If she's really his lover, I should find something about it in the gossip press. I delve into the research and don't give up until I come across a clue.
Gustav Blohm divorced from a certain Ida Lund nearly six years ago, who subsequently vanished.
That's a start. Tomorrow, I'll conduct further research on this. I mentally note the government portals and public data sources to check. For now, it's more important not to lose track of the redhead's trail. My instinct tells me there's something to discover here. Perhaps even something significant.
Wait a moment. Why didn't I have this idea much earlier? This is how I can connect my journalist's honor with what Jakob wants from me. I'll start with what people want to read.
But I'll end with a truth worth telling.
Filled with newfound energy, I push away from the stair railing and step up to the window. The darkness of the late Swedish autumn envelops the city. Countless lights penetrate the thin fog, giving the view a mystical quality. Snow could fall from the clouded sky for the first time this winter.
As it does every year, the thought gnaws at my heart. Yet I'm powerless against it. I can already see thick flakes silently descending to the ground. I feel them landing on the tip of my nose. And I remember the moment when, at the age of eighteen, I stood by the window and watched the first snowfall of the year.
I still remember how dirty I felt as it wrapped the entire world in its purity.
Snow covers everything up.
But one day, it melts. It loses its structure and seeps into its own filth.
Then you see the world for what it truly is. And the longer the winter has lasted, the more painful that moment is.
