Page 32 of Shatter

Then he turns and walks out, and his boots fade away down the hall.

I stare at the empty doorway.

"He's not always like that." Hakon pushes off the wall.

"Like what?" I don't take my eyes off the doorway.

"Nice." One corner of his mouth lifts, barely. "That was him being nice."

I don't laugh.

I can't.

Tor's right.

Hakon steps out into the hall after Tor, leaving the door open behind him.

Whatever came to the parking lot will come back, and I know exactly where it'll look.

Colin said it himself, crouched beside me on the asphalt.

You're a bookkeeper, Annika.

You'd keep it close.

Desmond will send someone else.

Someone who'll start with my apartment and move on to the only other place I spend my nights.

The Night Owl.

Dale, unlocking the back door at six in the morning with his windbreaker zipped to his chin.

The walk-in cooler.

Third panel from the left, above the milk crates.

I press my bandaged hand over my mouth, the gauze rough against my split lip.

I start to shake.

CHAPTER FOUR

Hakon

Kirkja smells like old cigarettes and lemon furniture polish.

Somebody's old lady wiped down the long table this week, and under the lemon hangs the ghost of every cigar Tor's ever lit in here.

I've never been inside it.

Prospects don't come in here.

When kirkja is called, we stand outside the door and watch the hall, waiting to be told what was decided about our lives by men who don't have to tell us why.

Tonight, Tor holds the door open and jerks his chin at me.

I walk in with her blood drying on my hands.