Page 14

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

February 6, 2019

The entrance to Ingvar’s driveway is nearly exactly opposite to her own. But instead of a mostly flat road through a tunnel of trees, this is a leisurely climb in the open air, skirting the edge of a long, rolling hill. Ingvar’s truck handles the incline easily. Agnes’s rental car skids, only once, on the last sharp turn to level ground. There, in the middle of this plateau between two hills, stands a low, wide home. Lights blaze from the windows. It’s cozy, a beacon of life in an otherwise empty place.

Ingvar’s already parked his truck and reached the front door by the time Agnes has struggled out of her car. “I will check on her,” he calls out to Agnes, before disappearing inside.

It’s somewhat rude to race in before her, but Agnes appreciates the privacy while she limps across the icy drive. Her left leg feels like it’s composed of broken glass, grinding with every step, and the rest of her body is cramping. She hasn’t walked so much in a year. And while the nausea has left her, in its place is a sharp ache at the back of her skull, sending lightning bolts through her brain whenever she turns her head too quickly. She needs a pill. Just one more. To dampen some of the pain. As soon as she gets back, she promises herself.

When Agnes reaches the front door, she pauses in the threshold to catch her breath. She doesn’t think she’ll faint. But she might need to lie down, all the same.

She removes her boots and her jacket, and she waits, panting, for Ingvar to return.

He finds her a moment later. “My mother is in the living room,” he tells her, beckoning for her to follow.

He leads them out of the entryway, through a warm kitchen. The setup is minimal, outdated. There’s an old stove, a behemoth iron thing, at the center of the kitchen, which overshadows the rest of the narrow appliances, the thin cabinetry, and a breakfast table, upon which there are piles of newspapers and plastic utensils designed to feed teething children. A cold hand squeezes Agnes’s heart. Those forks and spoons must be for Júlía. Ingvar doesn’t have kids.

“Wait,” Agnes says, stopping in the kitchen. Ingvar turns to her, curious and slightly furtive. “Is she—are you sure your mother is able to handle this?” Those final visits with her grandfather had been difficult. She remembers his fatigue, his soft skin. Einar had been so proud. There had been a period of weeks when he hadn’t allowed her to spend time with him. He hadn’t wanted her to see him that way, he’d said. Love had won out, though. You must only remember the Before-Me, he’d told her. She’d promised. Now, remembering him in those last days, the slightness of his shoulders, the weakness in his voice, she feels a sense of betrayal. Both to that man, to that promise, and because he’d made her promise something impossible.

She doesn’t want to intrude on this woman’s privacy. Or Ingvar’s, for that matter.

“My mother loved Magnús,” Ingvar tells her. “This will make her happy. If it doesn’t, then you can go.”

Agnes huffs out a nervous laugh, and follows him into the living room.

It, too, is a cozy space, filled with craft supplies and piles of books. There’s a well-loved couch against one wall, with two simple recliners to either side of it. Nestled into one of the recliners is a small, straight-backed woman. She’s focused on a ball of yarn in her lap, ignoring the pastry set out on the coffee table in front of her. She doesn’t look up when they enter, only mumbles something in Icelandic.

“Don’t cut it,” Ingvar tells his mother, in English. “I’ll untangle it for you.” Then, when she doesn’t look up, Ingvar prompts her again, but this time, it’s in Icelandic.

Whatever he says has his mother’s head whipping up. Her eyes are her son’s, but they don’t glimmer with humor. They glint like steel. She reminds Agnes, suddenly and totally, of a vulture on its perch, surveying its territory closely. When she finally takes in the entirety of Agnes, the yarn falls from her gnarled hands, bouncing off her lap and falling to the floor, forgotten. The eyes, narrowed before in suspicion, widen in surprise.

Agnes is too slow. The jet lag, the long day, the half doses, it’s all slowed her down. She’s supposedly her grandmother’s twin. What must this poor old woman think, forty years later, seeing the mirror image of her murdered neighbor walking into her living room?

“She speaks English,” Ingvar says, switching back himself. “Agnes is from America. Magnús’s daughter.”

The old woman doesn’t seem to hear him. She appears to have stopped breathing. “Marie,” she rasps. There’s more in Icelandic.

“No,” Ingvar insists. “English. This is Agnes, Magnús’s daughter.”

Agnes steps forward, uncomfortable, caught between mother and son. She offers the old woman a smile. “Hi, Júlía. I’m—”

“Agnes,” Júlía concludes for her. “I know.” She looks to her son, pointedly, and asks for something in Icelandic.

He answers in English. “Yes. I’ll get you both some tea.” Ingvar offers Agnes an encouraging smile on his way back into the kitchen.

“Come here,” Júlía orders Agnes. She indicates the seat closest to her on the couch. She watches Agnes from her perch, and Agnes wonders if the old woman can sense the weakness in her. Júlía waits until Agnes is settled, and then she leans farther in. “It’s you.” Her voice is barely higher than a whisper. “Marie.”

The old woman reaches a hand to Agnes’s arm, taking her wrist in a surprisingly strong grip. She says something in Icelandic. The sentence seems to go on forever.

“I’m sorry,” Agnes says, out of her depth. “I don’t speak Icelandic. What?”

“Marie,” Júlía says again. She shakes her head, her face screwed up in a mixture of confusion and some high emotion Agnes can’t identify. “I hate what I’ve done.”

“What?” Agnes asks, drawn in despite herself.

“I told him to go,” Júlía says, squeezing her wrist tighter. “I told Einar to take his boy and run.”

Dread pools in Agnes’s stomach, settling like a heavy weight. “Why did you do that?”

A tear slides down the old woman’s cheek. “I thought he killed you. He killed you. We all knew. But here you are.” She switches to Icelandic, overcome once again with confusion and, Agnes recognizes it now, regret.

Agnes casts a look to the hallway. No Ingvar. She turns back to the old woman. “I’m glad you did,” she says, and that’s true. She wouldn’t be here if her grandfather hadn’t run to California. But… “What do you mean, you thought he killed me?”

Júlía doesn’t answer. She stares back at Agnes, her piercing gaze turning cloudy. “I don’t know you,” she says. The grip on Agnes’s wrist slackens. “Do I?”

“Yes, you do,” Agnes says. She tries to give the woman a reassuring smile. She knows, without having to see it herself, that it’s come out more like a desperate leer. “I’m Marie’s granddaughter. Agnes. You said you thought Einar killed Marie. What makes you so sure?”

“No,” the old woman mutters. The hand slips away, back to her own lap, fretting absentmindedly with the material of her pants. She speaks, but again it’s in Icelandic. A short, declarative statement, the rasping voice suddenly unsteady. She won’t meet Agnes’s eye.

“What is it?” Agnes presses. “What do you know?”

“Nei,” the old woman says, and it comes out sharp and loud. Loud enough for her son to hear.

Ingvar appears in the doorway, concern etched into his face. Spotting his mother’s distress, he hurries into the room.

“Should I leave?” Agnes asks, already standing to go.

Ingvar’s whispering something to his mother. Agnes edges toward the hallway, apologies on her lips. Ingvar comes to standing, his expression grim. Without another word, he escorts Agnes to the front door.

Shoving her feet back into her boots, Agnes apologizes again. “She thought I was Marie,” she explains, unnecessarily. Agnes hadn’t exactly corrected the old woman, though, had she? She’d terrorized her.

“Maybe we will try another time,” Ingvar tells her, no hint of good humor left in his expression.