But Nesryn straightened, then dashed out—to the sitting room. Rustling paper, and then— Nesryn halted in the doorway to his room, brows crossed, Yrene’s paper in her hands. She handed it to him. “What does this even mean?” There were four names written on the paper, her handwriting messy. Olgnia. Marte. Rosana. Josefin. It was the final name that had been written down several times. The final name that had been underlined, over and over. Josefin. Josefin. Josefin.
