like Mom and Boss. Maybe Petri had left the phone on the
counter because it didn’t contain any secrets anyway.
Almost by accident I opened the picture gallery. The first
shot showed a snow-covered mountain scene. The next was
considerably darker. It showed a gravestone. A swan flying
away, and the words,
Paula Johanna Salo, 1985–2012.
Santa Claus must indeed have magic powers.
Although I didn’t have to, I went in to work on Saturday
too. The temperature had dropped to minus 14° Fahrenheit
during the night, and pale stars still strove to be seen on the
horizon when I awoke at six. Petri had not given his last
name, but I’d get that from the Stockmann employee
directory. I had two guesses: Virtanen or Salo. The night
before I had pleaded exhaustion and when I left I had given
a false Facebook address with the name Kanerva
I pulled on a sweat suit and walked to Stockmann. The sun
had not shown itself for weeks, but now it rose over the
Vanhankaupunginselkä Bay to the east, red as a Christmas
tree ornament. The world was silver white, dogs lifted their
paws quickly in the snow and tried to fluff out their fur
against the biting cold. I tightened my parka hood, pulled