Glenda

Only now did she realize that the scream was very familiar, and even without knowing for sure, she dared to assume that it belonged to Jornas. It is unclear how and why, through the distance, he ended up in the middle of her hall, but the thought crept into his head that something was wrong with her.

“Have I gone crazy? Stress at work, depression after betrayal, sunstroke and liters of alcohol did their dirty work. And I went crazy against the backdrop of all these factors?” Her face frowned, but immediately brightened. “Well, no, I’m not crazy. There’s just some kind of mysticism going on in this city. And I’ll find out what’s going on.”

She looked again at Jornas lying limply, and could not believe that he was no longer there. The barely dry face became wet again. Just recently they were lying in the same bathroom, and before that, her dreams carried her thoughts into the future with this man. I also remembered nights in clubs, wild sex in Petra, heart-to-heart conversations and tender hugs.

He didn’t cheat on her, didn’t hurt her, she could only tell him when she touched on an unnecessary and unpleasant topic, but there was no betrayal, as in the case of Gerard. “Oh, it would be better if someone killed Gerard.” From such conclusions, Glenda became scared, she shut her mouth again, as if since she did not control the terrible thoughts, she might accidentally express them.

— Hello, miss. — a familiar voice made her relax. Glenda turned around.

— Iver Larsen?

— Miss Miller? I didn't expect to see you here. — the gaze of sky-blue eyes slid over the thin, almost transparent robe down to his feet. Glenda forgot for a moment what she was doing here, feeling awkward because of her appearance in front of this handsome man, whom she did not expect to see here at all, but she was glad, because he seemed so close to her.

— I love you too. — wrapping her modest clothes tighter, the girl with her hair still wet from the bath continued. — So you are an investigator, judging by your form?

— Criminalist. I am mainly involved in trace science, but I am proficient in all methods of collecting data from crime scenes. — then he suddenly seemed to remember something. — Wait a second, I'll be right back.

Standing on the cold and wet asphalt, only now she felt cold and damp, the first shock passed, reality began to return little by little.

A tall, muscular Scandinavian was returning with his arms full of things. Glenda's eyes widened in surprise, this is what happens when someone cares about you more than you do.

— My colleague’s jacket and sneakers, she forgot them in the patrol car, and hot tea from a thermos. — a strong man’s hand extended all this to the girl, chilled to the bone. Wrapped in a wide jacket that did not fit her, Glenda attacked her savior with hugs and sobs like a girl.

A little embarrassed, Iver Larsen nevertheless responded in kind, his hands lay on the fragile shoulders of the girl who grabbed his waist. Almost one and a half times taller, Iver was like her father or older brother.

— That's it, that's it, calm down, don't cry. After all, what will people think? At a crime scene, a cop hugs a witness.

— Fine. — Glenda walked away shyly, wiping her tears on her sleeve. Hot tea quickly brought her to her senses and she raised her head. — Tell me, Iver, is this murder?

— I wouldn't think so. A Colt.45 with a silencer was found in the victim's hand. He shot himself.

— Head-on? Doesn't this seem strange? Why not in the temple or mouth, as professional suicides do?

“Professional suicides, does this happen?” he grinned, but immediately realized that it was inappropriate.

— You understand perfectly what I'm talking about. — Glenda continued with greater seriousness. — Someone could have killed Jornas.

— Jornas? Do you know his name?

— Yes, this is my boyfriend actually.

— Boy? The one you ran away from in London?

— No, this is my new Danish boyfriend. We met after buying that damn house.

— Wow. — he grinned again, but not as much as before. Now it was more like admiration. This is what happens when your child suddenly starts riding a bike on his own, and it doesn’t turn out bad at all. — What do you mean, damned house?

“Well, in it…” Glenda stopped short. You should not tell anyone about your speculations about ghosts, so that no one considers them hallucinations. — we had a fight in it.

— Yes, I understand. I need to go away.

The black jacket with green shoulder straps and inserts fit Larsen perfectly. The real ideal of a man, the girl thought to herself.

Standing there near the fence of a residential building and spirea bushes in the middle of night Copenhagen, Glenda tried to understand what had been happening to her for the last few days.

Perhaps God is punishing her for the bribe, for this million pounds sterling, which should not have been taken from the hands of a secret agent. Or is she so frivolous and eccentric that life has finally shown her its true face. “This is not heaven, baby, this is the jungle. Live or die."