Hidden in Snow (The ?re Murders, #1)(46)

Her gaze is drawn to the cover of the book, the title emblazoned in red: She Said. Clearly there are plenty of male bastards out there.

Why did she fall for Christian in the first place?

She pulls a cushion onto her lap and settles down in the corner of the sofa. To be honest he isn’t her type at all; he’s too smooth and polished for her taste. The first time they met, at a party organized by one of her few childhood friends, he came across as decent and well mannered.

Hanna described him to Lydia as a mother-in-law’s dream.

And yet she was charmed by his persistence when he showed up with roses and champagne. She was flattered when he refused to give up, even though she usually finds that kind of behavior over the top, bordering on stalking.

She had never dated someone so good looking, someone who fit her parents’ template so perfectly. Maybe that made him more interesting?

Her mother had always loathed Hanna’s previous boyfriends—not that she took many of them home. She had grown tired of being told that neither she nor they were good enough.

Life with Christian became so easy Hanna simply allowed herself to be swept along. It was wonderful to see her mother’s face light up for once when she introduced her new guy. His presence saved the trips to Spain and the unbearable family dinners. When she was with him, she became the successful daughter.

Until today, she had never admitted to herself that she was becoming someone else, a Hanna that she didn’t really recognize.

Now she is sitting here, her heart broken by a man she probably should never have been with.

She reads Karro’s message again; she is tempted. If she joins her for dinner, then maybe she can ask a few more questions about Amanda’s boyfriend, Viktor; she can’t stop thinking about him.

Before she can change her mind, she accepts the invitation.

Karro answers immediately:

Great. See you there at eight thirty.

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46

The dark-brown council offices in J?rpen are silent and deserted when Harald turns into the empty parking lot. He unlocks the main door and takes the elevator up to his office on the third floor.

He switches on the desk lamp, then takes a bottle of vodka out of the bottom drawer. It has been there for years.

He would never drink at work, but it was a present, and he just left it in the drawer.

He fetches a glass from the staff kitchen. Pours himself a generous measure, and knocks it back with his eyes closed.

The alcohol is tepid and sears his throat.

Harald doesn’t like neat spirits, but he feels the warmth spreading through his body. His tense muscles relax. He immediately longs for more, but resists temptation. He must stay sober enough to drive home. He can’t get behind the wheel if he’s drunk; after all these years in politics, it’s part of his DNA.

Then again, he doesn’t want to go home. He can’t bring himself to pretend in front of Mimi and Kalle, can’t bear to see Lena’s despair.

The soft glow of the lamp lights up the family photo with Amanda in the middle. His wonderful daughter, whom he’d held and fed and sang to sleep so many times. When she was tiny he carried her in a sling on his stomach. He can still feel the weight of that little body, see the look in those dark-blue eyes as they met his, remember her first smile.

Becoming a father at the age of twenty-three was kind of unreal, but he loved Amanda from the very first second.

He would have died for her sake.

Now she’s the one who’s dead.

His beautiful child will never smile at him again.

Tears spring to his eyes. Harald reaches for the bottle, but with a huge effort of will, he manages to pull back his hand. Instead he collapses onto his chair, his heart racing out of control.

He presses the palms of his hands together in front of his nose and mouth, presses so hard that the muscles scream.

That kind of pain is better than the one in his chest.

Only when his hands and wrists are trembling with exhaustion does he lower his arms slowly to the desk. His forehead is damp with sweat. He is breathing heavily, and takes out a handkerchief to wipe his face.

His phone pings. Yet another message offering condolences. The words are followed by a string of red hearts and “sorry” emojis.

Messages have been arriving all day, from every possible direction. Even his greatest political opponents have contacted him to show their sympathy. ?re isn’t very big, and he is a well-known figure.

Thinking of you, they write. Let us know if there’s anything we can do. We are here for you and the family.

Harald puts his phone in his pocket. Hearts and emojis can’t help them through this.

After a few seconds he takes it out again. He is desperate to see Mira; she is the only one who can give him comfort right now. He hesitates, then writes: I’m at the office, can you come?

He stares at the screen. The tension is unbearable. The minutes pass.

Then three dots appear; someone is replying.

Not possible.

The negative response makes him want to cry. He tries again:

Please.

When the screen remains blank, he makes one last attempt:

I need you.

The answer comes immediately.

I can’t come. Don’t message me at this time.

Harald’s grip tightens on the phone. Then he reaches for the vodka bottle.

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