Brennendes blut

The rain was falling sideways, as always in Ravenmoor in October, and Mara Solis sat in a rented car that looked like it had seen better days, staring at the sign at the town entrance. Welcome to Ravenmoor. As if she had ever been welcome.

She turned the windshield wipers up. It didn't help much. The rain had decided to take what it had started seriously, and Ravenmoor lay before her in that murky, gray way that had always reminded her of an overexposed photograph. Too much of everything at once, too little clarity about what was essential.

Seven years. For seven years she had avoided this place, forwarded calls, sent postcards instead of visiting, and her mother had played along, pretended it was normal, as if they were two women who happened to live in different cities and occasionally exchanged greetings. Now Elisa Solis was dead, and Mara was driving through the rain to sell a house she had loved in a previous life.

The GPS indicated a turn. Mara turned, and immediately she recognized the street. Linden Avenue. The trees had grown taller, had already shed most of their autumn leaves, and the wet branches drew black patterns against the deep gray sky. She had learned to ride a bike here. She had scraped her knee on this very corner and cried until her mother appeared with a bandage and an ice cream.

Mara pressed her lips together. The memories weren't buried deep. They lay just beneath the surface, ready to surface as soon as she stopped looking ahead.

The Solis house appeared at the end of the avenue, and Mara involuntarily slowed down. Despite everything, despite the seven years, despite the pain and the loss, she was momentarily breathless.

It was even more beautiful than she remembered. Or perhaps more beautiful and more lost at the same time. The property had been built in the Art Nouveau style, with its typical organic lines and wrought-iron gate, but years of neglect had taken their toll. The plaster was peeling from the bay windows. The gate was crooked on its hinges. The garden, once manicured and almost overwhelmingly green, had transformed into a wild, melancholic mess. But the house was still standing. And somehow, Mara thought, as she stepped out of the car and was immediately met by the rain, standing still was the only honest answer to everything life threw at you.

Sie zog den Reißverschluss ihrer Jacke höher und holte die Schlüssel aus ihrer Tasche. Der Notar hatte sie per Express zugeschickt, zusammen mit einem Brief, den sie zweimal gelesen und beim dritten Mal weggeklappt hatte. Die juristische Sprache hatte das Wesentliche in Paragrafen verpackt: Elisa Solis hatte ein Testament hinterlassen. Das Haus und sein gesamter Inhalt fielen an Mara. Außerdem gab es ein versiegeltes Dokument, das laut testamentarischer Verfügung nur in Anwesenheit einer zweiten Partei geöffnet werden durfte.

Diese zweite Partei.

Mara steckte den Schlüssel ins Schloss. Die alte Mechanik knackte, wie sie es immer getan hatte, und die Tür schwang auf mit dem vertrauten Quietschen, das nie repariert worden war, obwohl Mara als Kind dreimal darauf hingewiesen hatte, wie sehr es sie störte. In der Tür, im Geruch des Hauses, war ihre Mutter noch gegenwärtig. Holzpolitur, alte Bücher, der schwache Rest eines Parfums, das Mara nicht mehr kannte, aber sofort erkannte.

Sie stand lange auf der Schwelle. Dann trat sie ein.

Die Eingangshalle war so, wie sie sie in Erinnerung hatte: groß, hallig, mit den schwarzweißen Fliesen, die wie ein überdimensioniertes Schachbrett wirkten. Die Wandlampen brannten nicht, natürlich nicht, der Strom war seit Wochen abgestellt. Mara zog ihr Handy aus der Tasche und aktivierte die Taschenlampe. Der Lichtkegel wanderte über die Wände, über den alten Garderobenspiegel, über das gerahmte Bild, das die Familie Solis vor zwanzig Jahren zeigte. Eine jüngere Elisa. Ein kleines Mädchen mit ungleichmäßig geschnittenen Pony. Maras Vater, der schon damals mehr abwesend als anwesend gewirkt hatte.

Sie wandte sich ab. Zog ihr Gepäck die Treppe hinauf, Stufe für Stufe, und jede Stufe war wie ein weiterer Schritt zurück in eine Zeit, die sie für sich abgeschlossen gehalten hatte.

Ihr altes Zimmer lag am Ende des Flurs. Sie hatte versucht, sich vorzustellen, wie es aussehen würde nach sieben Jahren, und hatte nichts gefühlt. Jetzt, mit der Hand auf dem Türknauf, spürte sie, wie etwas in ihrer Brust enger wurde. Sie öffnete die Tür trotzdem.

Die Mutter hatte nichts verändert. Das war das Schlimmste. Der Schreibtisch stand noch am Fenster, mit dem kratzigen Stuhl, auf dem Mara stundenlang gesessen und fotografiert und gezeichnet hatte. Das Bücherregal war voll. Die Lichterkette, die nie eine Funktion gehabt hatte außer der, schön zu sein, hing noch immer quer über das Fenster. Und auf dem Regal, zwischen zwei Büchern eingeklemmt, steckte ein Foto. Mara nahm es heraus.

Zwei junge Leute. Sie erkannte sich selbst kaum, diese neunzehnjährige Version mit dem breiten Lächeln und den lachenden Augen. Neben ihr stand ein junger Mann mit dunklem Haar und einem Gesichtsausdruck, der zwischen Belustigung und etwas Ernsthafterem schwankte, das Mara damals nicht einzuordnen gewusst hatte.

Damian Voss.

Mara placed the photograph face down back on the shelf. She didn't have time for what that photograph triggered. She didn't have time for seven years of questions, no time for the pain that still burned whenever she thought of that name. She was here to sell a house. To settle her mother's affairs. To leave.

Her phone buzzed. A message from Lena: Have you arrived? Call me if you need strength or chocolate. I'll send chocolate too.

Mara smiled despite everything. Lena Brauer was the only friendship she had brought with her from Ravenmoor, and she hadn't grown tired of being just that.

She wrote back: Arrived. I'm safe and sound. Send chocolate.

Then she put her phone away and opened the window a crack. The rain was more subdued now, having calmed from a storm to a steady fall. Mara leaned against the frame and looked out into the dark garden.

Tomorrow she would go to the notary. Tomorrow she would find out whom her mother had designated as the second party, even though she already knew. She already knew that last name, the one that had been in the letter she had folded away because she couldn't read it three times without wanting to hurt herself.

Voss.

Ravenmoor had her back, and Ravenmoor didn't mean her any good. It had always been that way.

She closed the window. She unrolled her sleeping bag on the old bed because she was too tired to look for the bedding and too exhausted to stand upright any longer. She placed the flashlight on the shelf, pointing it towards the ceiling, so that the room was bathed in soft, indirect light.

And while the rain wet the window and the old clock in the hallway struck eleven, Mara Solis fell asleep in the room, i

in which she had stopped believing in happy endings.