One of the men returned her greeting with a cheerful, “Hey, Kaldan, what’s up?”

His buddy leaned toward him without taking his eyes off Heloise and whispered something that made them both smirk.

She turned away and swiped her card through the electronic lock to the right of the entrance. She entered her personal code, and the door made a buzzing, mechanical sound before it opened.

Heloise climbed the stairs to the news desk on the third floor and jogged up, taking two steps at a time.

Karen Aagaard was waiting for her on the landing. They had always been on good terms, and Heloise liked and respected her, but they had never been close. Heloise knew that Aagaard lived in ritzy Hellerup, that she was married and that her son was in the military, but apart from that she had no notion of her editor’s private life—or vice versa. It was a level of intimacy that suited Heloise just fine, especially today.

“Let me guess: you don’t believe in umbrellas, is that it?” Aagaard studied Heloise’s soaked clothing quizzically.

Heloise smiled and shook off some of the raindrops. “Yeah, I’m just not that grown up yet.”

“I assume that you’ve read today’s editorial?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

Heloise gave a light shrug. “What else could Mikkelsen write?”

“I suppose you’re right, but he was seriously pissed off when I spoke with him this morning. If you hadn’t produced so many of the paper’s scoops this year, I really think he’d kick you out on your ass. I’m still not a hundred percent sure you’re in the clear.”

“Thanks. That’s exactly the pep talk I was hoping for.” Heloise opened the door to the open plan office. “After you, boss.”

“There’s nothing more to the story than what you’ve already told us, is there? Something The Shovel might dig up that I should know about?”

“Such as?”

“I don’t know. Anything that might make you appear worse than you already do? And a spontaneous no would have been much more reassuring, let me tell you.” Karen Aagaard looked at her over the rim of her tortoiseshell glasses.

Blurred images of naked bodies, sweat, and salty kisses appeared like a runaway slideshow in Heloise’s mind. She wanted to be helpful, because she didn’t enjoy having her name on a story that didn’t hold up to scrutiny, but she also didn’t want to share details of her private life. Not just because it was none of her boss’s business. She was also too proud to admit to having trusted Martin.

“No,” she said, placing a reassuring hand on her editor’s shoulder. “There’s nothing more to the story. Let’s just get it over with, shall we? Where’s The Shovel?”

“He should be here by now.”