18. EIGHTEEN
EIGHTEEN
SNOWMAN
She sat in my car, quiet, but I could feel her anger, her pain. She knew now.
Every mask I had worn in front of her, every lie I'd let her believe, she saw through it all. She knew exactly who I was. And somehow, I felt relief. Like the weight pressing on my chest for years had suddenly lifted. For the first time, I wasn't pretending.
But what she didn't know, what I couldn't let her know, was that I was driving her out of town. Not to protect her, not really. I had to hide her, lock her away for now. She was vulnerable, and vulnerable people… they break too easily. I couldn't risk her telling anyone. Not yet.
The road ahead was just a stretch of dark woods and endless asphalt. The headlights carved out pieces of the night, but everything else blurred into shadow. The rumble of tires, the silence in the car, it all seemed far away, as if we weren't there. Just echoes of ourselves.
I looked over at her, just for a second. She was staring out the window, her face pale and streaked with tears. Her shoulders trembled with quiet sobs.
Tonight, I won. But she? She lost everything.
"Bree," I hesitated.
I reached out, my hand finding her thigh. I gave it a small, reassuring squeeze. Her body stiffened, but she didn't pull away. My hand nearly wrapped around her whole thigh. She got so thin. She felt like she could break.
"I lost Mel," she whispered, her voice barely holding together. Her eyes stayed fixed on the window. "Laura… she… she slit her throat."
Her words hung in the air.
"What?" I turned to her, the car wobbling slightly on the road.
"And Joe," she continued, her voice cracking. "They had two little girls…" She swallowed hard, her breath hitching. "They said they… they will eat her."
I blinked, my brain struggling to make sense of the words. "Eat her?" I repeated, my voice harder now. My hands gripped the wheel, knuckles whitening. "What the hell are you talking about?"
Her hands trembled, resting on her lap, and she let out another broken sob. I pulled my hand back from her thigh and grabbed my phone, dialing Eric with one hand while keeping the car steady with the other.
When he picked up, I didn't wait. "I have Bree," I said, my voice flat, controlled. "But her sister's still in the house."
"The younger one?" Eric asked. "Do you need backup?"
"Yeah," I said, looking at Bree. "But I need some time alone with him first."
"Want me to call Mother?"
I felt my jaw tighten at the mention of her. My grip on the wheel hardened, the leather creaking under my fingers. "Tell her to meet me at the farm."
I hung up, shoving the phone back into my pocket. Gripping the wheel with both hands, I yanked it hard, spinning the car around. The tires screeched against the frozen road, the smell of burning rubber filling the air. Bree gasped, holding the door handle as the car swerved.
"Are you out of your damn mind?" she shouted, looking at me.
"We have to go back," I said, my tone steady, but my foot pressed harder on the gas. The car moved forward, the needle on the speedometer climbing. I looked at her, my eyes locking with hers. "Do you trust me?"
She hesitated, her lips parting like she wanted to argue. But then she nodded, her red eyes glistening. "Why do I feel like I shouldn't?"
I pressed my hand to her thigh again, this time holding her gaze. "Because you shouldn't," I said honestly.
After a moment, I added, "But tonight, you can."
Her lips trembled. "Why do you…" She hesitated, clearing her throat. "Why do you kill people?"
Her question caught me off guard. For a second, I didn't say anything. I kept my eyes on the road, the yellow lines blurring as I drove faster.
"When I was twenty-five," I said finally, my voice quieter now, "I was the youngest detective on the force. My first case…" I stopped, exhaling sharply through my nose. "It was a man who killed his wife. They had a twelve-year-old boy at home."
"The guy was best friends with Jan Johansson," I continued, looking at Bree. "The guy walked. Case closed."
"But how?" she asked, confused. "How does that happen?"
"Self-defense," I said bitterly. "There wasn't enough evidence to convict. He walked. And when I went to the chief, angry as hell, you know what he told me?" I paused, my jaw clenched. "He said I could walk away, pretend nothing happened, or they'd make sure it was me who would take the fall."
"The point is, Bree, someone had to do something. Snowman… he's just a mask. Most of the time, I don't even remember what he does."
She hesitated. "Why did you kill that woman?"
"She took a boy," I said, cutting her off. "Brought him here, abused him for years. And her friend Donna? She knew. She covered it up like it was nothing."
Bree swallowed, the movement making her throat bob. Her voice cracked when she spoke. "And why me?"
"Curiosity." I locked my eyes with her just for a second, then looked away. "I never planned to kill you, Bree. I just…" I let out a breath, trying to piece the thoughts together. "I just wanted to know you."
"Know me?" She let out a bitter laugh. "You don't 'get to know' someone by scaring the hell out of them."
"It was a mistake," I admitted with a slight shrug. "An honest rookie mistake. It won't happen again."
She rolled her eyes and shook her head. "Because now you know me ."
"I don't." I turned toward her, tilting my head. "I still have no idea who you are."
She looked away. "Maybe that's for the best."
I didn't respond.
The silence between us stretched, filled only by the faint rumble of the tires on the road. Up ahead, the farm came into view, and the sharp stink of pigs and horses stung the air. It hit me like a slap, dragging me back to memories I tried so hard to bury. Memories that never stayed buried.
The car slowed, bumping gently to a stop near the gate. I turned to Bree, catching her eyes in the night. "We'll get our chance," I said quietly, reaching out to tilt her face toward me.
She held my gaze for a moment before her eyes fell.
"Why did you stop calling me Birdie?" she asked, her eyes lingering on my mouth.
My jaw tightened as I let go of her face, my hands clenching into fists.
"Birdie?" My voice softened as I cupped her face again, my fingers trembling against her skin. "When I heard him say it, I felt like I was losing you."
I lied.
I didn't remember ever calling her that. The word had slipped out once, maybe twice, when I was driving with Isak. He took it like it meant nothing. Like it was just a word. But it wasn't. Not to her. Not to me now.
Her eyes filled with tears, one breaking free and sliding down her cheek. "He stole my first kiss," she whispered. "And I let him… because I thought he was Snowman."
Her words hit me hard, sharp. I leaned in, pressing my forehead to hers, trying to hold her together.
Trying to hold myself together. "And I hate myself for it."
"I always wanted it to be you ," she whispered, the words like a quiet confession. "I know this is wrong. All of it. But… I still want it."
Her breath mingled with mine, and I felt her hesitation, her vulnerability. My lips brushed her forehead gently, lingering. "Does it help if I say I've wanted it too? Since the first day I saw you?"
A small, trembling smile formed on her lips as she wrapped her arms around me, holding me close. "Just don't let go."
"I won't," I promised, pulling her tighter against me. She rested her chin on my shoulder, and we stayed like that, locked in a moment that felt almost real enough to last.
Then, a sharp knock shattered everything. The thin glass of the car's window rattled, the sound cutting through like a blade. She screamed, so loud, sending shivers down my spine.
I turned, my heart pounding. Lena was standing there, her hands pressed flat against the glass, her face close, peering in.
I reached for the door and pushed it open. She took a step back, serious. The cold air rushed into the car, and I forced myself to meet her eyes.
"Hello, Mother."
"You brought her here?" Her eyes darted to mine, questioning me.
"Yeah," I said quietly, meeting her gaze for a moment before turning back to the car. I leaned inside. "Bree, come on out."
The car door opened softly, and Bree stepped out, her shoulders hunched. She moved toward me, her fingers brushed against mine, tentative, before slipping into my hand. She clung to me, staying slightly behind, her body so fragile and small in comparison to mine.
"You," Lena said, her tone shifting as her eyes fixed on Bree.
Bree stepped further behind me, her grip on me tightening.
"Does she know?" Lena asked, looking at me.
I nodded, sliding my hand to Bree's back and pulling her closer. "She knows."
Lena's mouth pressed into a thin line, and then finally, she tilted her head toward the house and said,"Come inside."
We followed her down the path, the pig pens were alive with snorting, shuffling, and the occasional squeal. The smell hit like a wave, harsh and overwhelming.
Bree raised her sleeve and covered her face with her hands, muffling a soft gag. I reached for her hand again, gripping it as we continued walking.
The snow crunched with each step, the sound rhythmic, almost distracting. Up ahead, the house came into view. It sat low, its wooden walls stained dark from years of storms.
It looked smaller than I remembered, more worn, as if time had taken more from it than the paint itself.
Lena pushed the door open and let it swing wide. Inside, a soft breath of warmth, along with the faint smell of old wood and metal.
The space was cramped, with closed walls and worn furniture. A staircase in the middle led to the bedrooms, while the kitchen and living room took up one space. It was cluttered, not messy, but the whole place suggested that no one had cared for it for a long time.
The radio on the counter crackled, a buzz of static broadcasting the news. My gaze fell on a framed photograph on the far wall, the black-and-white image faded, the faces slightly blurred with age. Bree looked at it without saying a word. She paused before the picture, staring at it with wide eyes. Her breath misted the glass as she leaned closer, squinting as if she recognized someone.
I moved and stood behind her, my hands brushing her shoulders. She was stiff under my touch but didn't pull away. "I have to go," I said softly, leaning down. "You'll be safe with Lena."
She didn't speak, just nodded, her arms folding around herself. She sat down in the chair beneath the photo, her head tilted down.
I stepped back, turning toward Lena. I pulled my phone from my pocket and handed it to her. "Call me," I said simply.
She took it without a word, and the expression on her face was still unreadable.
I turned back toward the door, my boots scuffing against the floor. I didn't look at Bree. I couldn't. Her silence stayed with me as I walked away.
My hand gripped the doorknob, the radio went from humming to sound, and a sharp voice came out, reporting; "In the woods near Isla, police discovered a burned cottage containing the remains of a young woman in her twenties. Authorities have identified her as Ingrid Berg, missing since 2001. Detective Isak Skalsgard confirmed the case is being reopened, with new evidence suggesting a serial killer known as 'Snowman,' believed to be a man in his fifties or sixties, may have accomplices."
I tilted my head toward them, frowning. "Fifty?" I said, the word coming out sharper than I meant. "And who the hell is Ingrid?"
Lena raised her eyebrows and let out a low laugh. "Oh, boy. You're in trouble," she said, shaking her head. "Maybe call Erik and get to work, Thor."
I sighed, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in my chest.
"Yeah," I muttered.
I stepped out the door, hesitating. Bree was still there, watching me.
I hated I was leaving her behind, but I couldn't make this about her right now. I couldn't even look at her as I shut the door behind me.
The yard was the same disaster it always was, scraps scattered across the ground like no one had bothered to clean up in years. I shoved my hands in my pockets, moving through the mess as I headed for the car.
As soon as I sat inside, I grabbed my work phone off the passenger seat, flipping it over to see Erik's name on the missed call. I pressed to call him back.
"Chief called us all in," Erik said the second he picked up. "See you at the station."
The line went dead before I could even grunt a reply.
The police station was surprisingly large for a small town. Three stories high, it seemed almost out of place. The first floor held the reception area and cells, the second floor held the chief's office and a row of desks for detectives and officers, and the third floor was quieter, mostly for officers dealing with paperwork. And outside, in a separate building nearby, were the lab and the coroner's office.
I went inside and climbed the stairs to the second floor, feeling eyes on me with every step I took. The building had that smell of stale coffee, stale air, and the faintest trace of bleach. When I reached the room, everyone's attention was not on me, but on the transparent board with evidence and clues about the Snowman serial killer. The chief stood in front with Donna, the coroner. And their faces said it all, their eyes rimmed with red, an exhaustion that was deeper than a bad dream.
On the clear board behind them were the photos; of Josh, Vic, Sigrid, and Ingrid, strings of notes and crime scene photos surrounded their faces.
I kept moving forward, weaving through desks until I reached Isak and Erik. They nodded as I joined them, and when the chief noticed me, he gave a quick nod to the officer at the door. Without a word, the man left, the door clicking shut behind him.
"Now that we're all here," the chief began, "let's get started."
He turned to the board, picking up a marker, but the way he held it told me his mind was elsewhere. I leaned toward Erik, lowering my voice. "What's going on?"
He shrugged, his eyes glued to the board. "You'll see."
The chief wrote something on the board, then stopped. When he turned, in red was a sketch of the snowman, like a mocking signature.
"What do we know about this guy?" he asked.
Isak raised his hand, but the chief just sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Isak, for God's sake, this isn't school. Just talk."
"Right." Isak cleared his throat and stepped forward. "He hunts at night, and every victim has a record. The first one we found was dumped by the road. She killed two teenagers in a car accident back in 2003."
"We thought it was a truck driver at first," a woman stepped in. Her hair was pulled back neatly, and she looked like she hadn't slept in days. I didn't recognize her. She was new. "He was moving south to north, so it made sense at the time. But none of these victims are random. He picks them."
"He cuts his victims into small pieces," someone in front added, "leaving trails and pieces of them for us to find."
"He is cold and calculated," the woman said, "and he will do it again."
The chief's voice broke in, colder now. "He's been taunting us for years. Playing some hero, deciding who deserves to live or die. But we still don't have a damn clue who this bastard is."
"He's local," the woman cut in, arms crossed tightly. "No one else would know the area this well."
Donna stepped forward. "There's a pattern," she said. "The way he cuts his victims… it's not random. He's skilled. Trained. It's surgical. Every single one of them was drained of blood, clean, controlled. And torture?" She paused, looking around the room. "That's personal."
For a moment, no one spoke.
The silence that followed was stifling. Everyone stared at the board, at the drawing of a snowman, as if it might suddenly tell us something we hadn't seen before. The chief's shoulders slumped as he stared at it, exhaustion written all over his face.
"Do you think he's searching for something?" I broke the silence. "Or is he just interrogating them for what they've done?"
"Yes," the woman replied without hesitation. "I think he's acting like a judge, pushing for confessions. And once he gets them? He kills them."
She stood up again and turned towards the room, I felt like she was looking for him in the room.
"There are four types of serial killers," she said, counting them off on her fingers. "Visionary. Mission-oriented. Hedonistic. Power/control-driven. But this one?" She paused, letting the words sink in. "He doesn't fit into any of those. He's all of them mixed into one."
She walked to the board, picked up a marker, and began to write. Each word came slow: Experienced. Antisocial. Dissociative.
She turned back to face us, pointing to the words as she spoke.
"He's experienced. He's antisocial. And he likely has a split personality." Her eyes moved across the room like she was daring someone to argue. "He might think he's a doctor," she added.
Wrong.
"Or," she went on, "he could believe he's on a military mission."
So wrong.
"Maybe," she mused, her voice softer now, "he's an abused girl trying to avenge her past."
So fucking wrong.
"Or maybe," she said, changing her tone, "he doesn't fully understand what he's doing. He has a good face, a part that feels guilty, allows him to justify it, and a bad face that picks on people he thinks are bad, deserving of punishment."
Bingo.
Erik leaned back in his chair with a smirk, glancing at me before turning to her. "If that's the case," he asked, "how do you explain the snowmen?"
She tilted her head, thinking. "Maybe even a third face, a child," she said calmly. "Building snowmen is his way of creating something he lost in childhood. Or maybe something he never had."
"So, what you're saying is," I said, leaning forward, "this guy is lonely, sad, desperate, and old? Isn't that half the population of Iceland?"
A ripple of laughter broke through the room.
"This isn't a joke," she snapped, her voice cutting through the noise. "I was sent here to profile this man because none of you have been able to close this case. Ten years, and it's still open."
Ten years?
"What about his latest victim?" I asked after a pause, trying to get the conversation back on track. "Does she fit the profile?"
She paused, her jaw tightening, her eyes narrowing slightly. When she finally answered, her voice was flat. "No. She doesn't."
"We think someone saw the cabin burning and decided to throw the body into the flames," Donna said, her voice low, almost resigned. "She was already dead, at least a year before the fire." She paused, shaking her head. "And the bastard left nothing. Not a trace."
Again silence, then a few murmurs rippled through the team, fragmented whispers that didn't dare take form. Then the chief broke through it, his voice cutting.
"That bastard took my son," he said, his tone cold and steady, though his fist tightened on the desk. "And I'm going to make him pay."
No one said a word. We didn't have to. Everyone knew what was left unsaid. Everyone knew that if Josh's case file weren't covered by his father, it'd be as thick as the Bible.
"You're dismissed," the chief barked, waving us off without looking up.
We left quietly, the tension following us into the hallway. Erik and I walked together to my desk. He dropped into the chair across from me, flashing that crooked smile he always wore when he was about to cause trouble.
"Where are your contacts?" he asked, leaning back as if he had all the time in the world. His smile widened. "Does she know?"
"Just bits and pieces," I said, opening my desk drawer. I pulled out a small box and opened it. Shoving the contacts in, I blinked a few times, feeling the familiar sting.
"I went to see Joe," Erik said suddenly, his tone shifting like he was letting me in on a joke. "He's at his house." He paused, the grin returning. "Well, technically your house. He doesn't know that part."
"Does he know it was you?" I asked, trying to sound casual as I shut the drawer.
Erik leaned forward, resting his elbows on my desk. "I wore your mask. Don't worry," he said, glancing away for a moment as if weighing his next words. "I got there just in time for the younger one, though. She's in the hospital."
I scanned him, waiting for more, but he hesitated, his eyes dropping to the floor.
"I need to tell you something," he said finally, his voice softer than before.
"What?" I asked, leaning forward slightly, my pulse quickening.
Before he could answer, Isak's voice broke through, startling both of us.
"I just came back from the hospital," he said, approaching my desk. His face was tight, his jaw clenched. "I asked about Bree, but they said she'd already left. Do you two know anything about that?"
I let out a dry chuckle, turning to face him. "Why would we know? She's your girlfriend."
"Do you have her address?" Isak asked, ignoring the jab. His voice cracked.
I looked at Erik, who raised an eyebrow. "We do," Erik said slowly, "but we can't give it to you. You're too close to this. It's personal."
Isak's shoulders dropped slightly, but his voice didn't waver. "Then call her. Please. I need to talk to her."
"Why?" I asked, my tone sharpening.
Isak leaned in, whispering. "I think she believes I'm the Snowman. I need to clear that up before the new profiler drags her in and paints me as the prime suspect."
The room seemed to get smaller. Erik shifted in his chair, the grin on his face curved at the corner of his mouth.
"Oh," I said. My gaze didn't leave Isak's face. "Should we be suspecting you?"
"No, man, I swear," he said, his voice jittery, barely keeping it together. Erik stepped in closer, resting a heavy hand on his shoulder. The grip tightened just enough to make a point.
I ignored them and pulled out my phone, pressing my number. The call connected after a couple of rings.
"This is Detective Thor Karlsson," I said, keeping it formal. "May I speak with Bree?"
"What's this about, you shmuck ?" Lena snapped, clearly unimpressed. "But yeah, hold on. She's here."
There was a muffled rustle, and then Bree's voice came through, soft. "Hi."
"Hey, Bree," I said."How are you?"
She paused, and for a second, I thought the call had dropped. Then, quietly, "Bad. I'm… waiting for you."
I closed my eyes, took a breath, and focused. "I need to ask you something. Be honest, okay?"
"Okay," she whispered.
"Detective Isak wants to see you," I said. "Do you want me to give him your address? It's completely up to you."
"No." Her voice cracked, but the word came out firm. "Please, Thor. I don't want to see him again."
"Got it," I said. "Thanks for letting me know. Goodbye, miss..."
Miss you.
The thought hovered in my head as I hung up, but I didn't let it stick. There wasn't time for that now.
I turned to Isak, who had been standing nearby, arms crossed like he owned the room. "She said her family's out of town tonight. You can stop by tomorrow morning."
"Right," he said, a smirk creeping across his face. "Perfect."
"I'll send you her address half an hour before," I added, keeping my tone clipped.
"Thank you." He gave a slight nod, then turned and walked off, his footsteps fading into the background.
I looked at Erik, who had been watching everything without a word. "We have to go," I told him.
He stood and grabbed his coat from the back of the chair. No words, just a quick nod. We had a plan.