February 9, 2019
Agnes makes the drive back early in the morning, when Lilja is still asleep and when Nora is hopefully still asleep, too. She’s bleary-eyed and hungover, but happy. She sneaks in the front door and manages to shower before she hears Nora calling for her, her voice booming against the concrete and glass walls.
“The road keeps closing,” Nora’s saying. “It’s open now, so we have to hurry.”
Agnes drags her suitcase to the truck, behind Nora. Apparently they’ll be staying in Reykjavík, too, after they watch Óskar’s show. Nora’s booked them both hotel rooms. Agnes hasn’t had time to pick and choose what to bring with her to Reykjavík, so she’s just bringing everything. It’s not much, anyway.
When they reach the highway, Nora finally asks, “Are we okay?”
You’re so lucky, and you don’t even realize it.
Agnes tells Nora yes, because they are.
“No,” Nora insists. “I mean it. Are we good? I can be a mean drunk sometimes—a gift from my mother—and I don’t want that to affect our relationship.”
“Nora,” Agnes says, feeling generous because she’s spent the evening with Lilja, because she feels closer, too, to her, now that she knows about her sister, “we’re good.”
“Okay,” Nora says, clearly relieved. “Because I have a surprise for you. I found Thor Senior. He lives in a nursing home in a suburb outside of Reykjavík. We can talk to him on our way in.”
“Did you get his son’s permission?”
“He’s not Hannibal Lecter. He’s living in a low-care senior facility. He can have visitors.”
The drive into Reykjavík is a blur. Agnes disappears at first into the ragged drops of volcanic rock falling into the gray sea, but then she disappears into sleep, head nodding with the rhythms of the road. She wakes when Nora guides them off the highway. Agnes catches a view of Reykjavík, of the storybook buildings, before they turn completely away. Here, though, there’s actual sunshine. A brief wash of blue in the sky, surrounded by a threatening ring of dark clouds. Nora navigates them to something that looks like the university campus back at Bifröst. There are long, squat buildings, all done in the same modern style, white stucco paint and black window trim.
Nora, carrying her recording equipment, leads them to one of the wings. “From what I can tell, this should be our building.”
In the lobby, there’s a single security guard before the elevator bank. Nora introduces herself. The man makes a call up to Thor Senior’s room. They receive their instructions: second floor, room 201. Upstairs, there’s a nurse’s station at one end of the hall, but the facility could otherwise be any normal apartment building.
Nora knocks on 201, shooting Agnes a half smile. “Ready?” she asks in a whisper.
There’s no time to answer. The man was waiting for them, evidently, because the door jerks open instantly after Nora’s knock. Thor Senior is a large man, taken down to reasonable height by time. Great shoulders, wide and square like a linebacker’s, curl inward. The lantern jaw, sagging, and the hard glitter in the eyes so like his son’s speak of a man handsome not from aesthetics but sheer force of will.
“Hello, sir,” Nora says, and Agnes wonders if she’s even aware of calling the man “sir,” or if that just came naturally, because he very much is a “sir.” “My name’s Nora Carver, and I am the host of—”
“Come in,” Thor Senior interrupts her. He shuffles back and swings one long crooked arm into the room. “It’s impolite to talk in doorways.”
They file in, quickly and obediently. Agnes smells the man’s early lunch on his breath when she passes him, and it’s pungent, a mixture of blue cheese and fish. He shuts the door behind them and leads the way to his sitting room. The apartment is hardly larger than Lilja’s studio. Thor reclaims his reclining chair by a window overlooking the parking lot and he indicates for them to take the narrow couch.
“As I was saying,” Nora begins, “I am the host of a show that researches and documents cold cases. I’m here in Iceland to cover a case that you might remember. I was hoping to talk to you about it, for my show.”
Thor Senior has no patience for explanations. He’s holding a release form he’s been asked to review and sign, and while Nora explains all his options for participation, he isn’t looking at the form. He’s looking at Nora. Memorizing every detail of the woman’s compact body. It doesn’t seem as though it matters what Nora’s saying—though, Agnes notes, Nora’s purposefully avoiding mentioning Marie, Einar, or even Bifröst.
Nora’s also neglected to introduce Agnes, calling her “my associate,” and nothing more. As in, “My associate here is just going to observe, if that’s all right with you.” When Thor Senior can tear his gaze away from Nora, he frowns at Agnes. Confused, like he can’t quite place her. She doesn’t shy away from him, but she doesn’t announce herself, either. She’s decided, very quickly, she doesn’t like the old man, doesn’t appreciate the way he looks at Nora. And besides, this is Nora’s show. Let her use Agnes’s identity when she deems it necessary.
Nora hands Thor Senior a pen.
“I will tell you whatever you want,” he says, a grin creasing his cheeks. He scrawls a tight signature at the bottom of the release form and hands it back, eyes traveling over Nora’s wild hair, the neon-pink glasses, the red lips. “Ask me whatever you wish, my dear.”
Agnes flinches at the term of endearment, but Nora is unflappable as ever. In fact, if Agnes had to guess, she’d say Nora is hamming it up for the man. She’s taking extra care in setting up the microphone, smiling wide and bright, asking Thor Senior if he’s comfortable. While Nora prepares the scene, Agnes melts into the background, choosing a seat far from the camcorder. In a way, she’s surprised he doesn’t recognize her, but perhaps that’s a relief. She’s had enough. This, right here, is almost too much for her.
Nora dives right in. “First,” she says, “can you tell me about yourself? Where did you live, before you came here? What brought you here?”
“I am here,” Thor Senior says, thunderclouds gathering on his great forehead, “because my son put me here. I was born in Bifröst, in the house where my mother was born, where her father was born. That was my home. Do you understand what that means? I am meant to die there, too. But my son convinced a doctor to declare me unwell, so here I am.”
“A horrible lie,” Nora says to Thor Senior, “right? If you don’t mind me saying so, you seem more than capable of taking care of yourself.”
This earns her another lecherous grin. Agnes marvels at Nora’s bravery. Waltzing into a stranger’s home without even a moment’s hesitation. Thor Senior, though old, is certainly not feeble. And he’s volatile. Because the pleasure vanishes quickly, to be replaced once more with gathering fury. “I am healthy,” he insists. “My son brought me here to die in a chicken coop.”
“Why?”
“He’s greedy. He wants the home to himself.”
“I imagine that the land is worth a lot of money.”
“Yes.” Thor’s effusion shutters, an instinctive closing of the ranks. Just because it’s no longer his doesn’t mean anyone else can have it.
“So you wouldn’t say you’re close with your son,” Nora says.
“Not close,” Thor Senior scoffs. “I should have drowned him like a kitten in a river. I would have, if we had had any more.”
Nora doesn’t falter. “Why do you say that?”
“He is not a good man.”
Agnes spares a moment’s pity for Thor Junior, for having this man as his father. She would have left home as soon as she could, too.
“A good man protects his family,” Thor Senior continues. “He doesn’t take from his family, or his neighbors. He doesn’t break windows. He doesn’t steal his neighbors’ jewelry. My wife left, because of that boy. He took everything from me. My wife, my home, my history. I am left with nothing but my own death in an anonymous hellhole.”
He leaves them in a stunned silence. Agnes is struck, yet again, by the ease with which someone will spill their secrets with strangers. Thor Senior’s never met Nora before, he doesn’t even know why she’s interviewing him, but he’s venting out years of private anger and frustration as though she were a therapist. A trusted friend. Is he that desperate to be heard? Or is this, to him, not private? Something worth sharing, as loud as he possibly can?
She supposes, though, she’s shared, too. With Lilja. With Nora. With Ingvar, even.
“When did your wife leave you?” Nora asks Thor Senior.
“In 1977.”
Two years before the murders.
“Was your son a problem for the entire town?”
“No,” Thor Senior says, bristling. “We keep our business to ourselves.”
“It’s been my experience that in small towns, it’s next to impossible to keep secrets.”
“There were no problems.”
“What about the neighbor’s jewelry? You said he took it? Surely they had to notice that.”
“He stole the earrings out of her house. He put them back the same way. She never knew.” There’s an unconscious flex of the man’s hand. “I made sure.”
“Which neighbor was this? Marie or Júlía?”
“Marie.”
“How much,” Nora says, “did you know about your neighbors?”
“I knew only what they wished me to know.”
“Were you close with them?”
“We knew to say hello,” Thor says, unbothered.
“I have to confess,” Nora says, “I did some digging. My research shows that you and Einar, your neighbor, were related. There was some argument over the land. Can you tell me more about that?”
“There was no argument.”
Nora acts surprised. “Are you sure? I’ve heard—”
“There was no argument.” Thor is firm. “The land was split. I wanted to buy it. Páll said no. That is not an argument. Páll wanted to provide for his family, so he didn’t sell.”
“Páll? Einar’s father?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me more about him.”
The creases in the old man’s skin deepen. “He was a good man. When I was young, I pitied him for his son. Einar left. And now I am the same as Páll. I will die alone, like him. But it is worse, because my son isn’t patient. He isn’t waiting for me to die to claim his inheritance. He took without waiting.”
“Einar came back after his father’s death with a young Danish bride. Marie. Tell me more about them.”
The question finally comes. “Why are you here? What are you wanting?”
“I’m researching the 1979 murders of your neighbors, Marie and her child, Agnes.” Nora tells him everything. About her podcast, her work on the Lopez case, her time spent in Bifröst. When she finishes her introductions, she doesn’t continue with her line of questioning. She holds the man’s gaze. Expectant.
Thor Senior says, finally, “Einar killed them. What more is there to say?”
“I’m just not understanding why everyone is so certain,” Nora says. “He was never formally charged with the murders. Nor is there any evidence, as it stands, that points to him. But no one else was treated like a suspect. Once Einar and his son left for America, the investigation seemed to stall out. As someone who does a lot of research into cold cases, I find that conclusion worrying. Don’t you?”
Thor Senior doesn’t seem to register this as an actual question.
“If that were my cousin,” Nora continues, “or even my neighbor, I wouldn’t be happy with a rumor. I would want to know what happened to them.”
“I can’t help you,” he tells her. “I’m not God. I only know my life.”
“You don’t need to be God,” she assures him. “You just need to tell me about them. I wasn’t there. I can only go off photographs, records, and memories. Memories are the most precious.”
Thor Senior considers Nora carefully, no longer lecherous, but hard. Intimidating. Nora waits, placidly. With a hearty sniff, he says, “Einar thought he was better than Bifröst, because he went to Copenhagen. I do not mind. But he comes to me after murdering his wife and child and he asks me for money. He was spoiled.”
“He came to you to sell his property,” Nora says, “right? You accepted in the end, and you bought the property. That valuable land. You got what you wanted.”
There’s a ghost of a smile. “Yes.”
“Tell me about his Danish wife. Marie.”
“She was a silly girl,” he says.
“Everyone I have spoken with has said that Marie was a beautiful woman. Charming. Everyone was halfway in love with her, from all accounts.”
“Is there a question?”
“Were you in love with her? Did you find her beautiful?”
“I don’t fall in love with every beautiful woman with long legs,” Thor says. He leers at Nora. “Some exceptions can be made, of course. But I noticed she was beautiful, yes. She wanted everyone to notice, so I noticed.”
“Did she and Einar have a happy marriage?”
“I don’t know.” The same exasperation. I’m not God. I only know my life.
“Was she faithful to her husband?”
“I don’t know,” Thor says, “but it wouldn’t surprise me if she wasn’t.”
“Why do you say that?”
He doesn’t answer.
“I’m asking,” Nora says, “because I happen to agree with you. It wouldn’t shock me to learn that she’d been having an affair. From everything that I’ve gathered, Marie may have been taking time to herself, away from her children, away from her husband. She was a young, beautiful woman, alone in the countryside, far away from her own home. I’ve heard comments about her accent, her adjustment to the language. In moments of stress and isolation, we search for an outlet for relief. Some people choose to devote themselves to their work, like Einar, and some people choose to find happiness in someone else. She needed someone. You were right there. Alone, just like her. You were a young man, forty-nine. I’ve seen the photos. You looked like a movie star.”
The flattery doesn’t affect Thor. The only indication that he’s even listening is the way his eyes follow Nora’s body when she leans in close to him.
“I’ve spoken to your neighbors,” she tells him. “Your life wasn’t as secret as you thought.”
“I have nothing to hide.”
“It isn’t hidden,” Nora says. “It’s right there. Out in the open. If one person knows, everyone knows. You were having an affair with Marie.”
“Who told you?”
“Júlía,” Nora says, easily. “She was Marie’s confidante. She warned her not to get involved with you. But she did. You did. Didn’t you?”
Thor holds up a hand. “I am finished.”
For one brief, wild moment, Agnes misinterprets the meaning of his words. That he’s confessing, like a cowboy in a spaghetti western—You caught me, I’m done for. But then the anger follows, and his meaning becomes clear.
“Go,” he says. “I do not speak to liars.”
“I’m not lying,” Nora insists. “I’m relaying what I’ve heard. What other people have told me. I’m not accusing you of murder. What I am asking you now, though, is why this didn’t come up at all during the investigation. Even just as a motive for Einar’s actions. A controlling husband catching his beloved wife in an affair, it’s understandable—”
“You will not accuse me,” Thor says, his voice rising to fill the room, to drown them in it. “I have spoken with the police. They have heard my story. My neighbor slaughtered his wife and his child, like animals. There is no why. There is no affair. There is only the dead.”