Kathrine remained seated in the café long after Anna had left, her fingers curled loosely around the cup of coffee she had forgotten to drink.
The liquid inside had long gone cold, just like the sense of certainty she once carried about the past. Her mind replayed Anna's words over and over, each repetition tightening the knot in her chest.
Anna had not died by suicide.
Someone had killed her.
The thought refused to settle, as if her mind rejected it on instinct. For years, she had accepted the official version without question. It was tragic, yes, but simple. Painful, but understandable. Suicide was something the living could eventually make peace with. Murder was different. Murder meant intention. It meant someone had wanted Anna gone.
But who?
