A rage grew within Heloise. She had had enough now. “Why do you keep contacting me? What do you want?”

The voice sounded approachable, almost polite. “I’m not the one who wants something.”

“What the hell are you talking about? Why do you keep contacting me?”

“I want to tell you, but you need to come to me if you want to know more.”

“Come to you? I have no idea where you are. I don’t even know who you are.”

“I’m with him.”

“With who?” Heloise yelled in frustration into her phone. “Who are you looking for?”

“If you want the story, you have to talk to him first. You’re the only one who can write the story—the only one he’ll tell it to.”

“You know what?” Heloise shook her head. “I don’t think I’m interested in your story anymore. Find someone else to harass. I’m done with this.”

The voice on the other end remained unchanged, calm. “It’s not just my story I’m talking about. It’s yours. It’s your story, Heloise. If you want to finish your story, you need to come to me now.”

“I don’t understand …” Heloise said, puzzled.

“He’s waiting for you.”

“Who’s waiting for me, Mossing?”

“There isn’t much time left, so you need to hurry now.”

There was a click, then a persistent beeping.

“She hung up!” Heloise looked at the phone in her hand.

“Who was that?” Martin had stood up and was now standing very close to Heloise.

She looked up at him. “Look, that thing I said to you the other day on the phone …”

“About how you don’t think we should see each other anymore?” Martin nodded.

“Yes,” she said. “I didn’t mean that.”

He looked down at her and smiled briefly. “I know.”

Then she told him everything that had happened since she had received Anna Kiel’s first letter.

CHAPTER

33

“I’VE GOT A story for you!” Lisa Augustin set a tall stack of books down on her table, accidentally knocking over a plastic cup of cold coffee, which quickly spread across her whole desk. “Oh, shit!”

“A story?” Schäfer looked up from the case file. He had been taking a closer look at the old crime scene photos of Christoffer Mossing’s open throat.

Augustin frantically flapped her hands in front of the automatic paper towel dispenser on the wall as the machine calmly spit out one sheet at a time at an infuriatingly slow pace.

“Yes, an anecdote from the Dark Ages,” she explained as she wiped up the spilled coffee. She gave him a smug look that made him clasp his hands behind his head and lean back in his chair.

“All right, I’m listening.”