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CHAPTER FIVE

February 5, 2019

Missing. Connected to her grandmother’s case. The words hang in the air. Agnes can’t grab hold of them. “What?” she asks. She blinks, she’s in the humid café in Reykjavík. There’s that missing poster, staring back at her. Again, and she’s back in Bifrost with Nora, overwarm from the crackling fire.

“This is where things get complicated,” Nora says. “How much do you know about the… life… your grandmother’s case has taken on in the past forty years?”

“Just tell me.”

Nora huffs out a small laugh. “I’m prone to lecturing people,” she tells Agnes. “My assistant once told me I’m the only woman who’s ever mansplained to her. So I’ll try to keep it brief.” She sighs. “In essence, within the true crime community there are the casual participants, the fans, the consumers. Then there are the professional participants, like myself. And then… there are the extremists. These are the groups who celebrate the macabre, like death metal bands writing songs about the Frozen Madonna and Child, for instance, who use the photograph as album artwork. Or those who get the photograph tattooed on their body. These are the fans who use it as artistic expression and inspiration, even if it’s unpalatable to the general public. Some use it for art, some use it for exploitation, violence, what have you.”

“And how does this relate to this missing woman?” Agnes asks. “ása.”

“Ow-sa,” Nora corrects her, almost unconsciously. “Not Ass-a. Well, your family’s case has an enormous draw, for all participants of the community. But something about it really attracts the extremists. The farmhouse is a pilgrimage for some of them. They call it the Bifrost Murder House. And I can kind of understand the draw. Your grandfather’s farmhouse still stands, empty, on a stretch of land that for many years had a lot of privacy. Now there’s this place, but it’s not like it’s right on top of the farmhouse. The hardcore people hold a party at the Bifrost Murder House every year around the anniversary of the murders. It’s an open invitation to anyone looking for a good time, but as you can imagine, it brings in a lot of extremists. This year’s party was this past weekend. They had to do it a few days early, I’m told, because they’re losing access to the house this week. Thor, the guy you met? He’s closing it, officially, to the public.”

Agnes is too hot. Her skin’s throbbing from the proximity to the fireplace, sweat gathering at the small of her back. She can’t tell if it’s the withdrawal or Nora’s unrelenting monologue, but it’s hard for her to keep Nora in focus. All she can think, clearly, is I need a pill. And, somewhere deep in her psyche, Why the hell are you telling me all this?

“This woman,” Nora continues, “ása, was last seen at the party. No one knows where she went—or, they’re saying they don’t know where she went—during or after. She wasn’t reported missing until last night. It’s been three days since the party. The town has organized search parties, and they’re talking to everyone who was there, but so far, nothing has come out of it. The most likely scenario is that she wandered out of the house, drunk, and froze to death. You see this happen all the time, anywhere there’s snow and alcohol. If this had happened in any other circumstance, I would say that it’s a tragic accident. But it was at a party at the Bifrost Murder House, near the fortieth anniversary of the murders, organized by a group of people who have a certain fascination with said murders. I can’t ignore this. Which means, unfortunately, that I’ll be somewhat distracted this week. Tomorrow, for instance, I’ll have to go in to talk to the police.”

Nora leans forward, reaching a hand to Agnes’s knee. “I’m still absolutely focused on your grandmother’s case, of course, but this is a new element to her story, and it’s shifting daily. I won’t be able to devote as much time to you as I had planned. There is something here, and it’s connected to Marie. Maybe something happened at the party. Maybe she really did wander out on her own. Who knows? People do strange things in the dark. But she’s linked herself to Marie, however tenuously. Do you understand?”

Agnes finds she does understand. She’s on her own. Entirely on her own.

Nora sits back, sliding her hand off Agnes’s knee. “I’m sorry to greet you with such terrible news. There’s more pain here to be unearthed, it seems. And it takes time away from you, from what you’re doing here. I’m struggling with this, Agnes, to be perfectly honest with you. This is all happening so fast, I’ve had to scramble. Things are going to have to be… looser… than I thought.”

“You said something might have happened at the party,” Agnes says, reluctant to get caught up in anything that takes away from her grandfather’s case, but unable to help herself. “What are you thinking happened to her?”

“The majority of people show up just to get drunk. To them, it’s just a party. ása seemed to be of that group. But what if someone, obsessed with the case, suddenly finds themselves in that house, on drugs… they see ása, her passing resemblance to Marie, and…” She shows Agnes her open palms in an uncertain gesture. “No matter what, it’s a new disappearance on the fortieth anniversary of your grandmother’s disappearance, from the exact same house. It would be unprofessional of me to ignore this.”

“Are we not talking then?” Agnes asks. “No interview?”

“In a way, we’ve already started,” Nora says. “I’ve got to warn you, I document literally everything I can. This means wearing a microphone for most conversations—don’t worry, I’m not wearing a wire right now. I have legal documents for you to sign before we go down that road. As soon as you sign, though, I’ll likely have a microphone on, and I’ll ask you to wear one, too. If, for whatever reason, you don’t feel comfortable with that, or if you do sign and you change your mind down the road, you are completely within your rights to retract your consent. If someone doesn’t wish to be recorded, I can still report what was discussed, or if that leads to dangerous territory, I hint at it. There are many ways to do this. The microphones, though… that’s the easiest way. For both of us.”

Agnes nods. Or she thinks she does.

“Don’t let all this extra stuff discourage you,” Nora says. “You are still my focus. Your decision to speak with me, to break your family’s silence after all these decades, should be acknowledged and celebrated. On that note…”

Nora unfolds herself from her chair and searches through her pile of folders. She selects one and passes it to Agnes. “Some more photos you might like. And a timeline of events. I’d love it if you’d be able to fill in some blanks, or if there’s anything that seems wrong to you. There’s also a cheat sheet with family trees, not only your own but the important players of the town. The names can be hard for some people to get used to. I guess you’d be fine, with a grandfather named Einar and a father named Magnús, but even I need them all straightened out, so I figure I’ll be doing a lot of that in the series.”

Agnes accepts the folder. “Straighten what out?”

“The generations. There’s the first generation of people, including your grandparents, and the other adults involved. There’s the second generation, your father, your aunt, and Thor, the house owner, among others. And then there’s the third generation. You.”

Agnes slips her grandmother’s immigration photo inside the folder without peering underneath. She can feel the weight of those unknown photographs on her lap, threatening to drag her down. Something her future self can contend with. “I guess I never thought about the other people involved.”

“Now you can,” Nora says. “It’s strange when you start thinking about the forty-year gap. I’m thirty-six. More than my own lifetime has passed since your grandmother and aunt were killed, which makes it feel immeasurably long and of old times, right? But then you meet the people involved and you realize that forty years is just—nothing. Your father, for example. Nine years old. Now a mere forty-nine. Life can be short and long.”

Agnes’s stomach lurches, as though the organ were trying to hide from whatever danger lurks outside. She’s the third generation. The direct descendant. The only one. She’s so involved. And yet. She’s just this. She’s just her.

“I know this is a lot to drop on you all at once,” Nora says, seeming to read her mind. “And I’m sorry our time together will be so disrupted, but please, make yourself at home here. It’s still pretty early in the day, not that you’d know it from the looks of it outside.” She indicates the softening light outside the living room windows. “If you want to take a nap, a bath, whatever, help yourself. If you’re hungry, I can cook us something.”

The mention of food does nothing but remind Agnes how nauseous she feels. “Actually,” she says, “can you show me the farmhouse? I’d like to see it.”