A glass struck the kitchen cupboard and shattered. Most of the glass shards fell into the sink, while the rest slid across the counter, and a few landed on the floor. The next glass struck almost the same spot. This time, more of the shards ended up on the oak parquet floor.
Elise Edvardsen hadn’t been able to accept that the music she’d heard from the yard was something she’d imagined. All attempts to sleep had failed, and finally she couldn’t stay in bed any longer. Now she was standing in the kitchen, howling and kicking at the pieces of glass. She grabbed another glass from the counter and flung it without taking aim at anything specific. It struck the door to the living room, raining glass shards all over the threshold. She had an urge to take off her slippers and jump on the pieces, to feel them slicing into the soles of her feet. She imagined her warm blood seeping out, and there was something strangely comforting about that thought. Then she sank to the floor, sobbing.
I need to call the police and tell them about what I heard, she thought.
But she stayed where she was until Ivar came in from the yard. He hadn’t been able to sleep either, so he’d gone to shovel the driveway. It had snowed again in the night. He’d said that this would save him from having to shovel in the morning. As if that was important for some reason.
“Elise, what happened?”
Not that fucking phony voice again, she thought, and then wailed, “What the hell do you care?”
He didn’t reply, just began sweeping up the pieces of glass on the floor as she sobbed quietly. Finally he said, “You’re not being fair. You know I’m worried. That I care just as much as you do. I’m trying to stay positive. I still think they’re going to find her.” He opened the cupboard under the sink and emptied the dustpan into the garbage. “Do you know what this is?” he asked. “Smashing glasses is the kind of thing we do when we’ve given up. And we haven’t given up yet. She ran away. They’ll find her.”
“Shut up, you stupid bastard!”
He wiped off the counter and put away the glasses that were still intact. Then he went over to her and leaned down.
“You don’t mean that.”
Now she looked up at him. “I know. I’m sorry,” she told him.
Then he took her hand and helped her up. She put her arms around him and pulled him close. For a few minutes they stood there like a couple of teenagers at a dance. Her tears slowly seeped into his shirt at the shoulder.
“Let’s call the police,” he said. “You’re right. Maybe somebody was outside.”
Then the tune started up again.
At first she didn’t know what it was. It was so sad that it could have been part of her own thoughts. Then she realized that it was coming from outdoors.
“Did you close the door when you came in?” she said, suddenly noticing the icy draft.
“I heard you crying,” he said. “I must have forgotten.”
Together they went out to the front hall. Through the open door they saw the figure of a man in the dark amidst the swirling snow. This time they both saw him. There was no longer any doubt.
Elise watched as her husband opened the wardrobe in the hallway. That was where he kept his guns. The figure outside must have seen them, but he just stood there, motionless. The melody was just as unhurried as before, but much clearer this time, and closer. It was definitely coming from a music box. The notes sounded metallic and pure. Now Elise saw her husband open the gun cabinet and take out his shotgun. It’s not locked, she thought. The shotgun’s easily accessible. He must have believed me after all.
Now she saw him dash for the door, holding the gun in his hand. After that, everything was a blur. She fell to the floor; still conscious but too dizzy to get up, she lay there listening. Ivar bellowed. Then she heard the sound of running footsteps that vanished into the night.
Ivar Edvardsen had hunted small game ever since he was a teenager, but he’d never gone after larger animals. He couldn’t stand the thought of all the blood, the big carcasses dropping to the ground. He’d never imagined he would ever aim his shotgun at a human being. As he ran out to the driveway, he told himself that the last thing he wanted to do was kill the man who was probably holding his daughter captive somewhere. He was struck by how swiftly he’d come to this conclusion. Half an hour ago, he’d still wanted to believe that his daughter had simply run away from home, and that her disappearance had nothing to do with the murder at Kuhaugen. But all it took was for him to hear that tune from the music box for any doubts to vanish. Elise had been right all along. This man had her. The monster had come to their door, and somewhere he was holding their daughter prisoner. Ivar felt like shooting him dead, but he couldn’t.
By now he was out on Markvegen. There he stopped and looked around. The street was very quiet. He saw no one. He paused, noticing the vapor coming from his mouth, as he pondered what to do next. They had both seen him. They were not imagining things.
All of a sudden the man was standing right in front of him. He rose up from behind a parked car like a petrified shadow, only five yards away. Startled, Ivar took a step back, instinctively putting his finger on the trigger.
Aware that Ivar was scared, the shadow took a step closer, then another. At that moment Ivar stopped thinking. He wanted to turn on his heel and run back to the house. Call the police. But before he managed to go anywhere, he slipped and fell to his knees. The gun went off as he tried to scramble to his feet. He was hardly aware that he’d squeezed the trigger.
The man standing in front of him cried out, then turned and limped away quickly, snarling furiously.
What have I done? thought Ivar Edvardsen as he crouched on the ground, watching the man leave. Now I’ve wounded him. I’ve wounded the monster.
Then he caught sight of the music box in the snow.
For a few seconds Elise was completely out of it. When she opened her eyes again, she wasn’t quite sure where she was. What happened? Was she dreaming?
Then he was standing over her.
Her husband held the shotgun in one hand. In the other he had a blue heart-shaped music box with a tiny figure on the lid. She stared at it in disbelief.
“Is that the one we heard?” she asked.
After setting the music box on the floor, he squatted down next to her and slipped his hand under her head to help her sit up.
“I had no idea it was loaded. I must have left a shell in the chamber.”
“That’s so unlike you,” she said.
“Let’s just hope I didn’t kill him.”
“Let’s hope you didn’t.” She sat up straight, finally feeling clearheaded. For the first time since last night, they were in agreement.
“He took her, didn’t he? It was him, wasn’t it?” he asked.
“And that’s why we have to hope that he survives,” she said. “But that’s the only reason.”
He nodded and she saw tears trickling down her husband’s cheeks. She had been more prepared for this turn of events than he was. And that was why she was the one who got up to make the call.
She was no longer in any doubt. Those were bloodstains on the floor and walls. The realization had completely paralyzed her at first, but then, oddly enough, it had made her more determined than ever.
She moved along the wall. She’d been doing this for several hours now. She hadn’t heard any sounds in the house for a long time, so she thought he must have gone out. If she hurried, she might be able to get her hands free before he came back. She could feel the rope very slowly fraying and getting looser around her wrists. Finally it pulled apart with a faint ripping sound. At the same moment she felt as if a tight, invisible rope was also released from around her chest. She pulled her hands out of the rope and took several deep breaths, then sank to the floor. She could feel how tired her thighs and hips felt. She placed her hand on her abdomen for the first time since she’d been tied up.
“Are you there?” she whispered.
The rope had been wrapped three times around her wrists, so now that it was off, she had a piece of rope that was more than a foot and a half long. She dropped it to the floor. Then she began untying her feet.
When she was free, she stood up and stretched, running her hand over her belly one last time. She needed to act before he came home. She had already decided what to do. She knew the door was locked, and that it would take too long to kick it open, even if she had enough strength to manage it. That meant she would have to leave her dog behind. The window was her best chance. The police could come back to get Bismarck. If he was still alive.
She went over and loosened the hasps, but when she tried to open the window, it refused to budge. When she studied the frame, she saw the nail heads. She stripped off her sweater, wrapped it around her right hand, made a fist, and slammed it against the pane. The newspaper covering the window tore apart and the glass underneath shattered, but she didn’t hear any shards fall outside, as she’d expected.
It took a few seconds before she realized why. Behind the torn newspaper and broken window she saw snow. A big, heavy layer of snow just outside the basement window. That explained why it had been so dark whenever he turned off the light, and why she’d never noticed any sunlight. The window was totally blocked by snow. She cursed herself for not thinking about that possibility. Now she stared at the snow, trying to figure out whether it was night or day. Her inner clock told her that it was late in the evening on the second night of her captivity. But the tightly packed snow gave little hint as to whether she was right or not.
Then she unwrapped the sweater from around her hand. She saw that it had protected her as she’d hoped. Cautiously she shook the shards of glass out of the sweater and put it back on. There were still sharp pieces sticking out from the window frame, so she began prying them loose. At the same time, she removed the scraps of newspaper and the glass that were embedded in the snow. She put everything in a pile on the floor.
I’ve got to get out of here, she thought. If he comes back and sees this, who knows what he might do next.
After clearing away all the glass, she started digging. But she soon realized she wasn’t tall enough. Even if she stood on tiptoe, she could only manage to make a hole a couple of feet outside the window. To get through the last part she needed something to stand on. And there was only one choice.
With an intense feeling of disgust, she went over to the bucket and picked it up, trying not to look inside. Then she dumped out the contents as far away from the window as possible. Quickly she went back to the window and turned the bucket upside down on the floor. Standing on top of it, she was up high enough to dig properly.
Not long after, she reached her goal. Her hand broke through the snow into the air. She pulled it back, and through the hole she could see that she had guessed right: It was nighttime. A streetlight gave off enough light to see outside as she kept on digging, making the hole bigger. Finally the opening was big enough for her to get through.
“Will the snow mess everything up?”
It was a regular snowstorm, and chief inspector Odd Singsaker stared at the dog that Jens Fjellstad, one of the guys from the canine unit, was holding on a leash. Less than an hour had passed since Elise Edvardsen had called the police.
“Not if we hurry. An hour isn’t very long. He can usually pick up a scent, and aside from the snow, there isn’t much to distract him on a deserted street like this.”
The dog found the traces of blood on Markvegen outside the Edvardsen home, traces that Grongstad had secured by covering with a tarp. The dog picked up the trail instantly. Singsaker and Fjellstad followed the dog across the street, along with two other officers, both of whom wore guns on their belts.
At the first intersection, a snowplow had recently driven through, headed in the direction of the crime scene and then down the slope of Åsbakken. Singsaker cursed when he saw the fresh plow marks.
“Is this a problem?” he asked, holding his breath. They couldn’t lose him now. This was a golden opportunity, the perp’s first big mistake. They really had a chance of catching him. Singsaker could feel it. They were so close that he practically felt he’d picked up the scent himself.
Fjellstad reassured him. “A plow isn’t enough to throw him off the trail.”
The dog stopped abruptly in the intersection, then continued down Åsbakken. But the highly trained German shepherd didn’t get far very before he paused, looking confused.
Fjellstad allowed him to sniff for a while before signaling for him to go back to Markvegen.
“A typical T movement,” he remarked as they trudged back up the hill. “That can be a bigger challenge than a snowplow. He walked partway down the street and then turned. He probably went past Markvegen when he got back up there. He wandered around. If he did that a lot, we may have a few problems.”
Singsaker was breathing heavily. This could mean two things. Either the perp was smart and knew how to fool the dogs or he was confused after being shot and was roaming aimlessly.
“The subject could be psychotic. At any rate, he’s wounded and probably furious as hell,” he told Fjellstad.
Up on Markvegen the dog picked up the scent again, and they all jogged toward Bernhard Getz’ Gate, continued to Ludvig Daaes Gate, and turned onto a path near Lille Kuhaugen, not far from where the body had been discovered.
It was pitch-dark among the trees. Singsaker turned on his flashlight and aimed it ahead of the dog, who was still on the trail. Any visible signs of the likely perpetrator had now been covered by snow. Singsaker tried to breathe calmly, straining to hear any sounds besides the footsteps of the three officers accompanying him. The man might be still hiding here in the woods.
The path led up the steep slope to the view overlooking the city. Out there on a rock outcrop stood a small transformer station, sprayed with graffiti. The dog tugged at his leash until they’d made one full circle of the dilapidated brick building.
Then the dog stopped.
“Shit,” said Fjellstad. “He turned around and headed back the same way we came. So most likely he took another detour somewhere. The problem is that it could be anywhere between here and Åsbakken.”
“Are you saying we’ve lost him?”
Singsaker sighed heavily as he stared down at Trondheim, seeing the lights gleaming in the dark. Then he aimed his flashlight back at the path they’d just taken. The dark forest wasn’t giving up any answers.
Fjellstad didn’t reply either, only shrugged as they headed back, walking in their own footsteps.
They went all the way back down to the street.
There Fjellstad pointed at the plow marks.
“Now this could be a problem. The plow may have disturbed the spoor in the snow. Enough so that the dog can’t find where the subject turned off from the original trail. Especially if the man went into someone’s yard—or, even worse, got into a car.”
And Fjellstad’s prediction turned out to be right. The dog led them right back to their starting point on Markvegen.
They stood there staring at Grongstad’s tarp, which by now was almost completely covered with snow.
“We could start a new search from here, but I’m afraid that the snow is too deep and time has run out for us,” said Fjellstad.
Singsaker sighed. They had been so close. They’d almost caught him. But then they’d been led on a wild-goose chase. He’d had enough of all the false leads in this case.
Even so, he asked Fjellstad to do another search while he went inside the Edvardsens’ house.
Singsaker stared, mesmerized, at the tiny figure in the white tuxedo. He had clear blue eyes and long hair pulled back in a ponytail. It was certainly first-class craftsmanship. The figure had been made back when toys really meant something. The music box stood on the counter in the Edvardsens’ kitchen. Singsaker had wound it up, wearing a pair of white gloves that he’d borrowed from Grongstad, who had just come inside the house. Even though Mr. and Mrs. Edvardsen had both touched the music box after Ivar found it, there still might be some important prints on it.
Singsaker listened to the tune. It was the same melody played by the music box they’d found in the woods. He knew all too well what that meant. And since the discovery of the music box at the murder scene near Kuhaugen had already been covered in the press, Ivar and Elise knew it too.
When the notes faded, Singsaker picked up the music box and handed it over to Grongstad.
“This is the top priority. Look for fingerprints and any biological traces,” he said.
“Biological evidence won’t be a problem,” said Grongstad. “The blood on the road should be enough to obtain a satisfactory profile. Maybe we’ll find a match in our database.”
“He’s toying with us,” said Singsaker. “Do you think he wants to get caught?”
“I don’t know,” replied Grongstad. “But this sure is no ordinary killer we’re dealing with.”
“And yet I have the feeling that we’re not going to find him in the system, no matter how good the fingerprints or DNA evidence are. This guy has been operating under the radar for a long time.”
“You know what I like best about your gut feelings, Singsaker?” said Grongstad with a wry smile.
“No, what?”
“That they’re not really feelings. That’s just what you call them so you don’t have to explain exactly what goes on inside that brain of yours. And you’ve gotten better at it since the surgery.”
Singsaker didn’t laugh. Then he left Grongstad to work while he rejoined the Edvardsens. They were sitting in the living room, where he and Gran had interviewed them the day before. But this time they both sat on the sofa, and Ivar had his arm around his wife’s shoulders.
Singsaker asked them to describe the man, but without much success. It was so dark, and Edvardsen was terrified. Apparently the man had been wearing a hood, a cap underneath, and a scarf around his neck. His face had been partially hidden by the hood. Ivar described the man as unpredictable, but that was largely based on his behavior.
Then Singsaker told the couple that the police would have to take the shotgun into evidence. It was also his duty to investigate the shooting. He told them it was possible that they’d be charged with unlawful use of a firearm and even negligence. And this was regardless of whether or not the victim of the shooting had kidnapped their daughter. At the same time, the injured party in the case had undoubtedly represented a threat, and considering all of the emotions involved, there were obviously mitigating circumstances, since Ivar had reasonably assumed that he was facing a murderer on their property.
Finally, Singsaker sighed and then told them, “Due to time pressures and a shortage of resources, it may be necessary for the police to downgrade a number of criminal cases. I can assure you that Julie’s disappearance isn’t one of them, but separate matters that may arise—let’s say slightly peripheral to the case—might easily land at the bottom of the list.”
“So what you’re saying is that you’re going to take the shotgun but that you might not investigate the shooting any further?” asked Elise. Singsaker understood. They’d just discovered crucial evidence that their daughter hadn’t run away from home but was most likely in the hands of an unpredictable and manipulative killer.
“If the injury to the suspect isn’t serious, your husband hasn’t really done anything but provide the police with good evidence in the case. The important thing right now is to make sure that both of you receive the proper protection. We’re going to position officers here in the house with you.”
The Edvardsens nodded.
“I know that you’re hoping to get your daughter back soon,” Singsaker said. “We thought it was more probable that she had simply run away. Unfortunately, that doesn’t seem to be the case. But I want you to focus on one thing: This has led us closer to a resolution. The perpetrator has shown his face, and we now have concrete evidence. And perhaps most important of all . . .” Here he paused. He could feel a headache brewing, and for a moment he wondered whether what he had to say would provide any solace. “I think she’s still alive. I think that’s what this behavior pattern is telling us.”
Singsaker instantly regretted his words. His profession had taught him never to promise more than he knew he could deliver.
Julie launched herself upward, noticing as she did so that the bucket fell over and slid away, but she had enough momentum to shove her body into the narrow snow tunnel to freedom. She lay there with her head sticking out into the faint glow from the streetlight as she struggled to free her hands.
That was when she heard him. The lonely sound of footsteps in the quiet night, solitary and distant, as if created by the dark backdrop beyond the streetlights. Only when he got closer did she hear how rapid and agitated his breathing sounded. Was he angry? No, it sounded more like he was in pain.
As he came through the front gate that was no more than twenty yards away, she could see the top of his head behind the banks of snow cleared from the driveway. He was wearing a hood. Instinctively she pulled back a bit.
Suddenly she started sliding backward on the slippery snow. Desperately she flailed her legs, trying to find a foothold. Then she fell back into the room and landed on the toppled plastic bucket. She heard it split in two beneath her.
She wanted to scream, but she was afraid he might hear. He was on his way into the house. Her one opportunity was gone.
She got up from the stinking, filthy basement floor and picked up the length of rope. Feeling stiff and bruised, she staggered over to the corner near the door, not remembering that was where she had emptied the bucket. Leaning against the wall, she waited motionless, listening. She heard him rummaging about upstairs with violent, abrupt movements. Finally he settled down. She heaved a sigh of relief, hoping he would stay in one place for a while or maybe even go out again. If he came down here, he would discover that she’d tried to escape the moment he came into the room. Her mind was working in high gear. Was there any other way for her to reach the window now that the bucket was broken? She had nothing but her clothes and her boots. What if she took off everything and piled them in a heap on the floor? No, it wouldn’t be high enough. She went over to the window and jumped up. She managed to grip the ledge with her fingers, but when she tried to pull herself up and into the tunnel of snow outside, she lost her grip and fell back down. Without something to stand on, it was useless. But she kept on trying.
After the fifth attempt, she heard his footsteps cross the floor overhead and come down the stairs to the basement.
He’s coming to kill me, she thought. When he sees the broken window, it’s over. But maybe he’ll just wind up the music box and leave.
Again she took up her position next to the door. If he came in, she had only one chance. She had to try to overpower him in some way.
He was right outside the door now, but he didn’t wind up the music box. Instead, he started talking. This was the first time he’d spoken to her through the door.
“I went to visit your parents,” he said. “I thought they should hear the tune. I wanted them to know that you’re sacrificing yourself for something beautiful, something unique. But they didn’t appreciate the music. Maybe it’s not important. Maybe what I think of them is more important. What should be done with people who shoot somebody? Should I seek revenge? I have no idea. I just wanted you to know that I went over there. Something tells me that it might motivate you. And if you sing the song properly, I’ll probably forget about any thought of revenge. I’m almost sure of that.”
Her hands shook with fear and rage, but she forced herself not to say anything. He must not find out that she’d taken off the gag.
Then he said, as if he could smell her emotions, “Fear. I think it should be sung with fear in your voice. But it should be the fear of someone who is brave and is almost able to hide it completely. That’s how it should be sung. Not the way Silje sang it.”
Of course the thought had occurred to Julie long ago, but this confirmation of her worst suspicions almost made her legs give way beneath her. She felt herself starting to slide to the floor, but she forced her legs to hold her up. He was the one who had killed the woman in the woods. The story had been in all the newspapers.
She couldn’t keep a small sigh from escaping her lips.
He fell silent on the other side of the door. Had he heard her?
But then she heard him get to his feet and come toward the door. He put the key in the lock, and a moment later the door opened. She was standing behind it, hidden from view. To him, the room looked empty. He must have seen the broken window and the tunnel through the snow. He hobbled over to the window and screamed.
This was her chance. She could slip out the door and hope he didn’t turn around before she’d made her escape, but already he’d started looking around uncontrollably. Any second he’d catch sight of her. If she was going to slip around the door and run out, she would have to get so close to him that he’d be on her before she crossed the threshold. Her best chance was to knock him to the ground before she ran off.
Then she saw his leg.
He’d torn off his pants leg above the knee and wrapped a dressing around his calf. The bandage had been recently applied, but blood had already seeped through the white cloth.
Cautiously she stepped forward and took aim. Then she kicked him right in the middle of the wound. He howled and bent over to grab his leg.
Holding the rope between her hands, she threw herself at him from behind. At the same instant, he abruptly stood up so that she was hanging from his back with only the tips of her toes touching the floor. She felt his body tense as the rope tightened around his neck. She pulled as hard as she could and heard him gasping for air.
Then he took two steps back just as she regained her footing. She pulled on the rope one last time, and he sank down. The back of his head struck the brick floor with a thud.
She looked down at him and saw his eyes staring at her, his expression empty and lifeless.
Then she ran. She dashed out the door but paused in the hallway. Something held her back.
She found the storeroom door where she thought her dog must be imprisoned and went over to touch the handle. The door opened. Inside she found Bismarck huddled in a corner. When he saw her, he got up and limped toward her. He was hurt and it took effort for him to walk.
Then she heard the man moving in the room next door. How was that possible? How had he managed to get up so quickly?
She leaned down and kissed the dog on his snout.
“I’ll come back for you,” she whispered, and then turned to run.
He came out of the room just as she reached the bottom of the stairs. In four bounds she was at the top, yanking on the door handle.
That was when she realized that she had lost. She’d done everything she could, and there was nothing more to do. All hope had vanished.
And time stood still.
Her head was filled with the strangest images. Walking Bismarck along snow-covered roads. The woman with no throat from the newspaper stories. Fredrik naked in the dim light of his room. A fetus somewhere deep inside her. Her mother, with a rare smile on her face. A choir singing. Fragments of a life about to slip away.
The door refused to budge. He’d locked it.
She held her breath as she turned around.
He’d stopped halfway up the stairs, knowing he had all the time he needed. Then he slowly started moving upward. He paused on each step until he was three steps below her. She tried to meet his eyes but found them empty of all expression. It was like he was somewhere else entirely.
At one time she’d thought she knew who he was. But she had been terribly mistaken. He didn’t even belong in the same reality as she did.
Then he came up the last steps. His hand with the missing two fingers grabbed her by the hair right above her ear.
He took two steps down, yanking her hair. She lost her balance. He let go and she tumbled down the stairs. She lay on the basement floor, gasping, as she looked around in confusion. Bismarck was standing in the doorway to the storeroom, staring at her. He looked exhausted and frightened, and he was too worn-out to come to her aid.
“Don’t try to save me,” she whispered to him. “No one can save me now.”
Then the man was standing over her.
“What do you want from me, you sick bastard?” she screamed. Something in her was still fighting back, trying to fend off the inevitable. “What do you want from me?”
“But my dear Julie Edvardsen. You know what I want. I want you to sing.”
He grabbed her hair again and dragged her into the room with Bismarck. There he dropped her on the floor.
Before she could get up, he took the dog and left. The sound of the key turning in the lock was like the cocking of a gun. Then the music started. This time it wasn’t the music box. It was from a CD. Bellman. She recognized the song as the one she was supposed to have sung at the concert in Ringve, in another lifetime that was all over long ago.
“Drink up your glass, see death outside waiting, whetting his sword as he stands at your door.”
He was trying to bring his breath under control. The Bellman tune was slowly having an effect and he calmed down. He stood still, one hand touching the bandage on his leg. The shot had grazed his knee. He’d used tweezers to remove four pieces of buckshot, and he hadn’t been hit anywhere else. By now the bleeding had stopped.
The pain had been awful. It hurt so much that he’d almost blacked out after he’d stanched the bleeding with a strip of cloth he’d torn from his shirt at the foot of Åsbakken. He’d trudged through the streets for a while, unable to think clearly until he’d almost reached Kuhaugen. And that had frightened him. It was the first time that he’d felt completely gone. Not even the fly inside his head showed any sign of life. He’d been like a sleepwalker, but it was not sleep that he’d experienced; it was total darkness. Fortunately, it hadn’t lasted long. His mind had cleared, and he’d turned around and come back to the house, only to discover that she’d tried to escape.
He’d arrived just in time.
He’d carefully chosen what he’d told her about her parents. It would make her think. He thought she was getting ready to sing for him now. It wouldn’t be necessary to prepare her for as long as he’d done with Silje Rolfsen. Maybe he’d waited too long with Silje. But what he’d said about Julie’s parents wasn’t quite true. He wanted to give them a shock—because he didn’t like them. He’d seen them before, outside, sometimes with Julie. Once he’d heard her mother yelling at her. He couldn’t stand that woman. People like her didn’t deserve Julie. The girl was too good for those two, and he’d been right to give them a shock. And their response had been to wound him. What should he do with people like that?
Then he took the dog and climbed the basement stairs. After what he’d done to the animal, the dog could barely walk.