Page 275 of These Tears

Scurrying head-first into the bedroom, I snatch the weighted holster from the desk just as my head snaps up and my gaze darts out the window. Anders’ truck emerges from the trees. There’s no mistaking its roar. In that bright, stupid moment I am so anxious to see the blue eyes again that I abandon the gun and the meat on the counter, and bolt outside as though loosed from a crossbow.

The vehicle approaches and as it rolls closer, the windscreen catches the light, but shows only one outline of a person behind the wheel.

No passenger.

No dark curls.

When the truck turns into the yard, I realise it is Inga driving.

Everything inside me wilts.

The machine stops slightly crooked, which feels appropriately Inga Nielsen.

‘Hei hei!’ she chirps as she struggles to shove the door open with visible resentment.

‘Hei,’ I call back, plastering on a smile I don’t feel.

‘I thought I’d rescue you from the fishing gear,’ she says with a chuckle, climbing out of the truck with a basket hooked over one arm. ‘And from your own head. Jakob said both are dangerous when left unsupervised.’

I manage a weak laugh at that, but it doesn’t sit well that Elias had spoken to her about me being left unsupervised. And that basket she is carrying seems too full for an impulsive visit.

‘Elias has a way with words, doesn’t he?’ I say, then soften because the name they know him by still belongs to only them in a way I don’t fully understand. ‘I mean… Jakob.’

Inga smiles as she approaches. ‘Lunch first. Coffee after. Existential crisis later.’

Which is how I end up storing the meat for tomorrow, then strolling back outside beneath the thin shade by the cabin with bread, smoked fish and lingonberry jam. The coffee I’d brought is strong enough to scare off anything with an inhuman sense of smell.

Brute sits near Inga’s knee with the solemn devotion of a traitor, his ears turning with every sound coming from the treeline, while his brother runs another tireless perimeter check.

For a while, Inga talks about Sunna’s blanket. About which cousin has ruined her panel twice and insists on calling it artistic tension. Then about Mee’s mother threatening to redo half of it in secret because, naturally, seventy years of life entitles a woman to properly aligned stitches.

I laugh despite the hole in my middle.

The quiet stretches. My thumb rubs the pale strip around my ring finger before I realise Inga is watching.

‘Was he very upset when you lost it?’ she asks.

My fingers still. ‘Elias? I mean… Jakob?’

She squints against the afternoon sun and straightens the crease in the blanket where she lies on her side. ‘Yes.’

‘Not really. Why bring it up?’ I pick up the mug, the handle pressing hard into my palm. My voice catches, betraying everything my face does not.

She sighs. ‘The whole Hunt-slash-wedding gone bananas.’

Wedding. I remind myself to tread carefully so I don’t insult the traditions but also don’t give away enough for her to jump to conclusions. Or worse – make the right ones.

‘No, it wasn’t. Things have been developing in a way we… didn’t expect,’ I murmur.

She studies me until I have to draw my knees closer in an attempt to shield myself from her gaze. Menace appears in my line of sight, strutting merrily towards us. It pulls away from the topic for a beat.

But there’s no avoiding it.

‘At the risk of you hating me…’ I exhale. ‘The engagement was…’ I weigh whether to admit it aloud or not. I need to get it off my chest because I can’t keep looking at these people and smile lies into their faces. ‘Fraudulent.’

My body locks up. Excuses already line up to absolve us of everything. But in the silence, I realise nothing comes out of her.

I glance her way. A knowing half-smile is already waiting. ‘Figured something was going on, but I wasn’t sure. Nothing about Jakob is simple.’