As we approach the McNamaras' house from the road, Lattie flings off her seatbelt early. Esmerelda—who Lattie calls Nanni and who firmly demanded I call her that as well—should be safe inside.

Nanni's tan Volkswagen is parked in the drive, my black Hummer beside it. I'd worked a late shift at the café last night, and rather than me going home, Nanni had made dinner and insisted I stay since it was so late. When I initially declined her offer, she'd hidden my keys and gone to bed, so I ended up participating in a sleepover after all.

I wheel Lattie's Audi in beside the other two vehicles. The maroon colored front door of the house is closed and the rocking chairs and potted plants on the porch are just as they'd been left. The curtains of the windows are open, though nothing of interest can be seen inside. Nothing is disturbed. It all looks as neat and as polished as every other house in Heisenbühl.

The white and maroon house sits off of the narrow yet two lane road in the middle of a forest—like everything else in the area does. The original settlers of Heisenbühl had only cleared enough trees to place down their village and whatever else they needed, and everyone seceding them has simply followed suit.

Going left from the McNamaras' driveway will take you a short piece to the bridge, and across the bridge to the village of Heisenbühl. Going right will take you down a long stretch of desolate road sandwiched by peaceful forest until you reach the town of Bachweg, and then eventually the much larger city of Reinberg some odd miles away.

Lattie and I had gone right this morning, before Nanni had even woken up. The competing café we visited was in Bachweg. We haven't crossed the bridge yet this morning, which is now declared a crime scene, nor had we seen any yellow tape through the forest where the road bends to give any inclination that leaving Nanni alone could be a bad idea.

We enter the maroon door to be greeted with the noxious scent of sauerkraut: a smell I'll never warm to as long as I live. Although I can't see the food as anything more than fermented cabbage, Nanni loves the stuff.

"Nanni," Lattie calls meekly, treading into the living room as though the floor is made of ice.

"What," a gruff voice barks back, muffled and sounding more like vhut. Nanni comes into the parlor from the kitchen carrying a bowl of pale beige shreds which she's occupied with shoving into her mouth with a fork.

"Sauerkraut?" Lattie stresses, "Nanni, it's only noon. And you're eating it by itself!" The horror on her face is strong enough to wipe away the worry.

Nanni points her fork defensively, as though it were as threatening as a sword. "When I want sauerkraut," she states between periods of her rabbit-like crunching, "I get sauerkraut. Do you see me making coffee in the middle of the night?" She produces an emphatic jab of the fork as she answers her own question. "Nein!"

Lattie closes her mouth, silenced and defeated by her sauerkraut-fork wielding grandmother.

Looking back on it, I'm unsure why we were worried about her at all. Any sensible serial killer would think twice about entering a house with this smell in it—and they would surely run the other way once they caught a whiff of it coming off her breath.

~~~

After Nanni had exorcised herself of her sauerkraut-craving demon, Lattie gave her the rundown of their newest café competition—or lack thereof—and I informed them both of what I'd read in that news article, much to my dismay.

Nanni was horrified to hear about Sophie Schwarz's suspected murder. She had babysat her as a child, and even kept her for a weekend when Sophie's father had been thrown in jail for public drunkenness. While Nanni was verbally stunned, Lattie said nothing, though the look of incessant worry had returned to her eyes.

We sat around the house doing mostly nothing to pass the time—not playing games, taking trips, or doing some other inane activity someone thought would be fun like we do every Sunday, the only day the café is closed. Instead Nanni frets about the house until she works herself into a knitting frenzy, Lattie floats around like an anxious ghost peering out the windows until she sits down to stare at a TV show she isn't watching, and I scour the Internet for any more enlightening articles about Sophie's murder.

But Heisenbühl is a small place and not many people come to report on it—even on something as taboo as murder, apparently.

When the clock strikes 3:00 PM, I rise from the armchair I'd been lazing in.

"I'm going to the bridge," I announce.

Nanni gasps like she's just been hired onto a six season soap opera. "You are not."

I pull my Hummer's keys from my jacket pocket and dangle them in the air. I'd found them earlier this morning—in the fridge behind the milk of all places. "I am."

I don't need my Hummer to go to the bridge. It's an easy walk from here. Nevertheless, the keys are a symbol of freedom and I have to take every chance I can get to let Nanni know she's not bested me. That's how you survive in this house.

"Are you sure that's safe?" Lattie asks, her expression so heart-achingly like that of a kicked puppy. "They probably won't let you anywhere near it."

"They have to. The nearest detour is too far away. Besides that, I have to go home eventually."

My house—the one that had been Nanni's sister's—is on the opposite side of the village, on the continuation of the road Nanni's sits on, also a short piece into the forest. Furthermore, the McNamaras' café is in the village. We can't avoid the bridge for long.

"Leila, please," Nanni pleads, "Just let the Polizei do their jobs."

"Nothing will happen, Nanni," I assure her, "The criminal isn't just sitting in the stream waiting for someone curious enough to come by. The police are investigating the area. Whoever did it would be an idiot to come back."

I head for the door, Nanni griping under her breath in German behind me. Smart aleck girl, she says among other things, If I ever find that damn wooden spoon again...

On the stoop, I turn to close the door only to find Lattie right behind me, startling me backward.

"I'll come with you," she says, closing the door herself. I don't know what possessed her to make the decision, nor why she would want to.

"Lattie... I don't think that's a good idea."

"If you're going, I'm going. Or should I tell Nanni you're being a hypocrite?"

I glare at her. Nanni doesn't like a lot of things, but all of us be damned if there's a hypocrite in her presence. I let out a sigh. "Alright. Come on."

We walk down the middle of the left lane—traffic is sparse on a good day—the soles of our shoes tapping softly on the paving. After a few minutes, the bridge comes into sight as we come around the bend of the road.

The scene is eerily similar to how I'd imagined it would be. The police have set up their barricades two meters or so before the transition from road to bridge. Plastic yellow tape has been tied across, the word Vorsicht repeated across it in bolded black letters. Caution. About five uniformed police officers climb up and down the bank sloping down beneath the bridge, along with a sixth person who wears a suit.

One of the police officers catch sight of us, standing dumbfounded on the outskirts of their barricade, staring. He rushes over like a propeller is attached to his backside and it's gotten caught on his underwear in the process of pushing him forward.

"Nuh uh, go home girls. No bystanders are permitted past this line. We have everything under control here." The officer is speaking, but his words are fading off. Drowning out. Muting.

He tries to block our view. To spread his arms and usher us away. But we've already seen it. The image has already formed.

A large, long black bag is being carted up out of the natural canal of the stream. As the medical personnel are pushing the bag up the bank, a flap of the opening falls away.

There's her face.

Her skin is deep purple where it isn't ghostly white. Her eyes are swelled shut and her nose is crooked. Globs of congealed blood have dyed her fair hair red. Had she not already been identified, I wouldn't have been able to.

Lattie yelps. I feel my breath leave my lungs. Somewhere in the middle of those things, we'd grabbed on to each other. Lattie's cheek is buried in my shoulder, but her eyes don't avert.

The officer is speaking, giving us angry orders with animated hands. I don't hear him.