29
A dozen people linger around the cleared patch behind the Nielsens’ house, where a modest bonfire crackles in a shallow ring of blackened stones.
It’s nothing grand or staged, just split birch stacked low, flames dancing through the cold afternoon to soothe the soul.
Smoke drifts sideways whenever the wind changes, carrying the smell of wood and a rich aroma wafting from the large pot Anders is happily stirring.
The baby is mostly inside with her mother. Every now and then, someone slips through the back door with a bowl or a question, then returns to the fire with a soft look people get after seeing something small and delicate.
I stand beside Sunna near a rough wooden table set under the overhang of a shed, helping her pour drinks into mismatched enamel mugs. A bottle of something clear and sharp-smelling sits near her elbow, but most people seem to be nursing coffee and sweet cordial.
A clear glass sits in the corner with the rest, inviting me to help myself to the unforgiving spirits on the table. But explaining why Elias drinks from my glass might raise a few awkward questions.
I leave it right where it is.
Sunna moves like someone who has fed half the country through winters, births, funerals and whatever other disasters or blessings call for warmth from the inside out.
She smiles at me now and then. I smile back despite myself.
She’d closed up the petrol station as soon as we emerged from the back rooms, leaving me no chance to confront Elias about what the bloody hell had happened in that corridor – or during that call.
It was clear Anna knew Elias had been with me. The only person who might have told her something was Conall.
I freeze, staring into the pale bottom of the empty mug as his face surfaces in my mind.
The Irishman had seemed anxious at the airport. As though he had already known how my flight was going to end.
My mind breaks loose and starts pulling other thoughts into the mess: Elias, newly released, with no phone, no proper way to book flights or move money or vanish across borders without help.
Skeever, the computer-savvy man. That call in the corridor.
No…
The denial comes late. The pieces have already begun fitting themselves together in the ugliest possible shape.
What if my kidnapping had not been what I thought it was?
What if Conall had helped him?
Had Elias swindled him, too?
Laughter erupts, wrenching me out of my spiral.
I glance towards the bonfire where the conversation rises in a mixture of Norwegian, English and words I can’t place. The English is for me, and it comes slowly from some, each sentence carrying the mould of another language beneath it.
Coffee passes from hand to hand. Someone laughs with their mouth full. Someone teases Anders about the stew. He fires something back without even looking up, sending another ripple of amusement through the group.
And through it all, Elias is not Elias.
The name they know him under passes from mouth to mouth as if it actually belongs to the man. Jakob, more wood. Jakob, move the bench. Jakob, taste this. Jakob, why do you look like a ghost?
And he does – look like one. His face turns paler with each person who crosses his path or calls his name.
He carries logs to the fire that doesn’t need them. Crouches to shift pieces of birch that don’t need shifting. Finds one useless task after another whenever someone comes too close.
Then his eyes cut through the yard, searching.
They find me.
The tension around his mouth eases. His shoulders settle.
And my nerves cinch tight.
With the waning day in his hair and firelight caressing his face, he looks more like someone who might have grown from this place instead of someone who had imprisoned me in it.
But regardless of that, he is still out of place.
To my left, a hand slips into view and takes one of the half-full mugs.
‘Takk,’ a woman says softly.
Turning, I come face to face with a blonde around my age, thick braid over one shoulder and eyes so blue they look almost offensive in the twilight.
They’re not Elias-blue. His make me think of ice beneath a clear afternoon sky.
Hers are a brighter kind, clearer, set in a face that would probably photograph beautifully.
‘I’m Inga,’ she adds.
I grunt out an answer, pair it up with my name, try for a smile, and hope I don’t look like an undomesticated ferret.
She gives one of her own back. Nothing smug – polite enough to make the fact that I have absolutely no reason to dislike her even more irritating.
Naturally, I do.
I know it’s ridiculous – she has done nothing save for looking like she belongs here in the way that I do not. But she has the accent, the ease, the familiarity with this place – and with Elias – that makes my borrowed-fiancée act suddenly feel painfully obvious.
Her gaze drifts past the table and towards the fire. Towards him.
I pull in a deep breath, but it sticks high to my chest.
Brilliant.
Captive. Traumatised. Possibly developing Stockholm syndrome, and now jealous of a woman with northern cheekbones who knows him better than I do.
I look back at the mugs and pour the next coffee with unnecessary focus.
Her mouth parts as though she wants to say something to me.
I stop pouring, lock eyes with her, wondering with indignation whether all Norwegians came with ice in their eyes or whether there was a government-issued supply somewhere.
Her accent is lighter than Sunna’s, polished enough that I barely hear the Norwegian in some words. ‘Jakob used to do that when he was a kid, too.’ She points a finger briefly.
My hands still around the coffee pot.
Kid.
It ricochets between my temples and softens the picture of Elias Crane. As if the bear-man had ever been allowed to be one. A kid.
‘Do what?’ I ask, managing something close to pleasant.
She knew him when he was small. She has some version of him tucked away in her memory that I don’t. In her mind’s eye, there’s probably a boy with scraped knees, cold hands and a name that isn’t chained to a concrete floor.
I’ve only ever known him as dangerous.
Inga nods towards him. ‘He keeps away. Makes himself look busy enough that people leave him alone.’
The smile I give her feels tight at first, but as I look over, the irritation evaporates in an instant.
Two men have approached Elias by the flames. One claps him hard on the back, the other pulls him briefly into a one-armed embrace.
His mouth lifts because this is public and Jakob Halvorsen knows how to stand still and accept a friendly hand on his back.
I watch his shoulders roll the moment the man lets go. It’s almost imperceptible, but it’s enough to shake off the place where the hand landed.
Something inside me sinks.
I know that tiny recoil. I’ve seen what comes before it – the instant stillness, the body bracing before his mind has even had the moment to process the threat.
Someone touched him without warning.
Wait—
Why do I bloody care?
A lungful of cold air in, then a slow exhale out. I buy myself enough time to find something that will make me sound like the woman he introduced me as.
‘He is like that, yes,’ I murmur, slipping into fiancée-mode.
Inga’s gaze catches on my greatest possession resting against my abdomen.
‘When did you start?’ she asks.
I glance down at the camera bag.
‘Photography?’
She nods.
I turn the next mug slowly in my hand. ‘It feels like I’ve always been at it. But I got my first proper camera when I was thirteen. Didn’t really put one down after that.’
‘I’ve done some photography myself. I took a few classes when the shelter needed someone for fundraising and campaign work. Tell Jakob to bring you down to the capital sometime. We could make a fun day of it.’
I smile in response, stifling the urge to say that Elias is not taking me anywhere.
My eyes drift back to the man of the hour.
He’s talking to the men – or pretending to. One of them says something that makes the others laugh, and Elias’ mouth curves a second too late.
It’s convincing enough from a distance. A man among men, shoulders broad, handsome in that quiet, shy way of his.
But I keep watching.
The smile stops at his mouth; not exactly false, but rehearsed – because not wearing it invites questions he has no intention of answering.
I hate that I can relate. My mind even starts toying with the possibility that maybe this is real.
Maybe Jakob Halvorsen can stand beside a bonfire and laugh with men who slap his back and call his name like it attaches to his face.
Or maybe it’s another mask.
Inga’s expression sobers by degrees, the gentleness draining from it as her gaze remains on him.
‘Has he told you everything?’
My head snaps towards her.
The question is too cautious to be casual. Too… placed.
She glances at me then, lifting one shoulder, but her eyes move down conspicuously.
To my hand.
To the ring.
‘Well…’ she says with a voice as mild as the coffee steaming between us. ‘You are here.’
The lie coils tight around my finger. It suddenly doesn’t feel like mere jewellery, but something closer to evidence.
My gaze hooks to the milk carton as I curl my fist, then rub at my knuckles as if the cold has suddenly found its way beneath my skin. ‘Indeed.’
‘I became a social worker because of him, you know.’
I almost choke on the next intake of air. She says it so casually, then adds, ‘Before the shelter thing.’
‘Really?’ I ask, trying not to be too interested as I steady the mug in my hand.
She nods with a smile and takes a sip of her coffee, then flinches. ‘Ooph, more milk for me, please?’
Picking up the carton, I tilt it over the rim where she holds it close, letting the silence stretch while my pulse beats so hard it feels as if it’s about to run off with my sanity.
‘Jakob is a good man,’ she tells me quietly.
The milk container buckles slightly beneath my fingers.
‘We understand. We’re close to him. Well, as close as he’ll let us,’ she starts chattering again. ‘It hasn’t been easy for him. I’m hoping one day he’ll open up.’