Remember My Lies: An absolutely gripping and unputdownable psychological thriller with a shocking twist (English Edition) E-Book
Drea Summer
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- Herausgeber: Empire-Verlag
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
“Beyond the Fog of Memories, Lies the Unthinkable”
In a tranquil vacation home on the idyllic island of Flekkerøya, the police descend upon Thore Albertsen, a successful real estate agent from Oslo. His wife has vanished without a trace, a blood-soaked bed stains their sanctuary, and a knife with his fingerprints is discovered. Yet, Thore's memory fails him, plagued by headaches and forgotten fragments.
In this gripping tale by the masterful hand of Drea Summer, the boundaries blur between sanity and madness, reality and illusion, as Thore questions his own innocence and uncovers a sinister truth hidden within his shattered memories. Prepare yourself for an electrifying finale that will shatter your expectations, as the shocking truth, concealed in the depths of a fractured mind, is finally exposed.
Can you trust what remains when memories crumble?
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025
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Drea Summer
Remember my lies
About the author:
Drea Summer, a native of Austria, lived in beautiful southern Burgenland. She began her writing career by emigrating to Gran Canaria more than four years ago. The "island of eternal spring" inspires her to write gruesome and bloody stories that haunt her mind.
About the book:
“Beyond the Fog of Memories, Lies the Unthinkable”
In a tranquil vacation home on the idyllic island of Flekkerøya, the police descend upon Thore Albertsen, a successful real estate agent from Oslo. His wife has vanished without a trace, a blood-soaked bed stains their sanctuary, and a knife with his fingerprints is discovered. Yet, Thore's memory fails him, plagued by headaches and forgotten fragments.
In this gripping tale by the masterful hand of Drea Summer, the boundaries blur between sanity and madness, reality and illusion, as Thore questions his own innocence and uncovers a sinister truth hidden within his shattered memories. Prepare yourself for an electrifying finale that will shatter your expectations, as the shocking truth, concealed in the depths of a fractured mind, is finally exposed. Can you trust what remains when memories crumble?
Drea Summer
Remember my lies
October 2025 © Empire-Verlag
Empire-Verlag OG, Lofer 416, 5090 Lofer
Thomas Seidl
Austria
www.empire-verlag.at
First published 2023
002
The moral rights of the author, illustrator and copyright holders has been asserted
Translated: Literary Queens Novel Translation
Gaia Marino and Amy Fenster
Barkhausenweg 11
22339 Hamburg
Germany
Cover: Chris Gilcher
http://buchcoverdesign.de/
All rights reserved. The work may be reproduced only with the permission of the publisher
“I am Yva, and I will avenge my sister’s death.”
Part 1
Present – Am I Guilty?
1
Thore Albertsen had been dragged out of his vacation home on the Norwegian island of Flekkerøya, near Kristiansand, like a felon. The cold metal of the handcuffs bit into his skin, and his breath condensed into little clouds as the officers led him toward the police car. More patrol cars littered the street in front of his house, their blue lights flashing so brightly that he had to squint his eyes. He hoped that, at any moment, he would wake up to find that this was all a nightmare, but as much as he tried to rouse himself, he couldn’t. He was already awake.
He fervently scanned the neighborhood, seeking help, and caught sight of Mr. and Mrs. Berthelsen talking to a uniformed man in front of their house. They were Lana and Thore’s neighbors, and they shared a boat dock. Was it possible that the couple had seen something that could have helped him?
His hair was still damp from a shower, and he was wearing only a sweater and jeans, but instead of freezing, as he should have been, beads of sweat formed on his forehead. Snowflakes melted on his face, and the rising wind left goosebumps on his skin. He trembled, and closed his eyes for a moment, again, wishing himself awake, but the nightmare continued.
A strong hand grasped his upper arm, pushing Thore into the police car, and he found himself sitting in the back seat.
What the hell is going on here?
He stared out the window at the house he had bought with his wife, Lana, less than half a year ago. The white wood of the exterior facade was in desperate need of a coat of paint. Although Lana had complained to him about his negligence three months ago, he had managed to put her off until summer.
As he took in the details of the house, his thoughts drifted back to the day he had discovered this little treasure. It was probably fate that the former owner, Arne Olsen, came to Thore’s brokerage office. Although Oslo was a good four hours away from the small village of Skålevik on Flekkerøya, Olsen had come to him. He, Thore Albertsen, was the best in his business. At fifty-one years old, he had managed to do what most could only dream of. He had more money than he was able to spend: after buying some properties for himself, he rented them out at a high price and had a little luck on the stock market. Only clients who had interesting properties on offer came to him, knowing he was choosy and included only lucrative properties in his portfolio.
The photos Arne Olsen had shown him of his house had taken Thore’s breath away. He knew right away that this vacation home was precisely what he and Lana had been looking for, for so long now. That’s why he didn't hesitate and made Olsen a generous offer within the hour. At first, Olsen was a bit suspicious that Thore wanted to buy the house from him without having even visited it. But when Thore informed him that he and Lana were going to celebrate their first wedding anniversary in just over two weeks, any doubt was removed from the table. Of course, the cottage had cost a few more Norwegian Kroner than he had originally wanted to spend, but he was doing it for Lana, after all. For the love of his life.
The car door was yanked open, startling Thore back to the here and now. A slender man, around 5’7”, gave him a disparaging look.
“I’m Chief Inspector Håkon Larsen. Kripos,” he announced.
Shit. Thore’s blood went cold. The Kripos was the special investigative unit of the police.
Why are they here?
“Where is Lana?” Thore stammered.
“I think you should answer that question, don’t you?” the chief inspector asked.
At that moment, four men in wetsuits rushed past the patrol car. Thore’s breath caught in his throat.
They can't seriously believe…
“I didn't do anything!” Thore shouted, shaking his head. “Lana disappeared, and all the blood… I don’t know… I came in from jogging… and found…”
He swallowed his words, as his throat dried up like a riverbed in midsummer.
“Just tell me where your wife is,” Inspector Larsen insisted. “Did you throw her body into the fjord? Are you under the influence of drugs? Have you ingested anything?”
“I… I didn’t do anything to her. You have to believe me!”
2
Chief Inspector Håkon Larsen slammed the rear door of the patrol car and exhaled a deep sigh. He couldn’t believe it. Today was definitely not his day. That morning, before he’d even finished his coffee, his wife had brought up the idea of a vacation in the sunny south. Then, there was the conversation with his boss, barely two hours later. He had lectured Håkon – as he had so many times before – that he should solve his assigned cases in the allotted time and focus only on the facts. And yet, it was important for Håkon to dig into each suspect’s past and conduct countless interrogations. Of course, eighty percent of this process brought no results, but the remaining twenty percent always put him on the right track. He wanted to know the whole truth and not just fragments of it. If the cops had acted the same way back then, his parents might still be alive. He sighed.
And now, this guy, Thore Albertsen, was sitting in the patrol car, claiming to have done nothing. Of course. That’s what everyone claimed, at first. But, eventually, they cracked. It was not uncommon for Håkon to sit across from a 6‘5“murderer, built like the Incredible Hulk, watching him as he tearfully confessed his crime. Or sometimes triumphantly bragged about it.
But, despite the difficulties that came with the job, ever since Håkon first put on a police uniform, there was only one thing he wanted: to be part of the Delta special unit. That meant not only earning more Kroner, and finally getting his sniper training, but also preventing terrorist attacks, finding the masterminds behind them, and putting them where they belonged. Safely tucked away in a solitary cell. For life. But after the doctor's devastating news two months ago, when he was diagnosed with type two diabetes, that dream had burst like a soap bubble. The only person in his family who had the disease was his maternal great-grandmother, allegedly. Just the words “genetic predisposition” made him want to vomit. Why did it hit him, of all people? He took care of his body like a treasure. He ate a balanced diet and even did relaxation exercises so that the stress of his work wouldn’t affect him. Håkon couldn’t understand why fate loved to mess with him.
And the crowning glory of it all, what had hit him like a punch in the face, was when his supervisor had taken away his service weapon. After all, he could be a danger to himself and others, in the case of a hypoglycemic episode.
His thoughts returned to the present when his colleague, Olivia, beckoned him over. Disgruntled, he trudged toward her and stopped in front of the landing to the Albertsens’ vacation home.
“Håkon,” she greeted him. “What does our suspect say?”
“That he didn’t do it. Of course.” He rolled his eyes.
“Well, for starters, everything points to a struggle in the bedroom,” Olivia said. “But, there are no signs of forced entry. Neither on the windows nor on the doors. Our perpetrator must have had a key, or Mrs. Albertsen let him into the house voluntarily.”
“Has the woman been found yet?” Håkon asked.
“No. You saw for yourself that the divers are still searching that side of the fjord. But with the amount of blood, I don’t think there’s a chance we’ll find her alive.”
“I want to look at the bedroom. Are the forensics guys done yet?”
Olivia shook her head and handed him a pair of plastic shoe covers. Håkon took one of the white overalls from the pile by the front door, slipped into it, fastened the plastic covers over his shoes, and walked into the house.
Even in the narrow foyer, the metallic odor of blood, coupled with a man's cologne, permeated the air. The little house was teeming with people dressed in white, who were putting every little shred of evidence into transparent bags.
Håkon slipped past the other officers and stopped in the bedroom doorway. He took in the room, observing the mess. Based on the splatter pattern on the wall behind the bed, the perpetrator must have stabbed Mrs. Albertsen from above. Several times, as the different directions of the blood splatter showed. He made a mental note to ask the forensic scientist about it later. Based on the height of the pattern, an expert could already determine a lot about the crime. The size of the attacker, for example.
He looked at the floor.
“There are no drag marks here. Our perp must have carried the body. If there are no blood droplets on the floor here, then it was probably wrapped in something. Both blankets are still here. Thus, I assume an area rug must have been used. We should ask the husband if there were any area rugs in the house. Otherwise, the perpetrator may have brought some kind of tarp. That would be premeditated murder, in any case.” Håkon turned to a colleague.
“Please spray this entire area with Luminol,” he instructed. “Then we’ll see right away if there are any other traces here that have been wiped away. I need to know if our suspected victim fled the room or was dragged out. If there are no traces, we can assume she wasn’t alive when she left the room.”
The man in white nodded, and Håkon left the room to continue looking around the cottage. Olivia followed him.
“I rule out burglary resulting in death at this time. Everything is tidy in the rest of the house,” Håkon said, entering the next room. By all appearances, it was the couple's reading room. Books lined the walls. He pointed to the right side of the room, indicating a sizable collection of detective novels… “Maybe someone was reading some technical literature there, and got the idea to try it for themselves. The room seems to be divided into two sections. And this side is certainly Mr. Albertsen’s.”
“Oh, come on,” Olivia said, shaking her head. “That’s a bit of a stretch, don’t you think? Just because the husband reads mystery novels and thrillers doesn’t mean he’s done anything to his wife.”
“Nor does it prove otherwise,” Håkon retorted with a shrug. “He wouldn’t be the first to kill after getting inspiration from a book. Remember the case of the Dutch author who wrote the book about his wife’s murder? These people are just sick in the head.”
“But our suspect is not a writer; he's a real estate agent.”
“That doesn't necessarily rule out this thesis. We need a quick DNA match from the blood in the bed with the wife's DNA. Then can we finally interrogate Mr. Albertsen.”
“That will take at least eight hours. We won’t have the results until tomorrow morning.” Olivia furrowed her brow.
“You're right,” Håkon replied, already thinking of more options to explore. “Will you please find out who Mrs. Albertsen’s family doctor is and what her blood type is? If these match, then we already have a more concrete clue to work with.”
Olivia nodded, then pointed to an area on the floor between two armchairs that had caught her attention.
“There might have been a rug here. The center is lighter than the floor in the rest of the room. We’ll need photos of this as well.”
Håkon nodded and chewed on his lower lip.
“It’s possible,” Håkon agreed. “But would a perpetrator pull the rug out, then put the chairs back neatly? There’s nothing here to suggest that anything in this room has been moved. That’s very strange, isn’t it?”
“Well, if I wanted to cover something up, I’d put everything back the way it was. After all, things should look normal.”
Håkon nodded in agreement.
3
Thore had been sitting in the police station in Kristiansand for what felt like hours. It was a modern building, more than ten stories high. Everything was white and gray, outside, as well as inside. There were corridors that snaked endlessly throughout the building, and countless doors.
Thore drank the last sip of his water. He fervently hoped that someone would come soon to apologize to him for this… misunderstanding. It could only be a mistake; a horrible, bad joke. They really believed he could have done something to his wife! He, of all people, who couldn’t even kill a spider that had strayed into the house.
The room to which he had been taken was, perhaps, 96 sq ft at most. His handcuffs had been locked into a ring on top of the lone table in the middle of the room, three chairs around it and a mirror in front of it. It was most likely a one-way mirror like the ones you’d see on detective shows, Thore thought. He wondered who was standing there on the other side, watching him intently. Waiting for a mistake…
He caught his reflection in the mirror and was shocked by his desolate appearance. His black hair stood tousled about his head: he usually applied get in his hair, combing it back in a severe hairstyle, but he must have forgotten today. Deep shadows had formed under his brown eyes, surely because of the headaches that had been haunting him on and off for weeks. His angular face showed more wrinkles than usual. He looked exactly the way he felt. Drained like a lemon in tequila. He really needed to get checked out by a doctor. Lana had guessed he had a vitamin or mineral deficiency, which, because of his advancing age, was probably draining his body more severely.
Lana! A wave of despair washed over him when he thought of her. Where are you? What happened?
“Is someone coming soon?” he hissed at the unknown person behind the mirror. “Damn it! Where’s my wife? What’s going on here? Why am I being detained?” He shouted out the last words and winced. He was tired, and the headache that had initially announced itself with only a soft throbbing behind his temples had turned into a stabbing pain that took over his entire forehead.
And indeed, only a few minutes after Thore had shouted at the mirror, Chief Inspector Larsen appeared in the doorway. He was followed by a uniformed woman, whom Thore recognized from outside his vacation home. Larsen cleared his throat, then pulled the chair out from under the table. The legs scraped against the floor, making a sound that was like a dagger being thrust into Thore’s brain. He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the pain.
“So, Mr. Albertsen. Now, do you want to tell me what happened?”
Thore opened his eyes and looked into the questioning face that was staring at him.
“I didn’t do anything. Maybe she was kidnapped, and the perpetrator can’t reach me because you have my cell phone. I’ve said this a hundred times. How many times are you going to ask me what happened?”
“Until you tell me the truth,” Larsen replied, giving Thore a hard stare. “So, you arrived at the cottage, with your wife, at about 1:00 pm today. What happened after that?”
Thore swallowed the lump in his throat. How many times did he have to repeat the same story?
“I’ve already told all this to your colleague. But all right, I’ll tell you again. But after that, I want to know where my wife is! Or at least whether someone has reached out on my cellphone. My wife’s kidnapper will want a ransom. So…”
It had been noon when he and Lana arrived at the cottage. Just like every other Friday, they drove to Skålevik to stay the weekend, up to the following Monday. As he took Lana's heavy suitcase out of the trunk of his BMW, he had wondered – as he had several times before – why she packed so many clothes if their fully furnished cottage already had everything she would need. Lana wrapped her red coat tighter around her slender body as she got out of the car after him. Her long blonde hair almost completely disappeared under the equally red cap she had just put on. For Lana, it was important to always be well-dressed, and she never left the house without make-up. Thore admired the natural touch that brought out her big, beautiful eyes. Despite the sun shining high in the sky, it was bitterly cold, and an icy wind blew in her face, reddening her cheeks.
“Oh, how I’m looking forward to our hot tub today! Will you see to it that it is properly heated? Maybe we’ll go in the sauna then, too. What do you say?” Lana winked at him and reached for the grocery bag.
“Of course, my dear,” Thore said. “I’ll check in a minute, though Jo Magnus has certainly taken care of that. He always makes sure everything is ready for our weekend, doesn’t he? I’ll go for a jog along the fjord after, maybe, what do you say?”
Together, they walked up to the cottage, and Lana unlocked the front door.
“Fine by me. Meanwhile, I’ll prepare some fiskekaker,” she replied. “And we’ll have potatoes on the side.”
Thore’s mouth watered at the thought of a freshly homemade fishcake waiting for him on the table right after his jog. One of his favorite dishes, cooked by his favorite cook. She was, in his eyes, the perfect wife and lover rolled into one. She was his soulmate.
He put his suitcase down in the entrance area of the cottage, and hung up his jacket on the coat rack in the small anteroom. Immediately, the cozy warmth hit him in the face, and he heard the crackling of the logs in the open fireplace that stood in the living-dining room combo. Lana disappeared into the kitchen.
Thore smiled, remembering the way his wife had been vehemently opposed to a white kitchen before they moved in. So, he had left the planning of the kitchen to her, alone. The light wood, with the ashlars, matched the white walls perfectly, Thore had to admit. Lana’s knack for aesthetics was impressive. And, on top of that, Thore had also gotten his stainless steel, side-by-side refrigerator. Compromise, and both getting what was important to them: that was how perfect relationships worked.
He strode through the living room, which, like the exterior, had white wood paneling on the walls, and passed by the leather sofa right across from the gigantic TV on which he and Lana watched sports together. Of course, they were following the cross-country skiing World Cup, which aired on TV at all hours of the day and of the night, probably. He pushed aside the blue and white flowered curtains.
He stopped for a moment and enjoyed the view through the window. A vacation home right on the fjord with a boat dock: it had been his dream all his life. Pride flowed through him as he took in the wonderful surroundings. It was a pity that he and Lana couldn’t enjoy this view all year round, but their careers just didn’t allow a definitive move at the moment. At least not yet.
The view of the rocks, covered with snow, had always held a strong fascination for him. Even as a child, when he had gone fishing in this same area with his father and his brother, two years younger than him. Thore shook his head, remembering how tiny the boat they used back then was: it looked more like a nutshell than a fishing boat. Today, he would probably refuse to even set foot in it. And yet, back then, it had always been exciting to go to the fjords in the summer, to play on the rocks that bordered the bay on the left and right, and to swim in the water. Fishing had actually been a secondary activity for him, just a bonus. His father, however, so passionate about it, had taught Thore and his brother everything there was to know about the Norwegians’ favorite pastime. Every trick, every knack. Father would have been so proud of him a year ago when he had pulled a 25 pound wild salmon out of the Flåm.
Thore opened the patio door and walked toward the hot tub, which was on a small platform to the left. The thermometer showed him a warm 100.4 degrees Fahrenheit.
Very well. Thank you, Jo Magnus. You are worth every Kroner, he thought to himself.
An appraising glance on the right side of the terrace showed him that Jo Magnus had also taken care of leaving a pile of fresh towels outside for them. Satisfied, he stepped back into the cottage and changed into his jogging clothes. His outfit lay, as always, freshly washed on the light, solid wood bench in the dining room. He had truly won the lottery when he married Lana.
Before leaving the house, he peeked into the kitchen. Lana had her back to him and hadn’t noticed him yet. She was humming a tune to herself while cutting the fish into small pieces. A wonderful aroma reached his nose and made his stomach growl. He cleared his throat before approaching his wife so that she wouldn’t be startled when he finally wrapped his arms around her narrow hips and kissed her neck. She looked back at him and smiled. A little dimple adorned her cheek. He loved it so much. He loved her so much.Words could hardly describe it.
“Don’t do that, Thore. It tickles.” She squirmed out of his embrace.
“I’ll run along now. Be back in an hour.”
Lana added the pieces of fish to the bowl with the egg and breadcrumbs. “Have fun. I love you.” She turned to him and kissed him deeply. As she did so, she kept her hands far away from his body so as not to touch his clothes with her fishy fingers. She always thought of everything.
“I love you too,” he whispered before releasing her. He was already looking forward to their evening together, when they would lie snuggled up on the sofa and watch TV.
He was just putting on his sports shoes that he had left outside on the porch, when he spotted his neighbor, Ragnar Berthelsen, who was standing on his own patio, as he usually did at that hour, smoking a cigar. Thore raised his hand in greeting. Ragnar returned the wave and took another drag on his cigar. His wife, Hilde, hated that penetrating smell in the house. Ragnar and Hilde had been their guests many times. They were a nice couple, both around sixty, despite their old-fashioned mindset. The look they had first shot Thore and Lana when they had moved in could only be described with diffidence, surely because of the twenty-year age difference between them: in their opinion, it just didn’t seem proper for a man over fifty to be with a much younger woman like Lana. But after sharing a bottle of a delicious red wine, which Thore had bought at a sinfully high price, the two of them finally warmed up to them. They started meeting for dinner whenever Lana and Those spent time at their vacation cottage.
It was cold enough to snow, but Thore was glad that it wasn’t yet. He jogged through the small forest that extended directly adjacent to his property. Following the narrow path that stood out from the rocky ground, he ran along the coast for a few minutes until he reached the bridge that connected the island of Flekkerøya with the island of Paulens Geiderøy. He liked to run his route there because this island was not inhabited, he was completely alone with his thoughts and he could truly enjoy nature. Except for a few trees and bushes, there was nothing there.
As the stones crunched under his running shoes, his mind wandered and brought him to the upcoming viewing appointment on Tuesday. The client this time was extremely wealthy and had requested all kinds of amenities in his new apartment in the center of Oslo. He was a tough nut to crack, but Thore knew he would succeed. He wondered which company he should hire for the renovation, and was already making notes in his head. Sweat trickled down his forehead, and a wave of nausea rolled over him. It was probably due to hypoglycemia, since he hadn’t eaten anything before his run…
Completely out of breath, he made his way back onto the cottager’s porch. Working out had done him good. Unfortunately, he rarely found time for it during the week. He took off his shoes in front of the patio door and entered the dining-living room. The table was already set, a purple candle stuck in a white candlestick served as a centerpiece. His water glass was still on the dining table, and he emptied it in a single gulp.
The house was unusually quiet. No noises came from the kitchen. No clattering of plates, no stirring in the pots, no sizzling in the pan. He looked around the room, confused. There was no smell of food, and Lana was not there either.
“Lana?” he called out.
But she did not answer. She was probably in the reading room, waiting for him. Maybe the run had taken longer than he thought. His stomach grumbled again. He had to eat something immediately, and couldn‘t wait until the meal was cooked, so he got the ingredients for a green smoothie from the refrigerator, and a banana and an apple from the fruit bowl on the countertop. He peeled the banana and put it in the stand mixer. Then he cut the apple into quarters, cored it, and put it in the blender as well, along with half an avocado. He quickly squeezed an orange into it, and topped it all off with a handful of spinach. As he was about to close the lid, he remembered he still had to add water at the last moment. The machine came to life with a loud buzzing.
He pulled his sports shirt over his head as he walked into the bathroom, and dropped it into the laundry basket. Not a minute later, the warm water of the shower was drumming on his skin, and it felt like a sort of natural massage, infusing soothing energy into his sore muscles.
It wasn’t until he got out of the shower that he noticed he no longer heard the whirring sound of the food processor. Had he just imagined that he had turned on the blender? Had Lana noticed his arrival and turned it off herself? He shuffled toward the bedroom, clad only in a towel, and his feet left a damp trail on the smooth tile floor, pleasantly warm from the underfloor heating that covered all the cottage’s pavements. That had been one of the main selling points of the house.
Thore stopped in his tracks, frozen in place, upon witnessing the chaos in the bedroom. He had just stepped on a piece of glass that dug into the sole of his bare foot. The picture frame with their wedding photo, which had been rightfully sitting on Lana’s nightstand, lay shattered in front of him. Lana beamed at him in her light beige wedding dress, looking like a princess. Her long blonde hair was streaked with white pearls that glistened in the sunshine. It had been one of the most beautiful days of his life. And now the glass had broken, and only shards were still stuck in the frame, protecting his most precious memory.
He let his gaze wander through the room. Lana’s bedspread had been torn away from the bed, laying half on the floor. Blood splatters were emblazoned accusingly in the center of the white paneled wall. A huge bloodstain took up almost the entire right side of the bed. Lana’s side. As if in a trance, he walked slowly toward it. He could hardly believe what he was seeing. Thick splashes of blood, some of which had flowed down in small rivulets, gleamed on the headboard.
“Lana?” he called. The silence crushed him. Startled, he turned around.
The doors to her side of the closet were open, but everything there looked the same as always. Neat. Clean. No blood.
“Lana?” he shouted again. “Where are you?” His voice trembled.
He turned to look at the bed again. His heart pounded wildly and with such force that he thought it would break his ribs. He lifted the covers, hoping to find her underneath. Or, maybe hoping not to find her there.
