Pernilla touches my hair.
“You haven’t had it this short for years. Not since junior high,” she says. “Do you remember your school pictures?”
“All too well.”
She laughs. “Daring or foolish, I don’t know which. But this time it looks good. You look different.”
“I feel different.”
After we’ve eaten, I grab my bag. Take out my MacBook Air and my calendar, a reminder that I once had a job. I browse through it. It’s been forever since I used it every day. Made appointments, notes, had a life. A paper lies folded inside it. I take it out and unfold it. My death notice. I have no idea who the man in the raincoat is or why he wants me dead, but I refuse to be afraid anymore.
“Don’t forget to call Henrik,” Pernilla says. “If you don’t call him, I’ll have to. I promised we’d call.”
I put the laptop, my calendar, and the death threat into the bag. Then I call the clinic and talk to Renate. She tells me Henrik has already been in contact with them, and they know I’m on sick leave. The conversation is short.
I call Henrik, who picks up on the second ring.
“Hello,” I say.
“Hello,” he says.
It’s loud wherever he’s at. Soon the sound is muted, he’s gone into his office.
“How are you?” I ask.
“Well, you know,” he replies. “How are you?”
“I’m good. And Milo?”
“He’s been asking for you.”
“What have you told him?”
“That you’ve been under a lot of stress lately. That you’re at Pernilla’s resting up.”
“I miss him.”
“What happens now?”
“I’m coming home.”
A long silence.
“I know what you’re thinking,” I say. “But I feel much better now. And I want to talk to Milo about Alice.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m just thinking about what’s best for him.”
“He’s my son, too, Henrik,” I say. “And Alice is his sister. Milo is entitled to an explanation.”
“What are you going to say?”
“That I believe she’s alive.”
“Do you have to? It’ll be one more burden to bear for him.”
“Whether I’m right or not, it’s the reason that all this happened.”
Henrik clears his throat. Says that we shouldn’t discuss this over the phone. Milo is going to Jonathan’s tonight. He’ll pick me up around five-thirty so we can talk before Milo gets home.
I say no to the ride. “I’ll go directly home instead.”
“After Milo has left.”
“Yes,” I say. “After Milo has left.”
We finish the call. It gives me time. Time to take control.
Time to get answers.
Stella
I turn onto Paternostervägen in the suburb of Hammarbyhöjden. I park on the other side of the street, opposite the apartment building. I grab my bag, climb out of the car, and look up toward the apartment where Lina Niemi lives.
The building is a dull gray. Three floors, small balconies with white rails except for the farthest ones to each side, which for some reason are painted green. Small satellite dishes, forgotten flower boxes, lowered blinds. I’m taking a big risk just by coming here.
I look around before crossing the road. A man is exiting through the door I want to enter. I run the last bit, grab the door before it closes. Go up to the second floor.
Börje Niemi opens the door.
His eyes narrow when he sees who it is.
He yells, “Get away from here” and tries to close the door. His wife, Agneta, comes out in the hall.
“Who is it?” she wonders.
I put my foot in and push the door open. I pass by Börje and go into the hall. Both of them look terrified.
“Is Lina home?” I ask. “We need to talk.”
Neither answers. They stare at each other, stare at me. A door opens and Lina comes out. She leans against the doorframe, chomping on gum, trying to look cocky. She looks more like a lost and sulky child.
“Hello, Lina,” I say. I go inside and sit down at the kitchen table. I gesture to her parents to sit down, too. They do so, albeit reluctantly.
“I apologize for this,” I say. “But there are some things I need to figure out.”
Agneta avoids my eyes. Lina chomps on gum disinterestedly. Börje crosses his arms over his chest.
I take the calendar out of my bag, pull out the death notice, and put it in front of Lina.
“Is this from you?” I ask.
She reads it. She looks up at me with fear in her eyes. Not so confident anymore.
“What is it?” Börje asks and grabs the paper.
“My death notice,” I answer. “It was put into my mailbox a few weeks ago. I thought Lina might have been at my house again.”
She starts. Her eyes dart back and forth between her parents.
“We saw you outside our house this spring,” I continue. “On a few occasions.”
“What the hell . . .” Börje starts. I raise a hand to stop him.
“It should not come as a surprise,” I say. “I’ve already told you as much. But you didn’t want to listen.”
“It wasn’t me this time,” Lina says.
“I’m not angry,” I say. “I just want the truth.” I pause, looking at Lina again. She looks down at the table. I lean forward, look her in the eye.
“I know about the blog,” I continue, “and I know your parents reported me. And they also talked to a woman and told her your story. That woman reported me to the police for unlawful threats and harassment. These are serious things you started, Lina.”
“I didn’t write that,” she says, nodding to the paper.
“No?”
“I never wanted you dead. Never. I just wanted to be part of your family.”
“So you went to my husband’s job?” I ask. “You followed us when we were out?”
“Yes,” she says quietly.
Börje swears, Agneta gasps.
“Why did you want to be a part of our family?”
“Because you seemed so happy. Because you were always so understanding. And kind. And your husband also seemed kind.”
“Do you still think I behaved inappropriately? That I made you dependent on me?”
Lina looks through the window. She shakes her head slowly.
“I got angry,” she says. “And scared. I didn’t want another therapist.”
“There’s been someone standing outside my house again. The last time was two weeks ago. Was it you, Börje?” I say and look at him.
His face turns red. He glares at me but says nothing.
“Did you write the death notice? You’ve made no secret of what you think of me.”
“No,” he answers. “I would never.”
I don’t even ask Agneta. She’s too timid to do something like that. I look at them, one at a time. Then I apologize for disturbing them. I stand and walk toward the door. Lina catches up with me in the hall.
“Stella, wait.” She pulls down on her T-shirt, stares at the floor. “Forgive me.”
“I already have, Lina,” I say.
“I’ll cancel the complaint. It was wrong. I never should have done it. I felt really shitty about it.”
“I hope everything works out for you,” I say as friendly I can, and I mean it.
I exit the apartment building and stand on the sidewalk outside the front door for a while. Lina didn’t write the death notice, neither did her parents. Her dad wasn’t standing outside in a raincoat, and I’m sure they’re not lying. The man hiding his face under that hood could be anyone.
The sun and heat of the morning have been replaced by lead-gray clouds. It’s dark, and thunder hangs heavy in the air. The rain pours down as I drive across Traneberg Bridge.
I pull into our driveway and park behind Henrik’s Range Rover. I throw open the car door and run into the house. When I get inside, I see Henrik standing in the kitchen. He has his back to me.
“Hello,” I say. “Has Milo left?”
Henrik looks at his wristwatch.
“Yes, he took off maybe thirty-five, forty minutes ago.”
“Took off?”
“He’s walking to Jonathan’s. He usually does.”
“I didn’t mean it like that. I was just thinking about the weather; it’s raining cats and dogs.”
“I told him to wear a raincoat and take an umbrella.”
Henrik is loading the dishwasher, then he turns around. He stares at me. “What did you do to your hair?”
“What do you think?”
“It’s unexpected.”
He’s cautious. I understand that. After my breakdown he has every right to be careful. I put the phone on the bureau in the hall, take off my coat.
“You feel better?” he says.
“I do.”
My phone rings. I pick it up again, look at the display.
“Unknown number,” I say and answer.
Once again a call from an unknown person. Once again it’s about Milo.
Isabelle
It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this sick. I booked a ticket and was finally about to head home again. Home to Stockholm. How long have I been here? What’s wrong with me?
I hover between sleep and wakefulness. I think I might have been unconscious for a while. Mom fusses around me. She gives me tea to drink. Speaks encouragingly to me.