Tell Me You're Mine(52)

I wipe the sweat out of my eyes with my shirt. Swallow a sour belch. The key in both hands. I aim, get the key into the lock, and turn it. I open the cupboard. The binder is lying there. I pull it out, lay it on the floor. I breathe, breathe. I did it, I made it. I’ll read through, find what Stella wanted to know, and then I’ll put it back. And then I’ll get up to my bed again. Before Mom comes home.

The birth certificate lies on top.

Girl. Born 08-29-1993 at 18.52.

Six pounds, four ounces. Nineteen point two inches.

I read, read, read. And then I see it. She’s right. Stella is right.

Mother’s blood type O RhD-, child’s blood type B RhD+.

No Rh immunization. Blood poisoning.

The child is B positive.

On my note from the blood center it says A negative.

Mom’s acute condition was not due to blood mixture. She’s lying.

There is something in a plastic pocket at the back.

Photographs. Kerstin and Isabelle, Copenhagen, February 1994 is written on the back of the top one. She said there are no pictures left of me when I was little. She’s lying about that, too. Why?

I turn over the picture. A younger version of Kerstin. She looks up at me and smiles. She’s holding a baby. A girl, a few months old. She has blond curls all over her head.

Another photo from the same occasion. Close-up of a happy Kerstin. And a blond baby.

I study the girl carefully. She smiles, but has no dimples. Her right ear does not look like mine. Who is she? Is this the real Isabelle? And if so, who am I?

I slam the binder shut. Try to put it back, but something is in the way. I lay the binder on the floor and the photos fall out. I see what’s lying on the shelf inside. My phone. My phone has been locked in Mom’s cabinet under the desk. Another lie.

I have to get well. I have to get out of here. The front door opens. A voice calls my name.

The sound of steps. They stop. I hear a long sigh, and my heart starts to hammer.

I twist my head and look up.

Mom is standing in the doorway. She looks at me. She looks at the desk. She looks at the binder and the photos scattered across the floor.

She comes over, leans down toward me.

I pinch my eyes shut, raise my arms to protect myself.





Stella



She never called back.

I’ve been waiting for her call for hours.

Something has happened.

Henrik and Milo are sleeping. But my bunk is hard, and I’ve been awake the whole time. I turn and look at the phone: 2:16. Alice won’t call this late.

She was just going to check some papers, she said. She sounded drowsy, as if she were drugged. I’m not sure I was able to make her understand she had to leave there at once. But she promised to call back.

Kerstin has proven what she’s capable of.

What will she do if she finds out Alice spoke to me?

I should take the car and go directly to Borlänge, but I wait. Milo needs me here. And Alice went there voluntarily. Of her own free will, she said. I believe her. As long as Kerstin doesn’t know she knows the truth, she’s in no danger. That’s what I tell myself. At least for now.

I look at my phone again: 2:48. Nothing. I turn over and close my eyes.









Henrik wakes me up by shaking my shoulder. He’s already dressed and squatting down next to me.

“We have to talk,” he says. “Come with me to the kitchen.”

He does not wait for me. I pull on my pants and a shirt, throw on Henrik’s cardigan, and follow after him. He has a cup of coffee waiting for me.

“The police are on their way here. They want Milo to give them the details of what happened. Do you have any objections?”

“As long as he feels up to it,” I say.

“The doctor has approved it,” Henrik says.

“Okay. Might as well get it over with.”

Henrik looks at me over the edge of his mug. “Are you going to say anything?”

“About what?”

“Will you accuse someone of attempted murder?”

“Wasn’t it attempted murder?” I say. “He was run over. Left to die on the side of the road. And no one is responsible?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I called her yesterday.”

Henrik looks at me. “What are you talking about now?”

“You said that I have more coffee in my veins than blood,” I say. “I realized that Isabelle’s blood type has to be wrong. I had to call her.”

I see that Henrik is becoming annoyed but I continue. “And you know where she is? In Borlänge. At Kerstin’s.”

“You know what, I couldn’t care less.”

I put down my mug. “You can’t be serious. Kerstin tried to kill our son. Don’t you realize she’s capable of doing anything to hide what she’s done? That she stole my daughter.”

Henrik slams his mug on the table with a bang.

“You’re the one who doesn’t understand. Your daughter has been dead for more than twenty years, Stella. Your son is alive. Milo is here. Now. And he needs you.”

“I’m here for him,” I say. “I’m here, Henrik.”

“What needs to happen to make you stop? How far will you go? Are you prepared to sacrifice everything? Milo? Us?”

“Is that an ultimatum? My daughter or my son? Is that what you’re saying?”

He doesn’t respond, just shakes his head and looks down at the floor.

I leave him and walk out into the corridor. Go into a bathroom. I ball my hands into fists and slam them against the wall as hard as I can. I sit on the toilet lid, lean my head into my hands, and let my rage drain away.

Men are strange creatures. It’s impossible to understand them once their stupidity sets in. And the stubborn kind of stupid Henrik is displaying right now drives me crazy.

I pick up my phone and only now do I see that someone sent a text message. I unlock it and see a red number one on the green message icon. I press it. Don’t recognize the number. I read the message but I don’t understand what it means. Then I read it again and realize it’s from Kerstin.





Kerstin



My poor little girl. You’re sick, so sick. Mom is taking care of you. You’ll get better soon. Stop vomiting, stop feeling so nauseous, soon it will be over. When the poison is out of you. When the evil leaves you. It may take time, but I’ll help you. I’ll never desert you.

The phone rings. It rings over and over, and it worries Isabelle so. Even though she’s barely awake, she flings herself around. I pick up the phone, say my name, and ask who’s calling.

A gruff male voice: “This is Mats Hedin. With the Stockholm Police Department.”

I almost hang up. I’m definitely not interested in what he has to say. But I swallow my vexation. As I always do. Kerstin Karlsson does what she should. Kerstin Karlsson always does her best.

“Oh, really?” I say. “And how can I help you?”

“I have a few questions about your daughter, Isabelle Karlsson,” Mats Hedin says.

I hear what he says. What I don’t understand is what he wants from me.

“Hello?” he says. “Are you still there?”

“Questions? About what?” I say.

“Have you seen her recently?”

What’s he getting at? What’s he after? I have already said all I have to say about Stella Widstrand.

“Have I seen Isabelle?” I say. “Why do you ask? Of course I’ve seen her. I just came home from Stockholm.”

“Your daughter was reported missing,” Mats Hedin says. “Her friend Johanna saw her last Friday morning. Before Isabelle went to Dalarna with you. According to her, Isabelle was supposed to be back on Sunday, four days ago. But she never arrived. She hasn’t been in contact, and she can’t be reached. Johanna says she tried to reach you but couldn’t.”

“Reported missing?” I burst out.

“Because of your previous police report, that she’s been threatened and harassed, we’re taking this very seriously. But we have to rule out if she’s with you.”

“No, no,” I say. “There’s been a misunderstanding. She’s not here. She just took me to the train in Stockholm, that’s all. I don’t know where Johanna got that idea.”

“Really? So when was the last time you heard from her?”

“When she waved good-bye to me at the central station. She accompanied me there, like I said. You surely don’t think something has happened to her?”

Mats Hedin is quiet for a moment. “We don’t know yet.”

“That woman. Stella Widstrand. I know it’s her. If something has happened to Isabelle, if my daughter . . .”

“There, there, nobody is saying that something happened.”

“She showed up in Vällingby. Just before I left. Showed up on the street. Where my daughter lives. I saw everything myself from the window. She was crazy. Threw herself at my daughter, scared the life out of her. Fortunately, Isabelle broke free and ran away from her. She was inconsolable when she got up to the apartment. Cried until she shook.”

“Why didn’t you report that?”

“How many times do I have to report a person before you act? I already told you she’s dangerous. She thinks Isabelle is her child. She’s trying to take my daughter away from me.”

“You haven’t heard from Isabelle since last Friday, either?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“And you haven’t tried to call her? Not once?” Mats Hedin sounds judgmental. Insolent.