It feels good to wake up to something bigger than a missing dog.
Not that I don't appreciate the small cases — someone has to find the neighbor's Pomeranian, or catch husbands who've forgotten what vows mean — but after ten years of building a reputation on details and gut instinct, those cases start to feel like sketches. Unfinished. Like warming up before painting something real.
The call came last night, just before midnight. I was pouring the last bit of lukewarm coffee into a cracked cup when the phone rang. Unknown number. The voice on the other end introduced herself as an operator at the Sauda police station and got straight to the point.
"We have a situation," she said. "Unusual. Possible drowning. Small community. The chief wants external assistance. Discretion is important."
I could have kissed her.
Not because of the case itself — I've seen drownings before, and they're usually exactly what they look like — but because of her tone. Controlled nervousness. The kind of voice that says: We don't understand this, and we need someone who might.
I hadn't felt that pull in my gut for years. Not since I left Oslo, trading my badge for a stamped business card and the life of a private investigator.
I asked no questions. Packed my bag in fifteen minutes. Locked the door. Was on the road before the streetlights went out.
Sauda is a sleepy place deep in Rogaland. I'd driven past once before — a school trip, I think — but never stopped. You wouldn't call it charming, not really. It's too industrial for that. The tall chimneys of the smelting plant rise through the fog like old war towers, and everything smells faintly metallic. Even the rain.
But it's beautiful, too. Mountains leaning inwards as if whispering to each other. Forests that seem untouched. And always — always — water nearby.
I arrived just after sunrise. The fog lay low over the ground, as if it had unfinished business. The police station was easy to find — a low brick building, simple parking lot, a flag hanging limp in the still air. I sat in the car for a moment before stepping out. Just breathing. Letting the silence sink in.
There's something about the silence in towns like this. It's not the absence of sound. It's the presence of something else. As if the place itself is holding its breath.
Gunnar was waiting outside. He looked exactly like a man named "Gunnar" should. Broad-shouldered, bearded, eyes like wet stones. His handshake felt like pressing your hand against rough bark.
"You're Mikkel Bekkholt?" he asked.
"Unless I was switched out overnight," I replied.
He grunted. "You're younger than I thought."
"And you're older than I hoped."
He laughed. First test passed.
Inside the station, I was introduced to Maja — Investigator Maja Sørlie. Mid-thirties. Business suit, hair tied back tightly, gaze like a scalpel. She sized me up before we'd even shaken hands.
"I've read your file," she said. "We're not looking for a magician. No nonsense. If this is a suicide, I want to close the case neatly."
"Understood," I said. "And if it's not?"
"Then I'll need more coffee."
Gunnar chuckled, poured her a cup, adding more sugar than anyone should.
They gave me a quick overview. A young woman had been found in Lake Svartblikk early that morning. No ID. Early twenties. Fully clothed, no signs of violence. Just… there. Kneeling, face in the water.
The coroner was on the way, but they didn't have a full-time one in Sauda. Maja couldn't put her finger on it, but something about the scene unsettled her. She wanted me there.
We drove out. Narrow forest roads, tall spruce, wet moss. Gunnar talked about the weather. Maja said nothing. I let them.
The lake was smaller than I expected, but it felt endless. Not a place you come to swim. Too still. The surface looked like oil in the morning light — black and mirror-smooth, without a single ripple.
The body had already been removed. But the traces were there. Pressed grass. Hair on a rock. And silence. Deeper than before.
"She looked peaceful," Gunnar said quietly.
"Drowning isn't peaceful," I replied.
"No," said Maja. "It's not."
I knelt by the water. My own reflection stared back at me. But something was wrong. The ripples didn't match my breathing. I told myself it was the angle.
My notes started out factual. But then I found myself writing: "The lake does not reflect — it remembers." I don't know why.
We spoke to the caretaker who found her. He said he heard singing.
"Singing?" I asked.
"Yes. Low. Like humming."
"Before or after you saw her?"
"I don't know," he said. "I heard it as I got close. But she didn't move."
Maja frowned.
"Maybe he's confused," she said.
"Maybe," I replied. "Or maybe not."
Now I'm back at the cabin. By the stream. The water is too still. Everything is still.
But I feel… awake.
More than I have in years.
The next morning, I woke before the alarm. Light crept through the curtains and danced in patterns on the old wooden floor. I lay there for a moment, just listening to the sounds around me: birds singing in the forest behind the house, the river still whispering its eternal song, and the creak of the old beams above me.
It was a peaceful morning — the kind that makes you believe the world is still whole.
After a quick shower and a simple breakfast in the guesthouse dining room — coarse bread, brown cheese, and freshly brewed coffee — I met Maja outside. She had a folder with printouts and maps under her arm. We got into my car and drove toward the first crime scene: Svartbekk.
The road there was narrow and winding, surrounded by dense forest and moss-covered stones. Maja spoke lightly as we drove — about her childhood in Bergen, why she chose to move here. She laughed softly when she told me how skeptical the locals had been of her at first.
"They don't talk much to strangers," she said, shrugging. "But I like it. The silence. The calm."
I nodded. It was easy to understand. But there was also something else here, an undertone I had begun to notice. As if the silence wasn't just peace... but absence. The absence of something that should have been there.
When we reached Svartbekk, I parked the car on the roadside. There was a small clearing in the forest, and the brook wound through it like a dark ribbon between the trees. It was beautiful here. Frighteningly beautiful. Nature had a raw, untouched power you rarely see anymore.
"This is where they found the first one," Maja said, pointing to a large rock in the middle of the brook. "She was leaning against it. As if she were resting. But she wasn't breathing."
I walked down to the water's edge and knelt. Picked up a small stone between my fingers. It was smooth and cold. I looked out over the brook, trying to picture what had happened. Everything felt so… arranged. As if someone had staged the scene with intention. Not chaos. Order.
I wrote in my notebook. Described the place, the direction of the water's flow, the formation of the trees. Maja said the sheriff had left the area untouched as best as possible, knowing I would want it that way. I appreciated that. Not all police officers understand.
We returned to the car and drove on to the next location, a small pond called Stillevann. The road there was worse, more gravel than asphalt. I had to focus to avoid the ditch.
The pond lay deep in the forest, hidden from everything resembling civilization. The water was mirror-still under the morning mist, and the trees stood close to the edge as if guarding something.
I stood at the water's edge and looked down at my reflection.
And that's when it happened.
Just for a moment — but it was enough.
My eyes… they weren't mine. They were dark, deep, endless. Like a bottomless pit.
I jerked back and breathed heavily. Maja didn't notice. She stood with her back to me, busy noting something on the map.
I said nothing. Not yet.
After visiting Stillevann, we returned to town. We agreed to meet later. I wanted to walk alone. I needed air. I needed to think.
Sauda showed its best side. Children played in the park. An old man cleaned a fish on the pier. A woman waved at me from the bakery. I nodded politely back. Everything was… normal.
But that's what made it unsettling.
Because beneath all that normality, there was a feeling. As if everyone knew something I didn't. As if I was already in the middle of something — just without the map.
I went back to the guesthouse and sat at the desk. Took out my notebook. Wrote down what I remembered. What I felt. I described the eyes in the reflection. The silence at Svartbekk.
And I wrote one sentence I didn't know why I wrote:
"He waits beneath the water."
I didn't know who he was.