When I get home, a short, black-haired woman stands on the porch, knocking on my door. Even from inside my car, I can tell she’s getting impatient, and I furrow my eyebrows. Why isn’t Mattis opening?
I park outside the garage and jog around the house to the front. “Can I help you?”
She turns toward me; her face is guarded, and her mouth set in a stern line. Her skin is a rich olive, but her features are plain. Nothing special at all, and if it wasn’t for her lovely skin tone, I would forget what she looks like the minute she leaves.
“This is your house?” she asks.
I stop below the stairs and look up at her. “Yes.”
“What’s your name then?”
“Who’s asking?” I climb the stairs, keeping my eye on her. She’s really short, hardly reaching my chest.
“Are you a Viklund?”
I narrow my eyes. “
