Chapters (92)
- Cover
- Also by Alex Dahl
- Title Page
- Copyright
- Dedication
- Contents
- Epigraph
- Prologue
- Part I
- 1
- 2
- 3
- 4
- 5
- 6
- 7
- 8
- 9
- 10
- 11
- 12
- 13
- 14
- 15
- 16
- 17
- 18
- 19
- 20
- 21
- 22
- 23
- 24
- 25
- 26
- 27
- 28
- 29
- 30
- 31
- 32
- 33
- 34
- 35
- 36
- 37
- 38
- 39
- 40
- 41
- 42
- 43
- 44
- Part II
- 45
- 46
- 47
- 48
- 49
- 50
- 51
- 52
- 53
- 54
- 55
- 56
- 57
- 58
- 59
- 60
- Part III
- 61
- 62
- 63
- 64
- 65
- 66
- 67
- 68
- 69
- 70
- 71
- 72
- 73
- 74
- 75
- 76
- Epilogue
- Five months later
- Acknowledgements
- About the Author
- An Invitation from the Publisher
I grab my phone from my parka pocket, but there is still no reception. I find the compass function and though I am only just able to make out the hazy green glare of the screen, I begin to follow the needle north – I am certain I headed south on my way up here – I have a vague memory of the opaque sky being brighter to my left as I emerged from the clutch of the woods into the cabin’s little clearing. I want to run as fast as I can away from the horror of Leah’s cabin and her terrible words, but I have no choice but to inch forward slowly, until I reach what must be the path, a sliver of space between towering rows of pine trees. I can see more clearly here – the snowstorm is hampered by the density of the trees – so I pick up my pace and rush down, down, away from that place and the terrifying reality of what I’ve just read.
I’m in a forest in the foothills of a long range of mountains that stretch from Skien in the south across much of Telemark to Kongsberg and into central Norway beyond, in the middle of a blizzard on the first day of November. Stay sharp, Kristina. Just get out of here and get home and all of this will eventually fade away into just another bad memory. The wind is bitterly cold and carries the scent of deep lakes and mulchy earth and ancient trees.
I stop for a moment, pressing my fingers to my eyes, before looking around at more static whiteness, more blurred outlines of trees. The path has opened out into another snow-drenched clearing. I am breathing so hard I feel as though I might black out. I can feel the downward slope of the path and its uneven surface of slippery roots and jagged rocks poking out of the earth, concealed by fresh snow, but can’t see anything. How much further? I’m about to keep walking when I notice something beside me, breaking the almost complete whiteout of the hillside clearing. It’s the blonde wood and charcoal metal barrel of a rifle, emerging from the snow like the mast of a sailing boat rising on the horizon. I reach for it, then decide against it: it could go off in my hands. Next to it is a huddled mound; at first glance I assume it’s a fallen tree. But it isn’t a tree; this is instantly clear when I kick it with my foot, revealing the outline of a hand, a sickly shade of ice blue, then a shock of long brown hair atop a rusty patch of blood-stained snow. It’s Leah.