Page 73 of Johan. (Van Den Bosch #8)

Hannah

I fumble with my phone, my fingers trembling slightly as I call Astrid again. The phone rings, the sound echoing in my ear, each ring amplifying my nervousness. The Uber driver looks back at me through the rearview mirror, his expression a mix of curiosity and concern.

“Come on, Astrid, pick up,” I mutter under my breath, glancing nervously at the darkened driveway. The line rings and rings, a relentless pulse in the still night.

Finally, just as I'm about to give up, the call connects. “Hello?” Astrid's voice is flat, devoid of its usual sharpness.

“Astrid, it’s Hannah. I'm in front of your house. I need to talk to you,” I say, my voice shaking slightly with urgency.

“I'm not home,” she replies, her tone unconvincing, almost mechanical.

Confused, I glance at the gates. “Aren't you at Goschen Hall? I'm, eh, right in front of the gates.”

There's a heavy sigh on the other end, followed by a long pause. “Fine,” she says finally. “Come in.”

The iron gates creak open slowly, revealing the long driveway leading up to the mansion. The Uber rolls forward, the sound of gravel crunching under the tires filling the silence. We come to a stop in front of the grand entrance, and I step out, thanking the driver before he drives away.

Astrid emerges from the shadows, her figure outlined by the dim porch light. Her face is pale, her eyes swollen and red-rimmed as if she's been crying for hours. The sight of her like this twists something in my chest.

“Astrid,” I approach her softly, the concern evident in my eyes. “Are you okay?”

She shrugs, a tired motion that seems to pull her entire frame down. “I had better days.” A heavy silence settles between us, the weight of unspoken words pressing down.

“I need to talk to you,” I break the stillness, my voice gentle but firm. “It’s important.”

“Alright,” she replies after a moment, her voice weary but accepting. “Come, let’s get inside. It’s freezing out here.”

We step inside the grand hall, and the vast space feels strangely cold and silent without the usual bustle of staff and guests.

The high ceilings and expansive rooms echo our footsteps as we walk through.

I look around, noticing the absence of the familiar faces that usually fill the hall with life.

“It’s kinda empty. Where’s Lauren and the rest of the staff?” I ask, my voice bouncing off the walls.

“I sent them away,” Astrid replies, her voice devoid of emotion. “I needed some time to myself.”

The living room is dimly lit, the shadows from the flickering fireplace dancing on the walls.

A self-help book titled Life After Love lies discarded on the couch, while a half-empty bottle of vodka sits on the table, a lonely glass beside it.

I inhale deeply, bracing myself for the difficult words that are about to leave my mouth.

“Look,” I begin, my voice trembling, “despite everything that you did to me and Johan, I believe people deserve a second chance.”

Astrid turns to me, her arms crossed defensively. “A second chance?” she echoes, her tone filled with skepticism. “What do you?—”

“Please let me speak,” I cut her off, meeting her gaze.

“I know everything you did was because you were hurting from what I did.” Astrid rolls her eyes and huffs at me instantly, but I keep going.

“And I sincerely and truly apologize for not telling you the truth about Johan the moment I saw him at the exhibition.

It's just…” I stop mid-sentence, trying to find the right words to put on. “I didn't want to ruin our friendship.”

Her eyes flash with a mixture of pain and anger. “Hiding the truth did way worse,” she retorts, her voice breaking slightly. “You knew what my best friend had done, you knew the trauma I went through, and yet, you did the exact same thing.”

“I know,” I admit, my tone barely above a whisper. “The way I handled things was wrong. And I'm so sorry, Astrid. I messed up, and I’m truly sorry for everything I did. If I give you a second chance, will you do the same?”

We stand there in silence for a moment, the weight of our shared history hanging heavily between us. Finally, Astrid lets out a long sigh. “I'm gonna cook myself something. You wanna stay over for a late dinner?”

Relief floods through me, and I nod. “I'd like that.”

We move to the kitchen, the familiar routine of preparing food bringing a semblance of normalcy. The clatter of pots and pans, the rhythmic chop of vegetables, it all feels oddly soothing. Astrid’s expression softens, the tension in her shoulders easing as we fall into a comfortable rhythm.

“Can I ask you a very peculiar question?” Astrid’s tone is hesitant, almost fragile.

“Of course,” I reply, glancing at her curiously as I start slicing a bell pepper.

“Do you remember the first time you stole something?” she asks, her voice curious, almost playful.

I pause, a small smile tugging at my lips. “I was twelve. It was at a fair of antiquities in Amsterdam. I loved going to those fairs.”

She chuckles softly, the sound warming the room. “I can imagine. What did you take?”

“A small silver brooch. It was beautiful, and I couldn’t resist,” I confess, the memory bringing a touch of nostalgia.

Astrid nods, stirring a pot on the stove. “Do your parents know about your…peculiar habit?”

I sigh. “Until last week, they didn’t.”

“How was their reaction?” Astrid asks, and I think I detect genuine concern in her voice.

“I just told Mom. I assume she’ll share this info with Dad. But it went okay; I had to promise to keep doing therapy, but apart from that, it went well enough.”

Astrid nods, a smile of understanding softening her features. “I’m happy everything went well.”

The kitchen hums with quiet activity as we move about, the sound of rain beginning to pour outside providing a soothing backdrop.

The aroma of garlic and herbs fills the air, mingling with the scent of simmering tomatoes.

I chop vegetables while Astrid stirs the sauce, our movements synchronized like a well-practiced dance.

Then I hesitate, my hands pausing over the cutting board.

The words I need to say weigh heavily on my tongue.

I glance at Astrid, her shoulders slightly hunched, a faint shadow of distress flickering across her face despite the serene moment we’re sharing.

“Astrid,” I say softly, breaking the comfortable silence. My heart pounds as I prepare to broach the delicate subject. “I know you got expelled from your PhD program because of your behavior towards Johan. What are you going to do?”

Astrid’s smile fades instantly, replaced by a look of raw uncertainty and shame.

Her hand hovers over the pot, her eyes downcast. The distress is clear in the way her jaw tightens and the way she grips the wooden spoon a little too tightly.

“I don’t know,” she admits, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I intend to speak to my dad when he comes back and try to figure out a plan from there.”

“Do you know when he’ll be back?” I ask, probing if she knows that he was detained, and if she does, will she share such info with me?

She shakes her head. “Nope. He and Mum went on a last-minute trip to Morocco. Dad hasn’t called yet.

” She lowers her gaze, ruminating for a moment.

“The fact he left right before I needed him the most…” Her vulnerability tugs at my heart, and I feel a pang of sympathy.

The air feels heavier, laden with unspoken fears and the weight of her past actions.

I nod, understanding the fear and uncertainty swirling inside her. “You’re strong, Astrid. You’ll find a way through this, no matter what.”

She looks up at me, her eyes reflecting a mix of gratitude and sadness, her distress palpable. “Thank you, Hannah. I hope you’re right.”

I take a deep breath, sensing this is a crucial moment. “You know, if you show remorse and offer a proper apology for your behavior towards Johan, maybe the council will accept you back.”

Astrid's eyes widen, and a flicker of hope mingles with the distress on her face. She stirs the sauce slowly, her mind clearly turning over my suggestion. “Do you really think that could work?” she asks, her voice trembling with the faintest hint of optimism.

“It might,” I say, offering a reassuring smile. “The council wants to see genuine remorse and a willingness to change. If you can show that, they might give you another chance.”

“I owe you an apology, too,” she finally says, her gaze meeting mine, “pretending like I knew nothing and playing with your feelings was wrong. I’m sorry.”

“Thank you,” I tell her sincerely. “I appreciate the honesty.”

We continue cooking in companionable silence, the kitchen filling with the rich scents of our meal.

The rain beats a steady rhythm against the windows, the sound comforting and constant.

Despite everything that has happened, this moment of normalcy feels like a small victory.

The warmth of the kitchen and the act of preparing food together offer a brief respite from the turmoil of our lives.

As I finish chopping the vegetables, I can’t help but feel a glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, we can find a way to move forward from the tangled mess of our past. “I had missed this,” she says softly as we finish our meal preparation.

“Me too,” I respond, and I mean it.

After dinner, a thunderstorm begins to rage outside, the sound of rain pounding against the windows creating a rhythmic backdrop.

Thunder rumbles in the distance, and occasional flashes of lightning illuminate the darkened sky.

The storm's intensity is almost hypnotic, casting the house into a cocoon of sound.

We clear the plates in comfortable silence, the echoes of our earlier laughter still lingering in the air.

The kitchen feels warm and lived-in, a stark contrast to the chill that had greeted me at the door.