13The traffic light changed. On the other side of the intersection, I followed a red-coated mailman on a bicycle to the end of the next block. The motorcycle matched my snail-like pace. The biker stayed two car lengths behind me through town and maintained that distance when I accelerated onto the open road.
For my protection, according to Ulf. Because someone had killed my partner and his brother. Because I might be next.
A van roared past me going in the opposite direction. It was a beer-delivery truck, painted red, white, and green’ and sporting the same Albani logo I’d seen on the Møllers’ workshop. I remembered sitting in Gitte’s parlor, the stuffy room smelling of scorched potatoes, the piano keyboard sharp across my spine. Killing your own, she’d whispered to me. The worst thing.
