Page 285 of These Tears

A cold knot pulls tight around my spine. ‘You didn’t think to tell anyone?’

‘No. He knew the word would reach Inga and she’d take my head clean off.’

I’m only marginally less inclined to do the same.

I don’t say it aloud – that it’s been three days, that it might be too late to do anything. I don’t want to feed the horror for fear of it becoming true.

Staring at the bottle as though it holds the answers, I push to my feet and glare at it.

Anders. I need to see what he knows. I can’t make half-arsed decisions with Elias’ future at stake.

My voice cracks and I shove my hand into the pocket of my jacket. My fingers find the small cloth bundle cradling Frida’s ring.

Sindre simply gives a nod as our eyes meet, not saying anything else. I can now understand why Elias enjoys his company.

But my first step towards the exit stops short. If Anders confirms what I think, I’m going to need Sindre again.

‘I’ll be back here,’ I tell him over my shoulder.

His eyes soften. Then a wicked smirk blooms over his pierced face. ‘As expected.’

The drive blurs into a long strip of grey road, black trees and Brute’s restless breathing beside me. The summer has suddenly become too harsh to stand, and the sun seems to be peeling my skin clean off.

Or it could be Sindre’s confessions.

They sit in my skull alongside Elias’ letter, one truth grinding against the other until I can’t tell which one hurts more: that Elias had planned every inch of my disappearance, or that he had planned my survival with the same ruthless care.

Gravel spits beneath the tyres. The ring is burning a hole in my pocket. When Anders’ house appears between a scattered stack of others, the rage has settled and panic is right back on stage.

I park suddenly enough for the truck to rock. Brute flies out the second I open the door, strutting towards the house as if he can’t wait to take a piece of the disaster unfolding indoors – I hear the yelling before I reach the entrance.

It’s not violent, but it’s far too shrill for a family that usually speaks as if peace is something they keep in large jars beside the sugar.

I knock once.

No one answers.

The skin between my brows puckers as I move to peer through the window.

Inga stands in the middle of the room, one finger pointed at Anders, her whole body drawn tight with fury. Olle, Henrik and Markus stand around their father in varying stages of anger. Sunna sits in the armchair near the mantel, the only person in the room who is not shouting.

Markus turns his head and clocks me, then taps his sister. Inga’s eyes cut to the window. The anger doesn’t leave her face, just changes form.

She says something I can’t make out and goes to open the door.

Wedging herself into the gap with her arms folded tight enough to crease her green sleeves, she offers no invitation and certainly doesn’t seem willing to step away to let me pass. Her narrowed eyes and the stubborn line of her mouth are all she gives me.

A family trait, it seems.

‘Did you know he was returning?’ she snarls.

Behind her, Anders shifts his weight. ‘She knew nothing.’

Her head snaps towards him, but I speak before she can loose whatever is gathering behind her teeth.

‘We should talk,’ I say, pulling Elias’ letter from my pocket and holding it out. For one absurd second, the truth inside it makes me want to fold it back against my heart and pretend none of them need to know.

Inga’s focus moves to the envelope, travels over me, then stops at Brute standing solidly at my side.