Tell Me You're Mine(55)

“I thought she was dead,” he says.

“I did, too. But not really. It sounds strange, but I can’t explain it better than that.”

“But she has a grave. And a stone with a white dove on it.”

“They never found her. Nobody is lying there.”

“But why do you think she’s alive?”

“I’ve met her.”

“Alice?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“A few weeks ago. I wasn’t sure at first. It’s been so long. That’s why I’ve been so weird.”

Milo fidgets with his blanket.

“You’ve been super annoying.”

“I know I should have told you a lot sooner,” I say and stroke his cheek. “Told both you and Dad. I’m sorry about that.”

Milo looks at Henrik. “What do you think, Dad? Is it Alice?”

“I’m absolutely sure it’s her,” Henrik says. “Your big sister.”

I show them the picture I have of her on my phone. Milo and Henrik study it carefully.

“She has dimples just like us, Mom,” Milo says.

“She does,” I say.

“You’ve always said she favors Maria,” Henrik says. “But I think she looks like you.”

“But what happened?” Milo asks. “Where has she been?”

“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you everything later. But first, I’m going to go get her.” I give him a long hug and a kiss on his forehead. Then Henrik follows me into the hallway.

We kiss each other. He hugs me hard, and I look into his eyes. He nods slowly. Even if he doesn’t want me to go, he knows I have to.





Stella



The driveway in front of the house is empty. I drive past and continue onto Faluvägen. I go by a few houses and approach an abandoned factory on the other side of the road. I pull off and stop, then turn the car around and go back toward the house again.

Once again I pass by and drive onto a narrow dirt road to the right. I park and turn the engine off, see a glimpse of the house between the trees. Perhaps I should call the police after all. But after this morning’s meeting, I know it’s useless. I’m the suspect. And I am strictly forbidden to be here. I get out of the car, walk in between the trees, and continue toward the house.

I stop behind a thick spruce and peer out between the branches. The house seems empty. The curtains are drawn, and the blinds are down.

I walk over the lawn, up the stairs to the front door, and push the bell. It doesn’t work. I knock, put my ear to the door and listen. I push down the handle and try the door. It’s locked. I go back down the stairs and look at the kitchen window, where the blinds are only half down. I climb up onto an old dishwasher standing under the window, lean against the glass, and look in. Table and chairs, a striped plastic rug on the floor.

I walk around to the back of the house and come to a patio. A few crows fly off, their loud calls stop me in my tracks. Next to the back door sits a black bag of garbage. Egg cartons, empty cans, and leftovers are scattered about it. I walk up to the glass door, look through the gap between the long curtains. I see the kitchen and a room with brown walls adjacent to it. A desk has been overturned.

She has papers. In the desk. I am going to look.

I pick up the phone and dial the number. I can hear it ringing inside the house, but nobody answers.

I look for something heavy to throw through the glass door and find a brick. I look around, then I throw it close to the handle. The sound of glass breaking shatters the silence. I hold my breath, but no neighbors pop up before I’m able to put my arm in, twist the latch, and open it.

I enter the kitchen, stand still, and listen. Water is dripping somewhere. I look around. A yellow plastic bucket stands in the corner. Water oozes from the ceiling.

On the kitchen counter are several medicine boxes. I turn them over and read: Zoloft, omeprazole, zopiklon, Nozinan.

I continue into the room behind the kitchen and turn on the ceiling light. Someone went berserk in here. A bookcase has been turned over, the others are empty, the books are scattered across the floor. An ornamental table sits upside down against the wall. A lamp with a broken glass shade is at the far end of the desk. It lies on its side next to a cupboard door that is ajar. I hunch down and open it. Empty. I stand again, looking around the room. On the floor where the bookcase stood lie strings of dust, long and gray like molted snake skins. I lift the lamp and see an iPhone lying half hidden under a book. I pick it up and start it. The background image becomes visible.

Alice.

She has her eyes closed, laughing. A blond guy is kissing her neck. I try to unlock it, but need the code. The battery is low, and the phone is dying. I put it in the bookshelf. Some photographs are scattered across the floor. I pick up one of them. Kerstin and Isabelle, Copenhagen, February 1994 is written on the back. Before I can look at it, I hear a voice behind me. I put the photo in my coat pocket and turn around. A woman with copper-colored hair stands in the doorway. She sweeps her eyes over the mess and then looks at me urgently.

“Who, may I ask, are you?”

I take a few steps toward her and stick out my hand. She doesn’t take it.

“Stella Widstrand,” I say and lower my hand. “I’m looking for Kerstin Karlsson. I went around back and saw there’d been a break-in.”

The woman looks me over from head to toe. Does she see through my lie? Maybe she heard me break the glass?

“Have you seen anyone else here?” I say.

The woman bends down and picks a porcelain figure up from the floor. A deer missing its legs. She puts it in the bookshelf and looks at me. A pendulum clock ticks on the wall. I’m waiting for her to tell me she’s calling the police.

“My name is Gunilla, Kerstin’s neighbor,” the woman says. She puts out her hand, and we shake. “I’m not sure if there’s been a break-in. Last night we heard horrible sounds coming from in here. Shouting and screaming. I wanted to call the police, but my husband didn’t think we should interfere.”

“Last night?” I say. It must have been after I called Alice.

“All morning I saw her running between the house and the car in that awful raincoat she always wears. Throwing in bags and suitcases.”

“Where was she headed?”

“I never asked. Kerstin doesn’t like to chat. She thinks you’re snooping.”

“Too bad,” I say. “I really wanted to talk to her.”

“I don’t think she’s feeling so good,” Gunilla says. “You can see it on her. She mumbles to herself. Stays inside with the curtains drawn. And she’s been neglecting work. It’s been going on since Hans died last spring. That was her husband.”

“How unfortunate,” I say. “Where does she work these days?”

“Worked,” Gunilla says and snorts. “The last thing I heard was that she’d been fired from the nursing home—Hällsjö Home. I know people there, you see.”

“Where is that?”

“Close to here.” She points. “You just go down Faluvägen a bit, then take a right on Hemgatan. There’s a sign, you can’t miss it.”

“Thank you,” I say, passing by her and going out onto the patio. As I walk down the path, she comes out and calls after me.

“Hello? Are you leaving already?”

I hurry back to my car. Gunilla shouts that she wants me to stay. I climb into the Audi, start it, and back out onto Faluvägen. Then I call Henrik, who answers on the first ring. He asks what’s happening. I tell him I missed them and the house has been turned upside down. I’ve found medicines, and I’m afraid of what Kerstin has done to Alice.

Henrik thinks I should call the police immediately. He’s contacted a lawyer and forbids me to take any more risks.

“I just have to check one thing first,” I say and hang up.





Isabelle



I’m lying in the backseat of the car. Mom is driving. She’s muttering to herself and shaking her head. I only catch a fraction of it.

I stare out, but don’t recognize anything. Where are we heading? How long have we been driving? I close my eyes and memories appear as if through a blurry and distorted lens. The sound has been cut; the movement is out of focus.

Mom comes home. I’m leaning against the desk. She sees the binder I’m looking at. She sees the photos. She screams, howls, drags me away. Throws my head against the wall, rips everything out of the bookshelves, turns one of them over, and throws books at me. I curl up in the fetal position on the floor with my arms covering my face. I try to crawl away. Mom screams that I don’t know what’s good for me; she asks me over and over again why I hate her, despite everything she’s done for me. When I don’t answer she throws the desk onto my legs. Then she leaves me there and goes to the living room. She turns on the TV; I hear her swearing over the sound of the news. She walks around and around the room talking to herself.

When she comes back, she tells me I make her sad. I beg for forgiveness, trying to placate her and make everything okay again. Mom says she’ll give me another chance. Even though I don’t deserve it. She moves the desk, consoles me. Promises everything will be fine. She helps me to the sofa. She makes tea, tells me to drink all of it. I obey. She strokes my hair and hums. The TV is loud, some British series about upper-class people living in a castle. I pass out.