‘I wanted to ask if you know whether it’s possible to trace where a Facebook picture was posted,’ she said as she followed him through the hallway and into the living room, where she was again aware of the smell that had triggered a wave of nostalgia the last time she was here; the smell of Iceland. ‘We might be able to figure out which hotel she’s staying at, so Mum could call and leave a message. She’s still worried sick; Ísafold isn’t replying to messages and her phone goes straight to voicemail. But it’s a relief that we’ve at least heard something from her.’

Daníel turned and glanced at her, as if he was waiting for her to stop talking. Then he smiled, and immediately looked away. She realised that he wasn’t offended. He was embarrassed, even uneasy.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘It’s that picture,’ he said quietly, clearing his throat. ‘It’s a fake.’

Now he looked at her, eyes a little downcast, as if he was unwilling to raise his gaze to meet hers properly, expecting her to be furious maybe, or perhaps he had some other reason that made him reluctant to catch her eye.

‘How?’ she asked in confusion. ‘How is it a fake?’

She rattled off questions as if someone else were speaking on her behalf; she heard her own voice without feeling her words 145were her own. Daníel tapped the mouse by the computer so that the screen came to life, and there they were, side by side. There were two versions of Ísafold, the same dress and the same smile, her hair exactly the same, but with two completely different backgrounds. One had been taken in a dim restaurant with dark tables and chairs behind her, colourful tablecloths and candles, while the flash had illuminated Ísafold’s pale skin and the yellow dress. In the second picture the rocky shoreline was the background, along with a dark-blue sea and cluster of white houses.

‘I saw right away from the outlines that there was something odd about the picture, so it was clear it had been lifted and pasted onto this picture. I didn’t have to search all that far through Facebook to find the picture it had been taken from.’

Áróra felt a great weight bear down on her, as if she were sinking into deep water. She only felt able to speak or move painfully slowly, while her mind was working at full speed, digesting what she had seen, trying to work things out and understand them.

‘But that means…’ she began, but wasn’t able to put her thoughts into words. She stared ahead, out of the window, at Daníel’s manicured green garden. ‘Does that mean…?’

Her voice cracked before she could force out a whole sentence, and she took a deep breath.