Amsterdam

  The streets of Amsterdam were slippery this morning, a combination of light rain and a bit of freezing. It was quiet outside, most people were sleeping in on Boxing Day, or 2nd Christmas day as they call it here. He couldn’t remember the last white Christmas, but cold and rainy ones were all too common. He did remember his last Christmas homicide case. And the one before that.

The hotel lobby was busy, with staff nervously pacing around and people being questioned by his colleagues. He took the stairs to room 327, where the bodies of the couple lay on the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. There was a lot of blood. Almost too much. But that was not what made him feel uneasy.

The most disturbing part wasn’t the brutality of the scene—it was the small girl, no older than six, crouched in the corner, staring straight ahead. She was holding a blood-stained light blue teddy bear, squeezing it tightly. She hadn’t said a word since the housekeeper found her, nor had she moved. No one knew who they were. Who she was.

He crouched beside the girl, careful not to startle her. Her clothes were clean but wrinkled, as though she had spent the entire night sitting there. He spoke softly to her, his voice low and reassuring, but her eyes remained fixed on the floor, unblinking. He looked around the room. No luggage. He stood up and glanced toward the window, noticing it had been left slightly ajar.

The woman had checked in with a name that did not turn up anything. The man and the child were not seen coming in, but apparently many people come and go in a place like this. The camera system had its issues, and the IT guy was off during the holidays. As Jacobsen stood by the window his mind raced through the possibilities. No signs of forced entry, no struggle, just two dead bodies and a girl who didn’t—or couldn’t—Speak. Everything was wrong—very wrong.

As he was about to speak, the girl whispered, her voice barely audible: "They were not supposed to be here." The words sent a chill down his spine. He crouched down again, watching her, searching her face for more, but she remained silent, her eyes still distant, as if she hadn’t spoken at all. Jacobsen’s heart raced. “What the hell?” He asked her what she meant, but this apparently was all she was willing, or able, to say. Trauma and shock were all too common, but this was something….different.

A draft brushed his neck, colder than it should have been. Something was wrong here, more than just the bodies on the bed. As he opened his mouth to press the girl further, the door creaked open, and Jacobsen turned to see a young officer, her face pale as if she’d just seen a ghost. It was her first homicide. “Detective,” she said, her voice barely steady, “we have someone on the phone. She says she's the mother of the man in the room.”

No one had been able to identify the victims, and now, out of nowhere, a call like this? “Put her on hold,” Jacobsen instructed, his voice steady but his pulse quickening. He glanced back at the girl. Her cryptic words—they were not supposed to be here—echoed in his mind.

Jacobsen headed toward the hallway where there was a phone on the wall, probably rarely used these days.  He could hear the faint, steady breathing of the woman on the other end. “This is Detective Jacobsen. You say you’re the mother of the man in room 327?” he asked. A pause followed, then a trembling voice answered, “Yes... my son... his name is Tomas. Please, I need to know what happened.” Her words were shaky, with an accent he could not quite pinpoint.

“How did you know he was here?” There was another long silence, and Jacobsen could almost hear her thinking. Finally, she whispered, “I’ve been looking for him. He shouldn’t have been there. He sent me a message when I was asleep yesterday.” A coldness crept over him as the pieces of the puzzle began to shift. “What do you mean, he shouldn’t have been there?” he pressed.

The woman’s voice grew quieter as she continued. “Tomas and his wife… they were running. For months now. He never told me the details—just that it was dangerous, and they couldn’t stay in one place for long. And they could not return to Europe. They were always moving, mostly traveling separately. He said it was safer that way. I begged him to go to the police, but he refused. Said it was bigger than that, something I wouldn’t understand.” Her breath hitched as she tried to steady herself. “They had been hiding for so long, I thought…” she paused, as though trying to find the right words. “I thought they were finally safe.”

Jacobsen leaned against the wall, thinking about the woman’s words. His gaze drifted back toward room 327, where the little girl still sat, silent and unmoving. Something didn’t add up. "And your granddaughter?" Jacobsen asked, his voice careful, testing the waters. "The little girl who was found with them…"

A sharp intake of breath came through the phone. "Granddaughter?" the woman repeated, her tone edged with confusion. " What are you talking about?" Jacobsen felt the weight of her question settle in, the unease growing. "There’s a girl, about six years old, found in the room with them. She hasn’t spoken much, but she was there when the bodies were discovered."

The silence on the line stretched too long, and Jacobsen’s grip tightened on the receiver. When she finally spoke, her voice trembled. “Detective... that isn’t their daughter. And whatever it is... it’s not a child.”

That’s when the screaming started. He sprinted back to the room, which was empty. A trail of blood led to the now wide-open window. The light blue teddy bear perched on the window ledge; its button eyes fixed on Jacobsen. It almost seemed to smile, as though it had watched everything unfold—and knew exactly what came next.