Marike Estrup’s inability to hit any of the notes quickly chases away Karen’s urge to run away. They follow the crunchy gravel road along the shore, peering down into the coves they slowly pass. There are a lot less people here, as they’d thought, but in every clearing there’s still a handful of pasty bodies optimistically stretched out on towels. Realising they’re getting close to the bird sanctuary and inaccessible marshland, Karen is just about to suggest turning around when Marike lets out a shriek.

‘There! Back up a little,’ she says, pointing towards a few smooth seaside cliffs. ‘Not a soul in sight!’

She’s right. A minimal strip of sand between light grey stones. And not a soul in sight.

But while Marike turns around to get the bags from the back seat, Karen just sits there with her hands on the wheel.

‘I think I have cancer,’ she says.

*

Four hours later, when she pulls into the driveway in front of her house in Langevik, her eyes are still puffy from crying. She absently registers that the lights are on in the annex – apparently Leo’s home. But Sigrid isn’t, she notes and turns on the hallway light. There’s a rustling of sand against the stone floor when she pulls off her trainers. She walks barefoot into the kitchen, puts water on to boil, and sits down at the table.

A bit lighter. Maybe just a little bit.

Marike had listened without interrupting while Karen got everything off her chest. The tiredness, the worry about the lump she had felt in her breast, the decision to accept the offer of a mammography, the vague memory of what she’d been told about her grandmother and aunt: ‘We lost them to cancer.’ The fear of asking her mother about it. The smear test next week. And then the unendurable wait for results.

‘Or maybe it’s menopause. Best-case scenario, I’m just old. That’s what I have left to hope for in life . . .’

Marike had calmly opened two beers and handed her one.

‘It’s not the end, you know. It’s just what they want us to think.’

The sun had been warm, the sea far too cold, and the beer had, as her father would have said, ‘landed like a knife in a farmer’s back’. Not a word about Leo or Luna or brutal attacks on women. And maybe she is just old, not sick.

Maybe a bit lighter.

Chapter 21

21

Time is going to stop at 8.45 on Monday morning. She realises as much half an hour before then.

Her heart is pounding so hard her ears are ringing and she has trouble breathing when she sits down on the same chair she used the last time she was here. She tries to take deep breaths and realises all she can manage is shallow panting.