Kristin sees Bell’s movement and transfers her attention. “Hello. Are you all right? You look as if you’ve had a shock.”

“I’m… I’m fine,” Bell says, blinking.

“I’m sorry I look so much like my brother,” she says. “I can’t help it.”

“I know.” Bell looks awkward all the same.

“Do you know that the word ‘twin’ comes from the Old Norse word ‘tvinnr’? It means ‘double-born.’ In Latin, the word is ‘gemina.’ They thought twins were two halves of one soul.” She looks at Emma, her expression so open it’s disconcerting. “Although you probably don’t want to think I share any part of my soul with Simon. It’s hard, looking so like him. People find it off-putting.”

Emma searches for something appropriate to say. “I understand. Thank you for seeing us.”

“Oh, I never say no to police asking about my brother. I feel responsible, so I do everything I can to help.”

“You feel responsible?” Emma asks.

“They might have caught him faster, if I’d been more cooperative from the start. But there were lots of reasons why that wasn’t possible.” Kristin’s expression is saddened, but she brightens in an instant. “Please do sit down. Would you like coffee? Let’s have coffee.”

Kristin uses the coral-colored telephone to call down to “the main house” for a tray of coffee. Then she ushers Emma over to sit on the white couch and takes her hand. Emma can’t think of an excuse to pull away.

“Have you seen him already?” She leans forward and peers at Emma’s face. “Oh, I can tell that you have.”

Emma finds it disturbing, the idea that her visit to Simon Gutmunsson is still written on her somehow. “Yes. Yes, I visited your brother late last week.”

“Did he insult you?” Kristin’s brows lift. “He uses insults like meat tenderizer, to soften people up. Then he’s friendly, so they get confused. That’s how he slips inside, you see.”

“I know what you mean,” Emma admits, although privately she thinks Simon Gutmunsson never really got to the “friendly” part of their conversation.

“He would like you, though,” Kristin says.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you look closed-up and spiny, like a crab in a shell. He’s so curious about locked boxes. He would like to crack you open.”

Emma swallows. “He gave it a good shot.”

Kristin smiles craftily, like she’s sharing gossip. “He can’t handle me, because I’m like marshmallow. Soft and amorphous. There’s nothing to hold on to and I keep changing shape. It drives him crazy.” She chuckles, then her smile droops. “And I’m his sister, of course. His blood. He has to love me. Shall we have our coffee in the garden? It’s warm inside, isn’t it?”

She leads them out a set of French doors on the left, across a small, brick-paved, sunny area, and onto the lawn, where a rattan lounge setting is casually arranged like a bower beneath a spreading oak. The smell of green is so intense it’s like a haze. Insects tick in the grass.