal little more than the silhouette of a human. The red dress is the only spot of color in a dark picture.
Without looking back, I slowly retreat, but keep a constant eye on Enno, who kneels down and buries his face in his hands.
“Hey, you there!” A man’s voice rips me from my thoughts. “What’re you doing here? Stay where you are. I’m calling the police!” A shadow runs past me. Enno looks around in a daze. A man stands in front of him with a phone to his ear.
I straighten my collar, pull my head down and press the red button to end the call. Silently, like a ghost, I disappear from the bridge. Somewhere behind me a siren sounds. I do not hurry. I must not attract attention. After exactly thirty meters I turn left and walk down the steep slope. Fine raindrops fall down on me. I get on my bike and ride off. The rain will wash away my tracks. I have never been here; I am only a ghost. A nobody. The video also will disappear later, without a trace, somewhere in the ether of the network.
Chapter 2
Three Days Later | Marktheide, Near Berlin
Eleonora Holm pressed her lips together and squatted down. The thin bag had torn under the weight of her purchases and now all her cosmetics were scattered across the damp sidewalk. The box of tampons landed at the feet of a man who was also waiting for the crosswalk signal. His smile was vague but seemed compassionate. He had seen the tampons. Eleonora knew because she had looked up at him as she’d bent down. “I’ll get it,” she said hastily and reached for the box.
Extra large, the tampons had been on sale. Eleonora’s cheeks were burning. She grabbed the box and hid it under her denim jacket.
The man cleared his throat and crouched beside her. Skillfully, his big hands scooped up the eyeliner and lipstick. “Pretty wet these last few days, huh?” he said, then paused. Eleonora also faltered in her movement. The torn bag in her left hand rustled in the silence.
The stranger rubbed his stubbly chin with his free hand. “I’m an idiot,” he said. “I’m sorry. I meant the weather. It happens to me all the time.” He pushed a hand through his dark blond hair.
“Excuse me?” Eleonora raised her eyes only briefly as she picked up the rest. The powder box had broken; the transparent lid had a crack.
“I mean with conversation,” he said. His muscular chest swelled up, stretching the white T-shirt under his black leather jacket. “The more I talk, the worse it gets.”
Eleonora did not know what to say, and decided to remain silent.
“My name is Immanuel,” he said. He smelled of a citrus cologne that made Eleonora’s throat tighten; a slight prickling sensation spread down from her neck.
“With an I,” he added and pressed the lipstick and eyeliner into her hand. The touch was fleeting, yet Eleonora felt a pleasant jolt beneath her heart.
You are still a married woman, she admonished herself. You are almost forty. Don’t flirt with a man like a schoolgirl.
“I live around the corner,” Immanuel said. He picked up the powder and turned the small container over in his hands. “Oh, man. The lid’s cracked. I’m so sorry.”
She drove a hand uncertainly through her hair. When was I last at the hairdresser? she thought. A corner of her mouth twitched as it always did when she was nervous. Or was that just her imagination?
“It doesn’t matter. Wasn’t expensive.” I can’t smile at him like that. “So you live nearby?” she asked, trying to steer the conversation in a more innocuous direction.
He nodded. She took the small powder compact from him, only to touch his warm hand again.
“Right there,” he said, pointing. “In the yellow house. On the third floor. This is not my usual behavior. I was away for a long time.”
“Mine, either,” Eleonora said, hurrying to justify herself without knowing exactly why.
“To approach a woman like this, I mean. Oh, is this yours too?” He picked up a small box of bandages. With bright red cheeks Eleonora grabbed it and stuffed it into her jacket pocket.
“Have you lived in this area long?” he said. “Is it possible that I know you?”
Eleonora examined the torn bag and tied a makeshift knot. Then she put her belongings into it and stood. He stood too.
“Maybe from a long time ago?” he said.
Eleonora studied him and something occurred to her. Something wasn’t right. “I have a hard time remembering faces,” she finally said.
Immanuel nodded. “I’ve been on the road a lot the last few years. But now I want to settle down here, for the second time. May I accompany you?”
Eleonora tried to find an answer, couldn’t, and smiled instead. Something was wrong, but she couldn’t put her finger on it.
“Oh, wait,” he said. He bent down to pick up two large bars of chocolate that lay next to Eleonora’s feet. “I don’t think these will fit.”
Eleonora took a step aside. He had come too close, and suddenly it hit her. Something… eerie surrounded him, like an aura of disaster.
“You say you’re from around here?” she asked.
A shadow dropped over the man’s eyes—which were gray, like dirty ice. The shadow was there only briefly, but Eleonora noticed it anyway.
“Never mind,” she said. Repulsed, she turned to leave.
“Hey, what about your chocolate?”
“It’s not mine,” she said, and suddenly she was in a hurry. Her feet moved faster. With every step, she warned herself not to panic and forced herself to slow down. She expected the guy to catch up with her, imagined his hand gripping her shoulder and pulling her around. Eleonora tensed up. He was right behind her.