“One of the standouts of the Nordic thriller boom.” — New York Magazine   Riktor doesn’t like the way the policeman storms into his home without even knocking. He doesn’t like the arrogant way he walks around the house, taking note of its contents. The policeman doesn’t bother to explain why he’s there, and Riktor is too afraid to ask. He knows he’s guilty of a terrible crime and he’s sure the policeman has found him out. But when the policeman finally does arrest him, it’s for something totally unexpected. Riktor doesn’t have a clear conscience, but the crime he’s being accused of is one he certainly didn’t commit. Imprisoned and desperate to break out, he fights to clear his name without further incriminating himself, in a gripping standalone novel from “a truly great writer” (Jo Nesbø).     “The great Norwegian crime novelist Karin Fossum has a special gift for voices. She’s come up with a humdinger in the first-person narrator of I Can See in the Dark …It’s wrenching.” — Washington Post "One of the standouts of the Nordic thriller boom." — Vulture “The queen of Norwegian crime fiction, the prolific and brilliant Fossum has riddled the quaint countryside north of Oslo with imagined crimes…In Fossum’s literary thrillers, the crime is almost incidental to a deeper moral crisis: Her killers aren’t madmen but ordinary people driven to monstrous acts.” — Men’s Journal   "Fossum descends deep into the alienated mind of Riktor to create an exquisitely Poe-ish novel of psychological suspense." — More Magazine "Fossum vividly unpacks the mind of a troubled individual in this haunting psychological thriller...In this slim stand-alone, Fossum takes a chilling departure from her popular series featuring Norwegian police inspector Konrad Sejer. The results are a compelling—if unsettling—character study for fans of disturbing psychological suspense". — Library Journal "[A] first-rate novel of suspense...[A] bleak but clever and compelling standalone." — Publishers Weekly , STARRED "In the tradition of Patricia Highsmith and Iain Banks, Fossum creates a creepily realistic sociopath, rolling his story out in a spare Scandinavian style that lends the book a classic horror feel...It’s not light reading to climb inside of a sociopath’s brain, but readers who can handle the darkest tales will be rewarded by Fossum’s streamlined, thoughtfully constructed story." — Booklist "Haunting, twisted, and oddly redemptive." — Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine “The great Norwegian crime novelist Karin Fossum has a special gift for voices. She’s come up with a humdinger in the first-person narrator . . . It’s wrenching.” — Washington Post   Riktor doesn’t like the way the policeman storms into his home without even knocking. He doesn’t like the arrogant way he walks around the house, taking note of its contents. The policeman doesn’t bother to explain why he’s there, and Riktor is too afraid to ask. He knows he’s guilty of a terrible crime and he’s sure the policeman has found him out. But when the policeman finally does arrest him, it’s for something totally unexpected. Riktor doesn’t have a clear conscience, but the crime he’s being accused of is one he certainly didn’t commit. Imprisoned and desperate to break out, he fights to clear his name without further incriminating himself, in a gripping standalone novel from “a truly great writer” (Jo Nesbø).   “The queen of Norwegian crime fiction . . . Prolific and brilliant.” — Men’s Journal   KARIN FOSSUM is the author of the internationally successful Inspector Konrad Sejer crime series. Her recent honors include a Gumshoe Award and the Los Angeles Times Book Prize for mystery/thriller. KARIN FOSSUM is the author of the internationally successful Inspector Konrad Sejer crime series. Her recent honors include a Gumshoe Award and the Los Angeles Times Book Prize for mystery/thriller. She lives in Norway. 1 There’s nothing beautiful about her, and she has no control. She can’t control her eyes, which dart around or roll up into her head, so that only the glistening whites are visible. Or her body, which does what it likes. Her skin is stretched tight over her joints, the veins giving her a greenish pallor, and she’s as thin as a small bird. Children shouldn’t look like this. Children should be plump, pink and warm, soft as rubber, and full of sparkling life. I assume her condition was caused by an injury during birth.    She’s about nine or ten and confined to a wheelchair.    Her mother calls her Miranda, a stupid name. Well, in my opinion anyway. Her hair is very fine and fair, and gathered in a knot at the top of her head. Her hands move around restlessly — white, claw-like hands that are incapable of doing anything. You’d think she was attached to an electric current. That someone was switching it on and off, sending shocks through her delicate body. I get very twitchy watching little Miranda. Worn out by all these spasms — this constant agitation — I feel li