The Trap Read Free Page B

no clues, and the identikit picture they’d assembled with my help was useless. Even I didn’t think it looked much like the man I’d seen. But, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t do any better. I remember saying to the therapist that I had to know why this had happened—that the uncertainty was a torment to me. I remember her telling me that it was normal, that not knowing was always the worst thing for the relatives. She recommended a self-help group to me. A self-help group—it was almost laughable. I remember that I said I’d do anything, if I could find out the reason. That much at least I owed to my sister. That much at least.
    Why? Why? Why?
    ‘You’re obsessed with that question, Frau Conrads. It’s no good. You have to let go, live your life.’
    I try to shake off Anna’s image and all thoughts of her. I don’t want to think about her because I know where that leads me; back then I almost went mad, knowing that Anna was dead, and that her murderer was still somewhere out there.
    Not being able to do anything was the worst. It was better to stop thinking about it altogether. Distract myself. Forget about Anna.
    I try to do the same now, but it doesn’t work this time. Why?
    Then the news reporter’s face flashes across my mind, and something in my head goes click. I realise that I’ve spent the past hours in shock.
    And at last it’s clear to me. The man on television I was so distressed by was real.
    It wasn’t a nightmare; it was reality.
    I’ve seen my sister’s murderer. It may be twelve years ago, but I remember every detail. It is compellingly clear to me what that means.
    I drop the watering can. It lands with a clatter, and the water spills out over my bare feet. I turn around, leave the conservatory, stub my toe on the way into the house, ignore the pain, and hurry on.
    Swiftly, I cross the ground floor, take the stairs to the first, skid along the hallway, and arrive in my bedroom out of breath. My laptop is lying on the bed, vaguely menacing. I hesitate, then sit down and pull it towards me, my fingers trembling. I’m almost afraid to open it, as if someone might be watching me through the screen.
    I open Google and enter the name of the news channel where I saw the man. I’m nervous and keep hitting the wrong keys; it’s not until the third try that I get it right. I bring up the homepage and click my way through to Reporters . I’m on the verge of thinking that the whole thing was just a figment of my imagination after all—that the man doesn’t exist, that I dreamt him.
    But then I find him; it only takes a few clicks. The monster. Instinctively, I hold my left hand in front of the screen to cover his photo. I can’t look at him—not yet. The walls are starting to shake again, my heart is racing.
    I concentrate on breathing, close my eyes. Nice and calm, that’s the way. I open my eyes again and read his name, his profile. I see that he’s won prizes—that he has a family and leads a successful, fulfilled life. Something inside me snaps. I feel something I haven’t felt for years, and it’s red hot. Slowly, I take down my hand from the screen.
    I look at him.
    I look into the face of the man who murdered my sister.
    I am choked with fury, and I can think only one thing: I’m going to get you.
    I clap my laptop shut, put it away, get up. My thoughts are racing. My heart is pounding.
    The incredible thing is, he lives very close by! For any normal person, it would be no trouble to track him down.
    But I’m trapped in my house. And the police—the police didn’t even believe me at the time. Not really.
    If I want to speak to him—if I want to confront him, to call him to account in some way—then I have to get him to come to me. How can I lure him here?
    The conversation with my therapist flashes through my mind again.
    ‘But why? Why did Anna have to die?’
    ‘You have to accept the possibility that you’re never going to get an answer to that question,