The Heart Keeper: A Novel - Softcover

Dahl, Alex

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0451491815 ISBN 13: 9780451491817

Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group, 2019

Inhaltsangabe

Critically acclaimed author Alex Dahl explores how love can turn darkly sinister when a desperate mother looks to reconnect with her lost daughter in this riveting Norwegian set psychological suspense novel.

Two mothers. Two daughters. One heart. 

When Alison's beloved daughter Amalie drowns, her world turns impenetrably dark.  Alison tries to hold it together throughout the bleak Fall, but in the darkest days of the Norwegian Winter she completely falls apart. 

In another family, Amalie's passing is a new beginning. After years of severe health problems, young Kaia receives a new heart on the morning after Amalie drowns. Her mother Iselin has struggled to raise Kaia on her own and now things are finally looking up. She's even made an affluent new friend who's taken a special interest in her and her daughter.

Alison knows she shouldn't interfere, but really, she's just trying to help Iselin and Kaia. She can give them the life they never had, and by staying close to them, she can still be with her daughter. Kaia is just like her, and surely, something of Amalie must live on in her. As her grief transforms into a terrifying obsession, Alison won't let anything stop her from getting back what she has lost.

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Alex Dahl was born in Oslo and is the critically acclaimed author of The Boy at the Door.  She graduated with a B.A. in Russian and German linguistics with international studies and went on to complete an M.A. in creative writing at Bath Spa University, followed by an M.S. in business management at Bath University. Alex has published short stories in the U.K. and the U.S. and is a serious Francophile.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

1

 

Alison

 

I wake all the time; that is, if I sleep at all. The alarm clock projects the time onto the wall on Sindre's side of the bed and I lie staring at the pulsating dots separating the numbers. It's just after two o'clock in the morning and Sindre isn't here. He was here when I fell asleep. At least I think he was. I pull my hand out from underneath the warm duvet and stroke the cool, empty space where my husband should be.

 

A few nights ago, the same thing happened. I woke, suddenly, bursting from a dream I couldn't remember into this black, silent room. I blinked repeatedly, trying to make out the bulky shape of Sindre in the dark-I didn't want to reach for him in case he'd think I wanted something; I wouldn't have been able to bear his warm, careful hands on my skin. It took me several moments to realize he wasn't there. I got out of bed and sat on the windowsill, looking out at the forest and beyond, to the lights of the city rising up the hillsides to meet the stars. It was a very cold night for early October, and an orange moon hung low over Tryvann. I felt glad Sindre wasn't there-it was good to not have to pretend to sleep, even if only for a while.

 

I was about to return to bed when I spotted something moving in between the trees directly opposite the house, off the gravel path. I moved slightly back from the window as Sindre came out of the forest, dressed in a light blue shirt, half tucked into his trousers, and his expensive leather loafers. His shirt was smeared with a streak of dirt across his chest and he stood awhile in the narrow stretch in between the house and the car, as though he couldn't decide whether to come back inside or drive away. He turned toward where I stood on the first floor, and only then could I clearly see his face, which was twisted into an uncensored, almost unrecognizable grimace. If the man standing outside our house hadn't been wearing my husband's clothes, I'm not sure I'd have recognized him.

 

Has he gone back out there tonight? I get up and stand awhile by the window. Tonight is stormy, with gray, dripping clouds and a brisk breeze hustling leaves in the garden. The forest stands solid at the far end of our lawn, mist seeping from it and joining the wind in translucent coils. It might feel good to walk into that forest, listening to the whip of the wind cracking branches, to let the cold night inside me, to breathe its moist air all the way into my stomach. It might lessen the burning, even if only for a moment. I sharpen my eyes and focus on the spot from where Sindre emerged the other night, but without the light of the moon, I can't separate the shape of a man from that of a tree, even if he were standing right there. He could be standing directly in front of me, looking at me, and I wouldn't see him.

 

I walk over to the door and stand listening before opening it a crack. This house is rarely silent-it's as though a faint hum reverberates from within its walls, the bass to every other sound our family layers on top of it-but it's quiet tonight. I stand on the landing, my eyes smarting in the bright light from the overhead spotlights, listening for that comforting murmur, or for the reassuring signs of some of its occupants, but I hear nothing. I glance over at the door to Amalie's room and am struck by a wild terror at the thought of what lies behind it. The burning flares up in my gut, as though live flames were shooting around the myriad, dark corridors inside me. I clutch my stomach and force my eyes away from Amalie's room. I try to think of something to count, anything, and can only think of the steps. Seventeen. Seventeen steps, I can do it. I can go downstairs and get some water and then I can go back upstairs, past Oliver's room, past Amalie's room, just like that; I can do it, I've done it before, it's just a bad night, that's all, and when I get back upstairs I can take a pill from the bedside table, and even if it won't give me real sleep, it will give me dense, dreamless rest.

 

In the kitchen, I stand by the sink in the dark. I hear it now, that humming sound. My hands are still holding my abdomen, as though only they stop my insides from spilling out. The burning sensation is fading, and now it feels more like corrosion-as if I'd chewed through a battery.

 

Severe anxiety, says the doctor.

 

Hey, baby bear, I whisper. I bet you can see me right now even if I can't see you. If you can hear me, can you give me a sign, any sign, the smallest of signs? A plate flung to the floor, a light suddenly coming on, an animal screeching outside? I'd see you in those shards, in that bright pool of light, I'd hear you in that sound . . . A sign, baby, my darling angel-please, please speak to me . . .

 

A light comes on somewhere-a square splash of it spills in through the window and spreads out on the floor behind me. I hold on to the sink with both of my hands; my heart is pounding so hard I can hardly breathe. I want to open my mouth to speak her name again, but no sound will come. I lean toward the window and then I realize that the light is coming from the garage across the narrow pathway.

 

 

Sindre is standing at the counter which runs alongside an entire wall of the garage. ItÕs where he usually stands in winter, patiently prepping our familyÕs cross-country skis with wax before the weekends-OliverÕs slim racing skis first, then his own, then my beginner ones, and finally AmalieÕs short, broad ones with sparkly snow crystals and Queen ElsaÕs face stretching toward the tips. I am standing in the space between the house and the garage, bracing myself against the wind, which is much fiercer than IÕd thought, and I can just make out those little skis on a hook high up on the wall. Sindre stands with his back to me, but I can make out most of what is on the worktop in front of him. He moves strangely, at times fast and jerkily, at times slowly and smoothly, and it takes me a while to realize that he is polishing weapons. He detaches the telescope from a long, matte hunting rifle, holds it up to the light, then runs a red cloth over the lens. HeÕs going away in a couple of weeks, moose hunting. IÕd forgotten. He goes every year at this time-of course he needs to prepare for that.

 

A volley of rain surges around the corner of the house and shoots down the pathway, pricking my face and hands painfully, and I draw my cardigan around me tighter, but I'm so cold, and perhaps a little cry escapes me, because Sindre suddenly turns around and walks over to the narrow window to peer out. Though I'm not sure why, I press myself against the wall next to the window so he can't see me. I could just knock lightly on the door and slip into the garage and hug my husband from behind. I could offer him a coffee-I can't imagine either of us will return to bed tonight. But I don't. I remain in the passageway, watching him carefully dismantle and reassemble the two rifles, running the cloth in and out of their nooks and crannies. When he has finished he reaches up and lifts a cardboard box down from a shelf above him. It looks like a nondescript brown shoe box. He opens it and removes some newspaper, a kitchen towel, and then, an object.

 

At first, I can't tell what it is; it isn't big, and because Sindre's back is turned toward me, he is partially blocking my view. Then he puts whatever it is down and takes a couple of steps away to his right, presumably to get something else. I can see it clearly now-it is a steel-gray handgun I've never seen before. He opens another box, this one much smaller than the one that held the gun, and shakes several bullets out into his hand. He holds one up to the light, turning it over and...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2019
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0451491815
• ISBN 13: 9780451491817
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 385
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: BERKLEY; https://www.penguin.com/?s=BERKLEY; ; Unit 2 Limavady Business Park; Limavady; County Londonderry; BT49 0HR; Vereinigtes Königreich
• Verantwortliche Person: GPSR Kontakt; gpsr@libri.de; ; Europaallee 1; Bad Hersfeld; 36244; Deutschland