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The Harbor

Katrine Engberg
Chapters (51)
  1. Cover
  2. Title Page
  3. Dedication
  4. MONDAY, APRIL 15
  5. PROLOGUE
  6. SATURDAY, APRIL 13
  7. CHAPTER 1
  8. CHAPTER 2
  9. CHAPTER 3
  10. CHAPTER 4
  11. CHAPTER 5
  12. CHAPTER 6
  13. SUNDAY, APRIL 14
  14. CHAPTER 7
  15. CHAPTER 8
  16. CHAPTER 9
  17. CHAPTER 10
  18. CHAPTER 11
  19. MONDAY, APRIL 15
  20. CHAPTER 12
  21. CHAPTER 13
  22. CHAPTER 14
  23. CHAPTER 15
  24. CHAPTER 16
  25. CHAPTER 17
  26. TUESDAY, APRIL 16
  27. CHAPTER 18
  28. CHAPTER 19
  29. CHAPTER 20
  30. CHAPTER 21
  31. CHAPTER 22
  32. CHAPTER 23
  33. WEDNESDAY, APRIL 17
  34. CHAPTER 24
  35. CHAPTER 25
  36. CHAPTER 26
  37. CHAPTER 27
  38. CHAPTER 28
  39. THURSDAY, APRIL 18
  40. CHAPTER 29
  41. CHAPTER 30
  42. CHAPTER 31
  43. CHAPTER 32
  44. CHAPTER 33
  45. CHAPTER 34
  46. FRIDAY, APRIL 19
  47. CHAPTER 35
  48. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  49. More from the Author
  50. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  51. ALSO BY KATRINE ENGBERG

Cover

Cover: The Harbor, by Katrine Engberg

Katrine Engberg

#1 Internationally Bestselling Author of the Butterfly House

The Harbor

“A masterpiece of Nordic noir.”

—Booklist (starred review)

A Novel

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Title Page

The Harbor, by Katrine Engberg, Gallery Books

Dedication

To Cassius.

My anchor, my hourglass, my little sun that shines.

MONDAY, APRIL 15

PROLOGUE

After spending his weekend in bed, Michael woke up Monday morning with a throat full of glass shards. He had just pulled the comforter up around his fever-laden head and decided to call in sick, when his wife came in to stand at the foot of the bed, crossing her arms and giving him that look. Michael got up. After all, she was right. His job as crane operator at the incineration plant was still new, and he couldn’t risk making a bad first impression.

Pumped up on a mixture of Tylenol and black coffee, he drove out to Copenhagen’s industrial island, Refshaleøen, the car radio alternating between soft hits and crisp commercials, and gradually he started to feel better. He parked the car, nodded to the guards in the lobby, and rode the elevator up to the staff room to change his clothes. Strictly speaking that wasn’t necessary, because the negative pressure in the sealed waste silo left the surrounding facility nearly odor-free, but Michael always changed into his boiler suit anyway. He laced up his protective work boots, put on his helmet, and walked through the plant with knees aching from the flu.

The walkways around the silo made up their own world of steel and valves, control panels, boilers, and signs. There were no windows, the incineration plant comprising a closed system that lacked weather or any circadian rhythm. Michael casually ducked under the hot-water pipes, said hello to a couple of coworkers by the steam turbines, and let himself into the crane operator’s room. He stuck his lunch in the refrigerator and made a pot of coffee before sinking into his work chair with a heartfelt sigh. A ferocious scene came into view in front of him, one that he still had not fully gotten used to.