‘I’ve said I’m sorry. What else do you want me to do?’ Líf seemed hurt, sounding as if she felt she were the victim in all of this. ‘Garðar and I were always attracted to each other, even from the beginning. It just happened. We couldn’t do anything about it.’
‘Shut up!’ shouted Katrín, without meaning to. She couldn’t bear to listen again to the account of Líf’s relationship with Garðar. Although Líf had already told Katrín the story from beginning to end, it was from such a biased, narrow perspective that Katrín had to read between the lines to get to the truth. If her intuition was correct, her entire existence since her relationship with Garðar started had been staged. She alone had been unaware that her closest surroundings had been merely props and scenery. Maybe at the time she hadn’t wanted to see what had been revealed now that the poison had poured from Líf’s beautifully shaped mouth; maybe she’d been too in love with Garðar even to glimpse the now crystal clear reality in front of her. Garðar had never loved her. She’d simply been the next woman available once it was clear that Líf had chosen Einar rather than him; maybe he’d thought that seeing him with someone else would change Líf’s mind. But he’d been very wrong. Líf had enjoyed watching him squirm, knowing she could have him whenever she pleased. Líf probably hadn’t loved Garðar any more than he’d had feelings for Katrín; she’d just found it handy to have him as a kind of safety net, a life preserver that you don’t use daily but can reach out for when you need it.
This was all so incomprehensible that Katrín’s head was spinning. For example, she thought that Líf was telling her that she had simply chosen Einar over Garðar after weighing it all up. She hadn’t put it quite so explicitly, but it was impossible to interpret what she’d said any other way; Einar had seemed more financially driven than Garðar and likely to make more money, which meant that he got Líf and she would get him and his riches.
But then Einar had sought company elsewhere too. He’d probably realized that there was something missing in his wife’s character, some capacity for love. Maybe he hadn’t come right out and asked for a divorce because Líf was so devoid of emotion and he was afraid that she would come up with some way of getting back at him; maybe she knew things about him that he didn’t want to come to light. She’d responded in kind and the only thing that Katrín could console herself with was the fact that Líf’s affair with Garðar hadn’t begun then, although she suspected that Líf had tried to make it happen soon after learning of Einar’s infidelity. No doubt it would have been perfect for her – to cheat on her husband with his best friend and rub his face in it at an opportune moment. Garðar had probably resisted the temptation precisely because of his friendship with Einar, not having been able to imagine going behind the back of his childhood companion and best friend. The same didn’t apply where Katrín was concerned, however; she clearly didn’t matter, since he’d taken the first opportunity to jump into bed with Líf once Einar was dead. But however it had all happened, Líf appeared to have also found herself an earlier victim, a shrink who’d been supposed to help her patch up her marriage. What a joke.
And although Líf hadn’t said anything to suggest that she’d played a part in Einar’s death, she didn’t have to. Einar had left her, doubtless after arranging things so that most of their money would remain with him and Líf would be left empty-handed. Not to mention the humiliation of the situation. Katrín knew Líf well enough now to realize that she would never have accepted such a thing. So Einar had had to go, and somehow she’d made it happen. Katrín simply knew it; in the same way that she didn’t need to be told that it was dangerous to stand too near the edge of a cliff, it was perfectly clear to her that the same went for Líf. A person who seemed unable to repent or to express regret for their actions was much less predictable than the edge of a cliff, which could easily be avoided by keeping a safe distance. But a safe distance from Líf wasn’t an option here. Katrín promised herself that she would never, never, ever again be under the same roof as this woman, if they made it safely back to Reykjavík. Never.
Neither of them said anything for a while. In the meantime it continued to grow colder. Their breath ascended frostily from their lips and Katrín felt that she didn’t have as much control over her fingers as usual. She pulled her sleeves over her hands in the hope of keeping them warmer, without producing the desired result.
‘What is that in the basement?’ Líf stared at her, and no matter how much Katrín wanted to look away, she couldn’t help but meet her eyes. But she didn’t answer. Líf persisted anyway: ‘You can see a bag in the photo. An old-fashioned schoolbag.’ She leaned forward conspiratorially and whispered, as if they were trusted friends sharing secrets: ‘And there are seashells all over the place.’
Katrín said nothing, but turned away from her and rested her head on her knees again. She had no idea what bones were down there, but she couldn’t rule out the idea that they might belong to the boy they’d seen. It seemed to her that the material partially covering the bones resembled the jacket the boy was wearing when he appeared to them.
‘It’s probably the ghost, Katrín. His bones. It looks to me as if he’s missing some fingers on one hand, so I suppose the fox under the porch got to the body and the ghost killed it to take revenge for the loss of its fingers.’ It was as if Líf had already forgotten their conflict. Katrín couldn’t see her face, but she was speaking as if nothing had happened; no doubt Líf had grown tired of Katrín’s attitude and was determined to pretend everything was the same as before. ‘Maybe he’ll disappear now that we’ve opened up the floor. I’m sure that was what he wanted the whole time – for us to find the bones. Maybe that’s why he killed the previous owner; he accidentally blocked the hatch, making the likelihood of the bones being found almost non-existent. We’ve fixed the problem, so everything should be all right now.’ Líf hadn’t actually had a hand in any of it, but naturally claimed a share of the credit. ‘I hope so, anyway,’ she whispered.
Katrín felt as if she were in a dream, or rather a nightmare. She didn’t look up, but spoke into her knees. ‘Why were you messing around with this house at all? Why didn’t Garðar just leave me for you, without dragging me into this madness? You have all Einar’s money now. I don’t understand you two. Was Garðar just as crazy as you?’ Líf muttered something that Katrín didn’t hear properly. She didn’t ask her to repeat herself, however; the little she’d understood was enough. ‘Ah, you didn’t want Garðar with all his debts? Is that what you’re saying? Despite your having so much money you wouldn’t have to lift a finger for the rest of your life?’
‘I’m not going to pay someone else’s debts. It isn’t fair.’ Líf was clearly a great proponent of fairness where it concerned her. Unfairness was for other people, in her world. ‘It was Garðar’s idea and I tried to dissuade him. That’s why I came along, to stop him.’
‘Stop him from what?’ Katrín pressed her face so tightly against her knees that her closed eyes hurt.
‘From hurting you. Killing you, actually. He was the one who pushed the wall onto you. He’d already set it up. He just needed to tug on the rope that was there and… Boom!’ Líf sighed. ‘I tried to prevent it but I couldn’t. Maybe it’s for the best that he disappeared.’
Katrín said nothing, just let the tears flow; they didn’t fall, but soaked into her trousers. She wasn’t sure whether they were tears of anger or sorrow. She cleared her throat to get rid of the lump in it; she couldn’t bear the idea of Líf knowing she was crying. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ Garðar wouldn’t have been better off with her dead; if they’d divorced, he would only have been responsible for half of their debts, but as a widower he would have been left with all of them. Then she remembered their life insurance. The money that was supposed to ensure that if one of them died, the other wouldn’t need to struggle with financial difficulties on top of everything else, or their parents if they both died at the same time. What a joke. ‘You slammed that door into me. Didn’t you?’ Líf didn’t need to answer this; her embarrassed look was proof enough. Katrín was sure her sick mind was racing to find a way to explain this, probably by saying that Garðar had forced her into it. She didn’t want to hear it. ‘Did you kill Einar, Líf? Maybe Garðar as well?’