A call on the house phone brings me back to the here and now. It’s the police outside the house: “Walter Kohl is here.” The doorbell is already ringing. At Maike’s request, I open the door. In the next second, a man pushes past me like a mountain into the hallway. Unmistakably Walter Kohl.
“There’s exactly the right one,” he hisses at me, storms on into the dead room, where Maike, bent over her husband, is straightening the cuffs on his sleeves. He demands to be left alone in the room with his dead father. He treats the widow on her deathbed like air.
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