"Actually, I don't want to talk about it at all. I never wanted to talk about it again."

Esther Wallace turned off the garden hose and laid it thoughtfully on the meticulously manicured lawn of her small front garden. The sun had not yet reached its full radiance in the early morning, and the air was blowing over the suburb with an unpleasant breeze.

I'd like to have a little house like this when I retire. Nice and quiet in the countryside, away from the hustle and bustle, but still in Boston, Nikki thought. How picturesque everything was here. Not just the meticulously manicured lawn but also the flowerbeds that bordered the property from the street without looking forbidding. The cheerfully arranged garden gnomes dotted around the area, the hand-painted birdhouse in the old apple tree, and the small fountain that babbled quietly. Nikki could have believed that Esther Wallace led a life of love and harmony. In a soulful profession that had fulfilled her and made her happy. Surrounded by friendly people, harmonious and peaceful. But only if she hadn't known better.

"I sat up late last night in the archives looking for old cases with parallels to mine. The similarities to the case in which you became the heroine back then are so great that it can't be a coincidence. The perpetrator from back then didn't perform an impossible spell."

Wallace clicked her tongue. "After all, this guy got away from us. Doesn't that seem impossible and magical enough to you?"

"He was like a phantom; there were no clues about him or where the children hid. They would have died back then if you hadn't found them. That's why I came to you, even though you weren't investigating the case then."

Wallace smiled sheepishly. "What made you think that your killer was referring to a case from the past with his murders?"

"The message he left at his crime scenes. I didn't interpret it correctly initially, but now I realize it was a major clue."

"Shall we go inside instead?" Wallace pointed to the front door, which was ajar. "You know, I was done with this whole thing. I thought maybe he'd died long ago. Or disappeared for good." She looked Nikki firmly in the eye, and something changed in her expression. In that face, whose wrinkles looked as if there was a story behind each of them. Of a person Wallace had saved, a murderer she had put a stop to, a tear she had shed, or a love she had lived and lost again.

"I'm sure you remember the investigation very well, " Nikki said more softly than usual. "Hopefully, with your help, I can finish my case."

Wallace looked at Nikki motionlessly for a moment. Then she walked towards her front door without hesitation. "All right, come in."

They stepped into the hallway. It smelled of bergamot, apparently a room fragrance that had drifted into the hallway from the guest bathroom. Colorful pictures hung everywhere on the red-painted walls, close together, but no pictures. No personal memories of happy moments, trips, or extraordinary experiences. Just prints of classic paintings. Timeless and beautiful, but without even a hint of the personal history of the woman who lived in this spotlessly clean little house on the edge of town. And who had been called Lady Firehand by the BPD.

"Would you like a slice of apple pie?" Wallace looked at Nikki questioningly. "Unfortunately, not from my own apples; they don't come until the fall. But from a recipe from my grandfather!"

"Unfortunately, I'm under pressure, and the press is breathing down my neck. Those kidnapped children are still out there somewhere --"

Wallace fell silent. Nikki suspected she was thinking of the time when she had been the last chance for two abducted children.

I'm in the same boat as they were then. Only I can still go under.

"You're right."

Nikki nodded slowly and followed the older woman. "I'd really like to get down to business now. You found the kidnapped siblings back then. I've read quite a lot about the investigation in the archives, but there was a lot of information missing. Documents that have apparently been deleted from the file by the official authorities."

"There's a good reason for that. What did you miss?"

"There's nothing about the perpetrator leaving any DNA traces."

"He didn't either. On the one hand, he was very unruly and brutal when he killed the parents. Immediately afterward, however, he was very meticulous and focused. He covered all the tracks very skillfully." Wallace led Nikki into the living room.

"My killer, on the other hand, leaves his DNA voluntarily."

"He has to. How else could you be sure that it was always the same man who abducted the children within a few minutes?"

"He's mocking us! And he's using this note to point out that we've already failed to find him once."

"You said your killer kidnapped the children first and only killed the parents days later?"

"Yes."

"In that case, the parents didn't report the abduction. That's why we don't know whether my perpetrator did the same back then. The dead parents couldn't tell us exactly when their children had disappeared. Our colleagues tried to find out via the school, neighbors, or friends. But the murder was committed on a Sunday. No one could have missed the children from Friday afternoon. Hundreds of people searched every corner of the area for the twins, but there was no trace of them."

Nikki listened up. "The victims were twins?"

Wallace's gaze diverted briefly to the brightly polished display case, which contained several tiers of adorable dolls, apparently from a collector's series. "There's not much in the file about the children, is there?"

Nikki took a deep breath and shook her head. "It just says the names Carl and Dennis. There's nothing about them being twins. Everything about the children's identity has disappeared from the records or been blacked out. And I didn't get any information from the residents' registration office either."

Wallace got up and left the living room, furnished with comfortable upholstered furniture, an old but well-kept wall unit, and numerous wall plates, and headed towards the kitchen.

"I worked hard to ensure that the children's identities were protected. And the public prosecutor was completely on my side." From the sounds of it, Wallace was pouring coffee in the kitchen next door. "The killer of the parents was still at large after all, and he probably didn't expect us to find the children alive. The twins were the only witnesses he had to fear, so I arranged for them to be placed in witness protection. They were both given new names and identities. I don't even know where they are or their names anymore. And after all this time, I wouldn't recognize them either." Wallace returned to the living room, placed the steaming cup of coffee on the table before Nikki, and sat down. "Really, no apple pie?"

"No, thanks. Here, look." Nikki opened her satchel and pulled out some pictures. "Does anything look familiar about these pictures?"

Wallace looked at the crime scene pictures. Nikki watched her as unobtrusively as possible. The woman looked stony-faced at the pictures of people who had been shot in the head. Or whose throats had been slit with a knife. Beaten to death with a baseball bat or strangled in agony with a clothesline. So much blood, so much death. But none of this was reflected in Wallace's gaze. She's probably seen other things ...

As if she were checking her electricity bill, Wallace looked at the pictures one after the other with no apparent sympathy before finally saying: "There are parallels, definitely. But why do you think it was the same perpetrator as Carl and Dennis' parents? He got away with his crime back then; why would he suddenly draw attention to himself again in this extreme way now? And even twenty years later! Apart from the fact that it takes a lot of strength to do these things to his victims. The perpetrator from back then is probably not the youngest today. What did those notes say again?"

"How long are you going to grope around in the dark?"

"It doesn't add up." Wallace handed the pictures back to Nikki. "The killer didn't leave any notes on the bodies. If he did turn up again, he'd have to have a special reason. And I don't even want to think about that. I can only think of one --" She lowered her eyes and looked piercingly at Nikki.

I know what she means. And to be honest, I can't think of a better reason to explain it. "The murder of Carl and Dennis' parents was a slaughter, not just a murder to cover something up. It was a message! Nikki barely stirred.

"I agree with you on that. But we need to find out what message it was supposed to be because he didn't get to complete it. He just left the children to fend for themselves in their hiding place. With electricity, food, and drink for two weeks, but with no means of escape. And the way they were hidden, he didn't expect them to be found."

"The children weren't supposed to die, but they weren't supposed to be found either. If it had all just been a blackmail scheme that got out of hand, the perpetrator would have failed. But at least he would have got away with it! There would be no reason to suddenly lure us back onto his trail twenty years later with this incredible magic trick."

Wallace put her coffee cup down on the table. There was nothing warm or friendly in her gaze now. The pensioner who had baked apple pie and tended her garden a moment ago had disappeared. Now, it was no longer a friendly elderly lady sitting opposite Nikki. Detective Esther Wallace had awoken again. Lady Firehand! The woman who was a BPD legend had looked more criminals in the eye than some of her colleagues. Who had seen, hunted, and brought down evil in so many facets like few of her predecessors or successors. And who had killed more people in the line of duty than almost anyone in the BPD. She narrowed her eyes into slits, looked over Nikki's head into space, and breathed so softly that it was barely audible. "Whatever else that guy was planning to do with the twins back then, I ruined his plan by finding them by surprise. He couldn't cope with whatever it was. And that's why he now wants to finish what he started back then. He wants us to hunt him down, with all our might, by any means necessary. And he wants us to find him! A man who can be in seven places at once, who brutally murders and who hides children in bunkers in the forest, suddenly wants to be found after twenty years of total silence. And whatever he's up to, it seems to be really, really important to him! He won't stop until he gets what he wants." Wallace approached Nikki and abruptly returned her endearing smile, adding, "And now, please let me eat my apple pie and water my flowers in peace. You'll find your own way out?"

xxx

The applause erupted, and it seemed to Lennox for a moment as if the clapping carried away all his fears as if he were on the wings of an eagle. Far away into the distance, never to return. It was as if the fleeting surge of enthusiasm from these thousands of strangers could bring a little relief to his soul. Even if only for a moment, a small, blissful moment. Until Lennox realized again that it wasn't him, they were cheering for but what he represented. What he promised the people. These people who looked at him examined him, assessed him - and then didn't again. They didn't see him as the man he was and certainly not as the boy he had ceased to be. But only the function he fulfilled. He guided them and was the ship's captain; they couldn't find their way without him. To give them an idea of what was waiting for them and, at the same time, to keep it a secret. The people he led usually preferred the surprising to the certain, even if they weren't aware of it. But that was what he was there for.

"Are you ready for the fire? For the shots, the falls, and the rumble of thunder?"

As if from a single mouth, they shouted their yes! Some days, Lennox believed that the shouts of thousands of voices created a shock wave that he could feel on his face. And again, he spread his arms, raised his eyes, and let them glide over the heads of the people. But he did not look them in the eye, not anyone, not ever. He knew that they were looking at him. They wondered what kind of person he was and whether they thought he was attractive. What he might be like, how he had come to be standing in front of them and demanding their attention. What was he like in private? What else could he do? What else might he have planned for them? But whenever Lennox's gaze met with one of those watching him, they were no longer as they had been.

Not the spectator, not Lennox. No one was who they wanted to be. No one in the role they had taken on. The spectator was no longer just part of his flock, who, from the safe anonymity of the crowd, directed his scrutinizing gaze at the frontman, hidden and unnoticed. And Lennox was no longer on his throne, who was respected, perhaps appreciated, but whose direct gaze he never wanted to meet. Because whenever this happened, for that brief, unfortunate moment, they were nothing more than ordinary people who didn't even know each other. Who had nothing in common? Indeed, nothing that was magical or special.

Never look them in the eye. Always look past them at their hairline.

"From now on, no one gets up and enters the gangway at the guardrail! If you want to get out, take the stairs up. But you want to stay put! If you did, you'd miss all the action, which would be too bad! So, sound on! And --"

Then there was a roar. Just like every day that Lennox stood in this arena. Just as he had explained it to his audience and rehearsed it with them. Again and again, day after day, year after year.

With new people whom he led again and again. For one day - and then never again. Who followed him as long as they were in his care and whom he never saw again once they had left this unreal world behind the walls of the studio. They wouldn't recognize him anyway. Out there, in the real world.

He wasn't charming, attractive, and funny, as he could only be when he had an audience that wasn't interested in his true nature. He raised his right hand and pointed his index finger at the crowds. Just this one finger against thousands of people. But they followed his pointing finger because they were all shouting as if from one mouth:

"Action!"

Then the music started: the thumping of the bass, the rhythm of the drums, the singing of the guitars. The ground beneath his feet began to shake as the first flames shot out of the ground, and the sound of motorcycles approaching fast from behind reached Leonnox' ears. Everything is as usual. From the tower, women in Amazon costumes descended on ropes, while behind Lennox, the motorcycles came onto the area and jumped over him with the help of ramps. Time to go; from now on, I don't count anymore. From now on, all that counts is the show. And while the people who had been blindly glued to his lips just seconds before averted their eyes, he stepped through the door into the trailer that stood next to the show area and left the stunt area via his safe walk. None of the spectators thought of him now, and the moment that seemed to have taken away all his fears had passed. But he would be back tomorrow. His fears would return as soon as he had left the show floor. How would the darkness and the confinement return, the uncertainty and the worry about whether they would ever be found? He and Dennis. The worry about whether they would find the boys he was hiding. The boys that Lennox alone knew where they were. And when he stepped out of his safe exit into the park, he found only emptiness.

No one was still standing in line for the roller coaster, the horror house, the jungle, or the movie tour with all its attractions and surprises. All of them, who had filled the area with laughter and amazement moments before, were sitting together in this stunt arena, except for him. He was alone, just like the boys in their hiding place.

Find them. Please, find them!