The Search
Leif stares at Karin.
Her body lies broken on the mountainside. It rests on a bed of dark rock, a thin pillow of green lichen beneath her cracked skull.
Her irises hold the reflection of the sky, clouds traveling across unseeing pupils.
Her face is undamaged—almost unnervingly so—her skin pale and clear.
The breeze carries the scent of earth, salt, blood.
It toys with a wisp of hair at her temple, then worries the collar of her top. Other than that, she is still.
He can hear the crash of his own heartbeat, his pulse loud and forceful in his throat. He thinks of Karin as a child, snowshoes on, a pink glow to her cheeks as she called to him across the frozen lake.
Leif knows that Karin set out from the lodge three days ago to hike with Erik. His brother had looked so buoyed as he’d prepared for the hike, checking the forecast, packing candles, good food, and a bottle of wine despite the extra weight. It was nice to see him happy for a change.
But now Karin is lying here.
Erik gone.
He registers something odd: where is her pack? He looks about. Maybe it went off the ledge, down into the river? If she rolled from the edge, there would be no trace she was ever here.
Alert to something being off, he examines her more closely now. A cold sensation spreads through his stomach as he notices the four heartlike bruises kissing the top of her left arm. His mouth feels papery as, next, he spots the crescents of dried blood beneath her fingernails.
His radio buzzes, startling him. He snaps it from his buckle, ready to speak to Knut. To tell him what he sees, what he hopes he is desperately wrong about: This doesn’t look like an accident.