"Ted Tomlinson," my father reads. "Age forty-six. Address listed in Tallahassee." He scrolls through the information. "Married. Wife named Susie. No children. Works as a—" He pauses. "Independent contractor. That's vague enough to mean anything."
"It means he hurts people for money."
"Probably."
More scrolling.
More information appearing.
A house in a nice neighborhood.
A wife who probably doesn't know what her husband does when he leaves for work.
A normal life wrapped around something rotten.
"We need to take this to Runes," my father says. "Plan this properly. Get an emergencykirkjameeting, get everyone coordinated?—"
"Yeah."
The word comes out flat.
Empty.
My father looks at me.
"Gunnar."
"I heard you. Take it to Runes. Plan it properly."
"I mean it. This needs to be done right. We can't just?—"
"I know."
But I don't know, or rather, I don't care.
Because looking at that face—at Ted Tomlinson's unremarkable, forgettable face—all I can think about is what he did to Ingrid.
The bruises.
The broken ribs.
The cut on her arm.
The terror in her eyes when she wakes up screaming.
"I'm going to check on Ingrid," I say.
"Good. I'll set up a meeting with Runes for tonight. We'll move fast, I promise."
I nod.
Turn.
Walk out.
But I don't go to check on Ingrid.
I go to my truck, and I head for Tallahassee.
