The boat docked. Elena stood on the pier, her shoulder aching from the bag. She let the Arctic wind hit her, a cold, deep bruise of a feeling. Three days in that metal tub, breathing in gut-rot and diesel, had sunk into her skin. No amount of this air could blow it out.
Tromsø looked like a toy town left forgotten after a hard rain. The wood houses were bright, she guessed, but in this light they just seemed faded. The mountains weren’t pretty—they hunched around the place, watching. The sun hadn’t bothered; the grey light just made the cold feel permanent.
She dug the burner phone from her pocket. Just held it. One message, from somewhere in the middle of the sea. A string of numbers. A Swiss bank routing code. Below it, three words: Follow the money.
Her mother’s money. The last bit o
