Hidden in Snow (The ?re Murders, #1)(2)

Shame floods her body.

Manfred said he couldn’t even bear to look at her.

There is a great deal she hasn’t been able to share with Christian over the past six months, and she still can’t face it.

Not tonight. Some other time.

Right now she just wants to get indoors, pour herself another vodka, and sink into a hot bath. Shut out the world, stop thinking about everything that’s gone wrong.

Her eyes fill with tears, but she angrily blinks them away.

She’s going to pretend that things are perfectly normal, at least for a little while until she’s managed to digest the situation. She can consider the future tomorrow.

With a sigh she pushes open the main door and stomps up the stairs. She hesitates outside her front door, quickly wipes away a tear that has broken through.

Puts her key in the lock and turns it.

OceanofPDF.com





2

When Hanna walks in, the first thing she sees is a wheeled black suitcase in the hallway.

She drops her purse on the rug, takes off her wet jacket.

She wonders if they have visitors, then realizes it’s Christian’s, the one he uses when he’s going away for a few days.

“Hello?” she calls out. “I’m home.”

She kicks off her shoes, moves into the open-plan kitchen and living room.

Every surface is spotlessly clean as usual. They have just finished renovating, and Christian has put a lot of time and effort into the choice of colors and materials. It was his idea; Hanna could easily have lived with the previous decor for a while longer. However, she has to admit that it looks good. The gray granite countertops blend perfectly with the kitchen cupboards, and the eye-wateringly expensive wooden flooring provides that extra-special finish.

Except that it feels as if her realtor partner has styled their home ready for one of his viewings.

Hanna searches for something to drink. They don’t have any vodka, but she finds a bottle of red wine and pours herself a large glass. The tears are scalding her throat, but she swallows and swallows. She doesn’t want to cry anymore about her job. She can’t change anything now.

Then she catches sight of her reflection in the glass door of the oven. She looks terrible. Her wet hair lies completely flat against her head; her mascara has run. She doesn’t normally wear much makeup, but today she wishes she’d at least used a little gloss on her cracked lips.

She takes her wine into the bathroom and rinses her face, then turns the faucet to run herself a hot bath. A deep breath, then she heads into the bedroom to say hi to Christian.

All she wants is a hug.

He is lying on top of the lilac bedspread, fully dressed, busy with his phone. He looks up as she walks in. Even though they’ve been together for five years, she can’t help reacting to how good looking he is.

She feels a tingle in her belly, as she always does.

Christian fulfills every masculine norm. He has a strong jawline, thick light-brown hair, and a boyish charm that he knows exactly how to exploit. He is a top-class realtor who loves his job and revels in every new sale. His long-term ambition is to open his own office. His lust for life is infectious; when Hanna is with him, the future always seems brighter.

Although she doesn’t want to talk about her terrible day, she longs for the solace he can give her. She would love to crawl into his arms and sob, feel the warmth of his body, hear him say that everything will sort itself out.

That everything is going to be all right.

Christian gets up from the bed, still holding his phone, but he doesn’t touch her. He doesn’t hug her, doesn’t reach out to stroke her cheek. Nor does he say a word about her red, swollen eyes, or the fact that she looks like a drowned rat.

Something is wrong.

She realizes that Christian is nervous. His jaw is clenched; he seems to be steeling himself before he opens his mouth.

“We need to talk,” he says bluntly. “This isn’t working.”

It takes a moment for the words to sink in. She doesn’t understand. She tries to interpret his expression, but his face is closed, impossible to read.

“What do you mean?”

“Us. It’s not working.”

There isn’t a sensible thought in her head. Her tongue feels thick and shapeless; it refuses to cooperate. She stares blankly at the glass in her hand as panic fills her chest like a sticky dough.

“What are you saying?” she eventually manages to stammer.

“You and I—we can’t be together anymore.”

“Why not?”

Stupid question.

“Because you’re impossible to live with,” he informs her.

Hanna is still struggling to take in what he’s saying. She has to concede that things haven’t been great between them for a while, but all couples fight sometimes, that’s just the way it is. Surely, he must realize that?

Admittedly the demands of her work have taken their toll recently, and she knows she’s brought home her anger at the unfair way she’s been treated. She’s been sullen and contrary in the evenings, or simply gone straight to bed, but she hasn’t been that bad.

Or has she?

“I’m impossible to live with?”

“We make each other unhappy,” he says, walking past her into the hallway.

Hanna stumbles after him.