December 19
“Safe travels, Preben,” Ingrid said, putting a hand on his arm. “Let’s talk soon.”
“Let’s do that, Ingrid!”
She waved as he drove off. He smiled and waved back.
She watched as his car drove down the freshly plowed road. Her heart felt strange. These past two days had changed so much.
She hadn’t even considered the possibility that she and Preben could reconcile. The pain and fear had been too deep, the panic
that took over when he came so strong. But now, just over twenty-four hours later, they were here. The surprise of Preben’s
proposal had begun to thaw her negative feelings, and their collaboration in rescuing Hussein from the mountain had swept
away the last barriers like a sudden spring flood.
Things with Preben were different from anyone else she’d ever been with. There was an intense power in everything he did,
and from the first time he set his green eyes on her like that , she’d known what it meant. Preben wanted her then. There was no mistaking that. And Preben usually got what he wanted. But
now... did he still want her? And if so—what did she want?
At best, being with Preben was an adventure. He and Ingrid were like two force fields; they magnified each other’s strong
sides, and she often felt almost unbeatable with him. They’d made such an incredible team! Both their achievements and their
relationship were thoroughly covered by the press. There was a kind of glow around them, and expedition participants and sponsors
alike had lined up to be part of their team.
But they also had the same weaknesses; they were stubborn and willful, and neither of them was a particularly good listener—either
to other people’s opinions or to their own feelings. Both were practical and natural leaders. This made it difficult when
they found themselves in a stressful situation and both believed they were in the right. When they argued, there were wild
storms with lightning and thunder followed by long, frosty periods of cold. To be seen by Preben was to be warmed by the sun,
but when he chose to ignore you, you were left in the shadows. And it was very cold there.
You could say they had their ups and downs—both literally and figuratively. Ha... she grimaced at her own pun. But how
could she now be so sure it was totally over? If Preben wanted them to try again, would she be able to resist his power?
She didn’t have the chance to call Vegard until late in the afternoon. She told him about what had happened—visits and rescues
and drama on all fronts—interrupted only by her friend’s outburst.
“I can’t believe you climbed again! I knew it, Ingrid! I knew you could do it.”
She didn’t know what to say. It was as if it were only now that she realized what a big deal this was. She’d defied the white
dragon. When it was really necessary, she did what had to be done.
But she didn’t have much time to get lost in her own thoughts; Vegard kept talking enthusiastically.
“And it’s crazy that Preben Wexelsen showed up at your door just like that! It’s like a soap opera!” he laughed. “But what about Thor?”
“Thor?”
“Yeah, how did he react to Preben being there?”
“Hmm...” What was she supposed to say to that? “Well, he wasn’t thrilled.”
“No, I can believe that!” Vegard chuckled.
Fortunately, she’d managed to stop Thor from leaving right away yesterday. His anger had subsided a little when she told him
about the drama with Hussein, but he still said he’d only come to see whether everything was okay and that he was going back
down to the village. So on a personal level, things were still unresolved. What were his thoughts on the situation now? She
still cringed at the thought of him coming in to find her holding Preben’s hand, and now she didn’t quite know how they should
pick up the conversation.
She tried to chuckle, too, but the laugh seemed to get stuck in her throat.
“I leave the hotel for a few days and you manage to get yourself into a love triangle and a dramatic rescue,” Vegard said.
“It’s nuts!”
“Love triangle? No, Preben and I ended things a long time ago. And Thor . . .”
“Yes, Thor! He’s totally infatuated with you. And you like him, too. You just can’t see it because you already friend-zoned
him.”
Well, if only you knew that I had just kissed Thor when Preben got here the other day , she thought—because she’d omitted that particular detail in her conversation with Vegard. She got the feeling that he had
a hunch about it anyway.
“I’m still pretty shaky after what happened with Hussein,” she said. “And relieved. And happy. And totally confused.”
“Good thing the Owl and I are coming up tomorrow, then. You clearly need someone to look after you!”
Now it was Ingrid’s turn to laugh. “And what are you and David going to do, then? Chaperone me? Or belay me in the mountains?”
Vegard chuckled, but then he grew serious. “Ingrid, you know I’m more than happy to help and support you however I can. You
were a mess after the accident. I’m not going to let you get down like that ever again.”
“I won’t let myself, Vegard. I promise to tell you if I need help.”
“Good!”
“When do you think you’ll get here, by the way?”
“I think around seven,” Vegard said. “Or, I guess it depends on when David’s done at work. Maybe eight is more realistic.”
She made a mental note that they wouldn’t be there until nine at the earliest.
“But hey,” Vegard said. “You mentioned that Thor brought over some old newspapers. Did you find anything out?”
“Yeah, it’s all really strange,” Ingrid said.
She gave Vegard as brief a summary as she could, both of what they’d read and what the old editor had told Thor.
“The sister of the village bigshot! Gone without a trace! It’s just as I said—it should be a podcast,” Vegard said. “Or a TV series. This is a real mystery!”
“Yeah, it really is,” Ingrid said. “But there’s more.”
“Even more?” Vegard asked.
“Yeah, Thor also found out that Hallgrim Dalen has an economic interest in having the hotel do poorly. But the main point
is that I’m becoming more and more certain that there’s a connection between the old case and all the things that have been
happening around here.”
“What are you thinking of?”
“Well, first and foremost, the sudden cancellations,” Ingrid explained, “which Hallgrim and the gang seem to be behind. But
Nana Borghild says it’s not just about the money, that there’s history between her and Hallgrim that... okay, it’s pretty
complicated. It seems like he blames her for his sister’s disappearance. I don’t really understand how this is all connected.
We’ll have to talk about it more when you’re here.”
Vegard grunted triumphantly. “You see? True crime! Maybe the murderer from back in the day is threatening to strike again?”
“But we don’t even know whether the girl was murdered,” Ingrid objected.
Then she fell silent. Murder, suicide, accident, a disappearance with a completely different explanation—what did she really
know about any of it? Only what was in the newspapers and what Nana Borghild had told her—and that wasn’t much.
She sighed. “Right now, I don’t really know what to make of anything, what with all the drama that’s been going on here the
past few days.”
“Hope you’re doing okay,” Vegard said before they hung up. “See you tomorrow!”
Ingrid sat there for a while, thinking. Was she okay? She didn’t know. She was exhausted, overwhelmed, happy, terrified, totally
confused—and quite possibly falling in love.
***
Freya Wilkins was almost unrecognizable. The normally adventurous and colorful woman seemed to have faded somehow. She was
reclining on the sofa in a gray sweater with a gray wool blanket draped over her legs. Her eyes were half open, and she didn’t
seem to even be registering the spectacular view of the mountains. Her hair was unkempt and revealed some gray roots at the
base of her otherwise blond locks. A teacup with the bag still in it was on the table in front of her. The tea was so dark
that it looked as though it had been steeping for hours.
“Hi, Freya, how are you feeling?” Ingrid asked. “I brought some samples from Maja’s Christmas baking.”
She set the tray on the coffee table, even though she got the feeling the treats wouldn’t be touched. She sat down in the
chair at the end of the table. Dr. Wilkins had opened the door when Ingrid knocked and was now sitting at the small desk facing
the wall. He swiveled his chair around so that his back was to the desk and the many papers strewn across it. His doctor’s
bag was open next to the sofa.
“Thank you,” Freya said, smiling weakly. She looked at Ingrid and the baked goods, but then her eyes fell again, as if the
effort of uttering those two words had been too much for her. Was this really the same person who’d burst into the hotel with
the energy of a tornado only a few days ago?
“Maja sends her best and says she hopes you’ll be ready to join her in the kitchen again soon,” Ingrid said. “There are all kinds of specialties being prepared now just before Christmas—and there’s home-brewed beer that needs tasting,” she said with a smile at Dr. Wilkins. “It’s an important tradition!”
The invitation from Maja was a lie, of course. The chef had more than enough on her plate without Freya Wilkins getting in
the way. She was at her wit’s end with the American’s constant fussing and “helping.” But Ingrid hoped that the prospect of
some traditional Norwegian activities might rekindle Freya’s joie de vivre.
It didn’t seem to help at all, though. Ingrid looked at the sofa again, where Freya now had her eyes fully closed. Ingrid
wasn’t sure whether Freya was asleep. Was she drugged or just exhausted? If so, from what?
“Freya is very tired,” Dr. Wilkins said. He got up from his chair and sat down next to Ingrid. “The journey from the US, all
the organizing, and the high level of activity here in Norway has probably been a bit too much for her. Not good for her blood
pressure and quite exhausting, mentally as well.”
He lowered his voice, almost to a whisper. “You know, she’s had such high expectations for this trip. She spent months—well,
years, actually—planning it. Getting help from all her contacts in Daughters of Norway, searching online day after day for
tickets and local information. And she’s been so excited about what we might find here in terms of her roots, maybe even some
relatives. But then she found more than she expected...”
“More? What do you mean?”
Dr. Wilkins looked at his wife. “I’m sure she’ll be able to tell us more herself when she gets her strength back.”
Ingrid looked at Freya, who was still lying there with her eyes closed. “Well, I really hope she gets better soon,” Ingrid said. “And I trust you’ll let us know if there’s anything the hotel can help with. Food or transportation or picking up medication from the pharmacy, anything you need.”
John Wilkins nodded. “Thank you,” he said. “You’re already doing more than anyone could ask for. But I promise I’ll let you
know.”
Just as Ingrid started getting up from her chair, Freya sat up abruptly and fixed her intense gray stare on her. Her eyes
were wide open. She leaned forward and grabbed Ingrid’s upper arm surprisingly firmly.
“It’s that picture,” Freya said. “I have to look at it again. The picture of my mother.”
***
February 1962
Hallgrim’s voice sounded like a thunderclap. “Of course you’re going to marry Jarand Smedplass!” He leaned forward, shaking
his finger in Charlotte’s face in time with his words. “You! Will! Be! Happy! That! Someone! Even! Wants! You! At! All!”
“But Hallgrim! I can’t. Even though he’s your friend. He’s too old for me.”
“Twenty-nine isn’t old.”
“It’s old when I’m only nineteen! And he’s been married before.”
“It’s not Jarand’s fault that his old lady took off.”
“Isn’t it?” Charlotte stared at her brother in disbelief. “So it had nothing to do with the fact that he has a drinking problem and beat her?”
Hallgrim snorted. “You shouldn’t listen to rumors.”
“They’re not rumors! I know it’s true. She moved in with her sister and got a divorce.”
“Nonsense. Gossip.”
Charlotte started to cry. “I’m afraid of him!”
Hallgrim’s face was now red with rage. “You ungrateful little...”
He took a step forward, and for a moment, she thought he was going to hit her. Now she was crying so hard she almost couldn’t
breathe. But he stopped abruptly, stepped back, and took a deep breath.
He turned away for a moment and looked back at her, his gaze piercing. “Charlotte. It has to be like this. Jarand has agreed.
Who else will marry you now—what with the mess you’ve gotten yourself into?”