The image in the envelope was a simple one. A red rubber dinghy, photographed from above. There were figures in the boat, heavily foreshortened, wearing some kind of uniform. Two had rifles slung across their chests. The rubber of the boat bulged around the figures of each of the men, as if it could not contain them.

A still from a video. I turned the picture over. In the same cursive script a hand had written, The real story.

Twenty-Six

I sat on the terrace drinking whisky. There was a psychotic intensity to the evening light. The fjord glowed gold and green; there were purples and indigos in the trunks of the trees: a parallel spectrum, some great supernatural darklight.

Did I imagine hearing the front door slide shut? It was quiet, but there was a distinctive click.

I went through to the bathroom. There was Elsa in the shower. She turned off the water, opened the cabinet, her body slick.

“Strange,” I said. “I thought . . .”

“You thought?”

“. . . that you’d slipped out.”

“And yet, here I am.” Water beading on her breasts, on her belly, making gentle tracks down her thighs. A smile that was more than a smile. “Perhaps you want to join me in the shower?”

An invitation that was not an invitation. A challenge, almost, her wolf eyes searching mine.

Water drops marking tracks on her thighs, on her breasts.

“I love you. It’s just . . .”

I saw the desire in her eyes, saw it curdling with disappointment. She nodded sadly. “It’s just you don’t want me anymore.”

“Vee went out.”

“Which should give us the perfect opportunity. But I get it.”

“I’m going to go after her,” I said.

“Of course.”

As she turned away, water ran in rivulets down her back.

In trees to the side of the path crows had gathered. They watched silently, eyes flicking white as they caught the lights from the apartment buildings.

Ahead, small and determined, Vee was striding toward the station. Lights on short poles at the side of the path threw her shadow crazily onto trees.

As she passed by the Viking ruin, I slowed. This place disturbed the rational geometry of the parkland, of its neat green lawns and its blue-black tarmac paths. The site was overgrown by gorse, guarded by barbed wire. Vee huddled into herself, though the evening was warm. She hurried on. Here too the crows gathered, blinking silently down. Something older lurked behind the wire, wilder than any of us. Burials, people said. Dismemberments and blood rituals.

Vee came to a stop on the platform, stood blinking under the lights, while I watched her from the bridge above. My little girl in a black dress she must have taken from Elsa’s wardrobe, starkly lit, alone on the heavy gray platform. I watched as she bought a ticket from the machine. I bought a ticket on my phone.