The hallway carpet is dark with meltwater. Hjalti stands in his low leather boots, the heavy charcoal wool of his overcoat still holding the bite of the night air. He does not remember leaving the flat, but the salt-stain on his toes is real. His left hand gives a rhythmic, involuntary twitch against his thigh. Where have I been?
A sharp, rhythmic rapping at the door breaks the silence. It is 2 AM. He reaches for the brass handle, his fingers fumbling slightly before finding their grip. DI Birna Sigurdardottir stands on the landing. She is thirty-eight, her face framed by a damp hood, her expression stripped of the usual professional distance. She looks at his boots, then at his silver beard, before holding his gaze with a terrifying kind of recognition. She does not ask why he is dressed for the weather.
Birna steps over the threshold, her movements efficient and cold. She carries the scent of the North Atlantic and old paper. Without a word, she reaches into her snow-dusted satchel and begins to pull out a thick, unmarked manila envelope.
