Page 13 of Snowman

"Of course."

I sat paralyzed as they entered.

For that one, swift second, the tall man's eyes caught my gaze, furrowed in some kind of recognition. My chest tightened, the air was now too thick to breathe.

Behind me, I heard Mom shift, and when I glanced back, she was smiling faintly. The bruising on her face stood in vivid contrast to the pale pink flush of her cheeks.

I wanted to scream, to rip that smile off, it wasn't real. It was survival.

Dad's throat was clear in that tight, stiff voice. "What's this about?"

The short man glanced at me and then back to Dad.

"This may not be appropriate for the children."

"They're not children," Dad snapped, though his voice betrayed a quiver. His hand fidgeted at the back of his neck, fingers scratching at the skin there. "One… well, one can't talk. Or hear. Or walk, for that matter. And the other—"

"We understand," the taller man interrupted smoothly, gesturing toward the sofa. His presence seemed to fill the room, his tone both firm and disarming. "Perhaps we should sit down."

The white sofa facing the fireplace almost looked too innocent for what was about to weigh upon it. Their feet whispered on the rug as they moved across it towards the sofa, before, with a smooth swoop, the taller of the two settled onto it.

The shorter man followed, placing the folder on his lap. "I am Detective Erik Skarsgard," he said, his Scandinavian accent sharp and precise. He inclined his head toward his partner. "This is Detective Thor Karlsson."

Karlsson nodded. "We’re here to investigate the disappearance of your neighbor, Sigrid Halvorsen. She lived about two miles from here."

Skarsgard’s voice was grave. "We have reason to believe that whoever took her may target this house next."

The words landed like a bomb. Dad paled, his voice stumbling. "What? That’s ridiculous. We just moved in—why would anybody—"

Skarsgard raised a hand, silencing him. "Did you notice the snowman in your yard?"

Dad’s head whipped toward the window. The snowman stood silently outside, its crooked grin twisting in the dim winter light.

Skarsgard opened the folder, revealing a series of photographs. The first showed a snowman—eerily similar to the one outside. "This was found at Halvorsen’s house," he said, sliding the photo across the table.

Dad’s hand shook as he turned to the next picture. His breath hitched. Beneath the snowman’s photo lay an image of a pale, bruised body sprawled lifeless on the frozen ground.

"My God," he muttered, recoiling as though the photograph had burned him.

"We’ve seen this before," Karlsson said, leaning forward. "Whoever is behind this leaves the same calling card: a snowman in the yard."

The room seemed to grow colder despite the crackling fire. Mom’s fingers dug into the back of my chair. "Dear Lord," she whispered.

"Word of advice," Karlsson said, his tone softer now. "Lock your doors tonight."

Dad shot to his feet. "Is there anything else we can do? Cameras, perhaps? We can install more—"

"We noticed two cameras out front," Skarsgard said. "You might want to check with the property owner for access. They may have caught something."

Mom’s voice trembled. "And the backyard? Couldn’t you see who built the snowman?"

Skarsgard shook his head. "Unfortunately, the cameras don’t cover the backyard. The woods block the view."

Dad rubbed his forehead, sweat glistening under the firelight. "You checked the camera footage? Did it show anything?"

"Nothing suspicious," Karlsson said tightly. "We reviewed it twice."

Silence pressed down on the room like a heavy blanket.

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