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girls spent almost all their time in it - always facing each other. Only on rainy days did they sit on the porch instead. They had been completely wrapped up in their play, and they could hear their laughter in the car through the open windows. Sometimes they would sit on the steps leading up to the yellow house with the white windows. Nathan had often wondered who their father was, since the house looked like it did. But they never saw him - it was as if he wasn't part of their life. The dark haired girl looked just like her mother, but the blonde girl didn't look like either her mother or her sister.
     
     
    The beeping stops and he knows Petra has left. Feeling distraught, he puts down his pen and flips back his chair. The leather creaks when he settles in. He watches the embers in the fireplace. ”How can she play with my mind like that? How? I can still see her before me, getting into the car. ”
    Suddenly, he feels a lust for life and a vitality rushing through him. He looks at the Stuart Pettersson file that Petra has left neatly on the table – the edge of the cardboard in line with the desk – before placing the other case before him. He gets up and walks to the corner of the desk – resting hos index and middle finger on the cover of the case. When he removes his fingers, they leave dark brown stains of sweat on the cardboard. He looks at his fingers wondering about the sweat. He puts his fingertips to his forehead where there are also beads of sweat. He looks around for signs that the room is very hot, but sees none. No dew at the edges of the windows - everything seems normal. He lets himself fall into the chair of the client side of the desk, slowly exhaling through pursed lips, while moving his hand over his sweaty brow. He looks at his hand for a long time before getting out his handkerchief. He breathes heavily before the words finally find their way.
    "I can’t help wondering if you knew something I don’t, Stuart."
    Silently, he looks at his own reflection in the windows. With difficulty, he gets up and picks up the case that’s due in court in the morning. He looks at the dark stains on the cover and puts it in his bag.
    "There must be some reason for postponement."
    He closes the bag and puts it on the desk.
    "I just have to find it."
    He turns off the lights over the desk and then the lights in the rest of the office. He carefully closes the door of the office and crosses the hall that separates the office from the private part of the house. The hall is dimly lit – the big paintings throwing shadows over the walls. He opens the door to the living room where it’s dark.
    "Petra!"
    He stops himself, realizing that she has already left.
    "Why didn’t she light a fire...?"
    He snorts. He slows down and his body seems to collapse a little. His shoulders are drooping and he keeps moving his hand over his face, as if he has remembered something that won’t go away. He stops in front of the fireplace. He instinctively wants to hold out his hands to the fire, but that makes no sense now. The room is dark, lit only by the full moon that’s clear in the sky between drifting clouds. His eyes come to rest where the fire should have been. He breathes deeply. With some effort, he straightens himself and starts to light the fire. As the flames come to life, he walks over the cupboard and takes out the whisky. He looks at the label. ”It’s from before Denize!” He hesitates and just stands there, holding the bottle and a glass. Then he moves the glass over in the hand already holding the bottle, skillfully pressing the crystal glass against the bottle with his index finger.
    He opens the cupboard again and takes out a box of cigars. The flames are strong now and sparks begin to fly with their characteristic sound. He stands in front of the fireplace, feeling how the heat is slowly getting too strong to be pleasant. He puts down the things on a small table and then moves it over to the heavy arm chair.