Katja Sommer stood at the window of Marit’s old house, her gaze fixed on the meadow before the cemetery. The morning was still, only a faint rustle of leaves drifting in. She tried to bring order to the thoughts stirred by the woman in the kitchen. This stranger, wounded, neglected, mute, stripped of memory, or perhaps not entirely. Her reactions were unpredictable, her presence like something fallen out of another time. Katja had seen many women in moments of extremity, victims, perpetrators, shadows of themselves, but this was different. Entirely different.
She ran a hand through the short hair she had worn fire-red since her youth. The mirror now showed more lines deepening in her face. Her blue eyes no longer shone as brightly and reading glasses had become a necessity. The khaki blouse stretched slightly at the chest, the black jeans sat comfortably, practical. Katja was never one for jewelry or embellishments. Her figure remained boyish, spare, and she carried her history like an invisible armor.
“She needs help,” she said, turning to Marit.
The retired healer sat in her worn armchair, both hands wrapped around a large teacup. A few silvery strands had slipped from her bun and lay loose on her shoulders. Her round face radiated the kind of gentle openness that recalled childhood grandmothers, except her sharp, knowing eyes read every unspoken thought. Red apple cheeks, a wry mouth. She wore a faded cherry-red longshirt and cutoff jeans frayed at the knees. On her feet, barefoot shoes, as if she had just come from the beach. Yet nothing about her seemed careless, but deeply grounded. Even chaos held its own order in Marit’s world.
The living room was cozy, a little crowded but never cluttered: stacks of books, a worn Oriental rug, an old sideboard with enamel jug, ceramic dishes, and tea tins. Geraniums bloomed on the sills, and the tiled stove in the corner still held a trace of warmth though it was long extinguished. On a plain TV stand sat a wide flat screen, out of place in the snug room, too modern, too insistent, demanding attention.
“She belongs in the state clinic,” Katja said, hesitating. “Likely paranoid schizophrenia, possibly dissociative. We’ll need her things for forensics anyway.”
Marit lifted her gaze slowly, as if sifting the words through some inner filter. “If you take her to the clinic, they’ll tear that woman apart, Katja. Just protocol, nothing more. Nothing recognized, only treated. With medication. With fear. And do not forget, you are still hunting a killer.”
Katja held her eyes. Something in Marit’s tone made the safe path, clinic, protocol, case file, suddenly feel wrong.
A faint sound made her turn. From the open kitchen door came a murmur. A language Katja did not understand. Raw, ancient. A sentence strange and almost poetic, carrying a melody not her own:
“Nu wiest jo ick! Winter, summer, who shall come through?”
Katja stepped closer. “What’s she saying?”
Marit shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Through the crack she saw the stranger had thrown open both the wide window and the doors of fridge and freezer. Now she sat again, upright on the chair, hands folded in her lap. Her gaze shifted between refrigerator and window, then froze, as though listening to some silent threat.
“I need to go in,” Katja whispered. “Before she does who knows what.”
The kitchen was a startling contrast to the living room: modern, yet with soul. The walls painted deep earth tones, set against a bright white kitchen line with a black induction stove and built-in hood. Above it a plain shelf with hooks where hand-painted coffee mugs hung, each a small piece of art painted by Marit’s granddaughter Lara. In the window corner stood pots of thyme, rosemary, lemon balm. Beside them a ceramic jar filled with whole coffee beans and a small electric grinder. Opposite the counters stood a wooden dining set with cushioned chairs and a dark walnut bench, its taupe upholstery picking up the wall’s warmth. And there, the large white fridge-freezer.
Marit set the kettle on, fitted a porcelain filter over a simple pot. With practiced ease she filled it with freshly ground coffee.
Katja sank onto the bench and studied the stranger.
“At least her eyes are closed now.”
“Yes.” Marit’s voice was soft. “No deep lines, but no longer young either. I’d guess mid to late thirties.”
The kettle gave a faint whistle, and the scent of coffee spread, warm, earthy, with a nutty note. Katja drew it in, as if it could ease the tautness in the air.
The woman flinched slightly when Marit laid a hand on her shoulder. “Do not be startled, child. Would you like some coffee?”
The stranger eyed her warily, then glanced at Katja. Marit set a cup before Katja, then offered one to the stranger as well. She sniffed, brow furrowing. Suspicion and curiosity mingled on her face as she pushed the cup gently away.
Katja raised hers and drank in plain sight. Strong, smoky, bold, just as Marit always made it.
“What is your name?” Marit asked.
The answer came softly. “Sina. My name is Sina.”
Katja nodded with focus. “Sina… and your last name? What were you doing in the cemetery? Did you know the victim?”
“I think you’re pressing her too hard,” Marit interjected.
Sina looked directly at Katja, as if about to speak, but stayed silent. She took a small sip of coffee, grimaced, and set the cup aside.
“Why am I here?” There it was again, that pleading look.
Marit closed the refrigerator door. At that moment Sina jumped up and grabbed her wrist. “You keep winter trapped! You must not!”
Marit laughed gently. “It is no magic, my child. Only a refrigerator. It keeps milk from spoiling.”
Katja leaned forward. “Sina, did you know the man lying beside you? The dead one?”
Sina shook her head. “I have never seen a naked man. Only Matthes.”
“Who is Matthes?”
“My husband.”
Katja glanced at Marit. “Then she has family. We might be able to trace something. What is your last name?”
“Fehrmann,” came the quiet reply.
“And from where?”
“Garz.”
Katja pulled out her phone. “Yes, Micha… we have something. The woman is Sina Fehrmann, Garz. Age unknown. Check Matthes Fehrmann, said to be her husband. Yes, I know… she will stay with Marit for now. That is on me.”
Marit rose. “She needs a bath. And fresh clothes. I still have some of Emma’s things here, they should fit Sina. I suppose what she is wearing I will pack for you.”
“Absolutely. For forensics.”
“Come, dear.” Marit led Sina out.
No sooner had the door closed than Katja’s phone rang again. On the display: Sven.
“I am on my way to the precinct. Michael filled me in. So the woman’s name is Sina Fehrmann, all right. We need to meet, the whole team. Sina can stay with Marit. But only for a day or two.”
“Yes, I agree.”
“Katja!” Marit’s voice called from the bathroom, tense.
Katja ended the call with Sven and stepped into the bathroom. She froze.
“Look at this,” Marit said quietly.
Sina stood there naked, her back turned. Her arms crossed in front of her chest. The ragged dress lay on a stool. Her skin was sallow, yellowed and sickly, her body emaciated as if she had gone days without food.