A picture of Ísafold appeared on the screen as the report was read out. It was a close-up photo, quite grainy, as if it had been enlarged from a small picture, but it portrayed Ísafold’s features well. The police contact number was at the bottom of the screen in large red letters. Áróra rewound and replayed the report. Then she did the same again. Ísafold’s disappearance had become very real now that the police had put out an appeal for information. A chill ran down Áróra’s back, and she wanted to cry, but the tears refused to come. She watched the appeal again and again in a daze, wondering why on Earth she had not flown to Iceland the last time Ísafold had asked her for help. Why hadn’t she come here when her mother had asked her to go and help her sister? Now, as the appeal from the police played out on the screen, her fatigue and despair seemed so little in comparison to what could have happened to Ísafold. Her chagrin over Ísafold repeatedly returning to Björn now seemed so uncharitable.

If she had been tough, taken a flight to Iceland and done what she could to support her sister, then Ísafold wouldn’t have blocked her on Facebook, wouldn’t have stopped calling, would have carried on sending her YouTube clips of puppies and kittens. She hadn’t realised until now that by not responding when Ísafold had been looking for help, she had been confirming the image that 209Björn had been creating of her in Ísafold’s mind – that she wasn’t a good sister, that she had no fondness for her, that she couldn’t care less about her. Not responding then had nullified all the occasions when she had. It made no difference that she had flown in from another country many times to support Ísafold and help her out. It didn’t matter that she had comforted and assisted her since Ísafold had been a teenager, because deep down Ísafold had held on to her childhood resentment and the feeling that Áróra was just a ‘lousy kid’. All the little acorns that Björn had sown to poison Ísafold’s thoughts had fallen on fertile ground.

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The early hours of Monday was the ideal time: few people went out in the city on Sunday evening, and the night that followed was so quiet and still, the drowsy houses could almost be heard snoring. He waited until three in the morning before lugging the suitcase out to the car. The final few revellers had already made their way home from bars and cinemas, and the dawn chorus hadn’t yet woken Monday’s early birds.