Hidden in Snow (The ?re Murders, #1)(50)

The realization hits her with full force.

Amanda is dead.

She sways on the spot. Her chest hurts as the pain takes over.

Ludde growls again, demanding her attention. Could there be a stranger in the garden? Someone who wishes them harm?

She pushes her bare feet into a pair of boots and pulls on a jacket, then steps out onto the porch. She narrows her eyes, stares into the blackness.

Ludde follows. He barks again, pads past her.

Lena sees footprints in the snow. Someone has walked up to the front door, then turned and gone back the same way. It can’t have been long ago; otherwise the snow would have covered the prints.

Who has been here? At this time of day?

Lena holds on to the railing and makes her way down the steps. She follows the tracks all the way to the gate; they disappear on the street outside.

There are no lights on in any of the neighboring houses; everyone is sleeping.

The gate is closed, just as it should be, but it has obviously been opened; a half-moon shape is visible in the snow.

Lena can’t stop staring, even though there is nothing to see. White flakes swirl around in the glow of the streetlamp, tiny sharp crystals falling steadily from the black sky.

She begins to shiver uncontrollably.

“Come, Ludde.” She turns back toward the house, but the dog refuses to follow. He is still standing by the gate, ears pricked, nose pointing at the footprints.

“Please, Ludde. We must go in. It’s too cold to be outside.”

The dog doesn’t move. Lena gives up.

Sometimes she lets him out into the garden when he needs to pee in the morning. He can scratch at the door when he wants to come back in; it shouldn’t take more than ten minutes.

She makes one last attempt. “Come, Ludde.”

Then she hurries back into the warmth and closes the door.

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51

Harald is still sitting in his desk chair when he wakes up, feeling stiff and rough. He has spent the whole night in the council offices, it is twenty to seven and still dark outside his window.

His gaze falls on the empty bottle in front of him. He doesn’t remember drinking the contents.

How could he be so stupid?

He rubs his eyes, tries to bring his body to life. It’s high time he went home, but he doesn’t know if he’s fit to drive.

Lena will be worried. If he’s lucky, he will be back before she wakes up, in which case he won’t have to explain that he drove to work and drank himself into a stupor in the middle of the night.

Harald goes to the bathroom and splashes his face with cold water. The mirror is unforgiving—he looks terrible. Pale, hollow-eyed, and the gray stubble doesn’t help. The nausea comes without warning. He just manages to bend over the toilet before his stomach turns itself inside out.

He vomits until there is nothing but yellowish-gray bile.

When it is finally over, he rinses his mouth with ice-cold water and staggers back to his office to fetch his jacket. At the last minute he remembers the vodka bottle; he can’t leave it on the desk for his colleagues to see.

His car is covered in snow when he steps outside, and the wind is howling. He manages to brush the snow off the roof and scrapes the windshield before getting in and switching on the engine. The seat is freezing cold, every breath hurts his throat.

He puts the car in reverse, but lingers with one hand on the wheel.

Should he drive? Would he pass a breathalyzer test?

The road beyond the parking lot is deserted. There is no traffic at this hour of the morning. He knows the way home from J?rpen so well the car almost steers itself; he’s driven it virtually every day for years.

He’s only twenty minutes from Pilgrimsv?gen.

He promises himself that he will drive slowly and cautiously. They can’t afford any more disasters in the family. Plus he is desperate for a long, hot shower and his own bed.

Against his better judgment he reverses, then heads for the E14.

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52

Lena dozes off on the sofa in the living room. She lay down there so she’d be able to hear when Ludde scratched at the door, wanting to come in.

When she wakes at seven thirty, it is still dark. Over an hour has passed—why hasn’t Ludde woken her?

She hurries to the front door to look for him. Where has he gone? She thought he’d be back after a few minutes; it’s much too cold to stay out.

How could she fall asleep without letting him in? She’s not herself; she’s still in shock after Amanda’s death.

“Ludde,” she calls in her softest voice. “Come to Mommy. Come to Mommy, sweetheart.”

She waits, calls again, but there is no sign of the dog.

Fear floods her body. Ludde always comes when she calls him.

“Ludde!” Her voice is significantly louder this time.

“Ludde!”

It is just as dark and silent as it was earlier.

She pulls on her boots and jacket once more and plods through the garden. It has continued snowing, there is hardly any sign of the footsteps she discovered before, and the half-moon from the gate being opened is almost gone too.

The snow has eased slightly, but the wind is bitterly cold.

“Ludde!” The name comes out like an anxious sob.

“Ludde, where are you?”