She had interviewed a number of prominent business leaders in Kenneth Vallø’s league in her time as a journalist, and as a teenager she had also briefly dated a guy or two whose family name had been accompanied by a von or a Roman numeral. Boys whose families lived up the ritzy north coast. In Heloise’s experience, even people who were less than half as rich as Kenneth Vallø almost always prioritized owning a home with tennis courts and a private dock.

But this place had neither.

She pulled into the cobblestone driveway that led right up to the brick single-story house and parked in front of the property.

She approached the front door and rang the bell and heard loud, electronic bird chirps from inside the front door, until a young woman opened it. “Yes?”

“Hi, I’m looking for Kenneth Vallø. I was wondering if he’s home?”

The woman didn’t ask for Heloise’s name or why she had come but instead opened the door with a smile and invited her in.

“He’s in the kitchen. It’s this way,” she said, leading Heloise through the house.

They found Kenneth Vallø sitting at the table in the kitchen. The table in front of him was set for a traditional Danish lunch with pickled herring and hard-boiled eggs and something that looked like homemade pâté in a glazed ceramic bowl.

Heloise suddenly became aware of the amount of saliva in her mouth, and her stomach reacted to the aroma of the warm pâte and the freshly baked bread by tying itself in knots of hunger.

“Oh, I’m sorry! I’m interrupting you in the middle of your meal,” she said, coming to a halt.

Kenneth Vallø looked up and smiled. “Hi.”

“Hello. My name is Heloise—”

“Kaldan,” he said, holding out his hand. “I know. I’m Kenneth.”

Heloise looked at him in astonishment and hesitantly took his hand. “Have we met before?”

He shook his head. “I recognize you from your byline photo.”

“My byline photo?”

“Yes. You’re a journalist, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, please, come on in.” He gestured toward the empty seat across from him and indicated that she should sit.

“Aren’t I interrupting you in the middle of your lunch?” she asked. “Maybe I should come back a little later?”

Heloise was surprised at her own eagerness not to seem pushy. Normally she wasn’t afraid to disturb sources, whether they were in the middle of a meal, on vacation, or at a funeral. That was part of the job—the part that gave many journalists a reputation of being like parasites—and she had never had any problem with that.

So why now?

Was the wheelchair turning her into a softy? Was she cutting him some slack merely because he was disabled?

Regardless of the reason, there was something about Kenneth Vallø that made her want to be agreeable.