“I called Kerstin Karlsson yesterday and—”
“Why?” Olivia Lundkvist interrupts. “You were supposed to keep your distance and not contact them. Not under any circumstances.”
“But can’t you hear what I’m saying? Isabelle is in Borlänge. With Kerstin Karlsson. She’s the one you need to talk to.”
“We have already spoken to Isabelle’s mother,” Mats Hedin says. “And Isabelle is not there.”
“Kerstin is lying. She is there,” I say. “I spoke to her. She sounded drugged. Call your colleagues in Dalarna. Send them immediately before Kerstin disappears with my daughter. Again.”
“Isabelle is Kerstin’s daughter, as far as we know. But we know you have another opinion.”
“Is this how you do your police work? You have a missing person, and I know where she is. Isabelle is in Borlänge, on Faluvägen. Look it up.”
“You need to calm down,” Mats Hedin says. “You’re the one who has a complaint against them. Nobody else. And if I were you I’d try to remember that. You’re also a hairsbreadth from being under suspicion for the disappearance of Isabelle Karlsson. There is nobody else who has such a strong motive. Who’s already shown such excessive interest in her.”
I stand up and raise my voice. “My daughter was kidnapped. My son has been run over. Do something. Before it’s too late.”
“Now I need you to calm down,” Olivia says, pointing to the chair. “Sit down.”
I continue to stand. The two officers look at me as if they’re ready to arrest me.
“You’re the ones who need to settle down,” Henrik says. “Our son was almost killed. My wife has been under enormous pressure. Your attitude just makes everything worse.”
“We have a job to do,” Mats Hedin says. “Please sit, Mrs. Widstrand.”
“We’re finished with this,” I say and stay standing. “You can go now.”
“We want you to stay here in town. Make yourselves available.”
I don’t respond.
“Did you understand what my colleague said?” Olivia Lundkvist raises her eyebrows.
“I’d like to go be with my son now. If there’s nothing else?”
“We’ll be in touch,” Mats Hedin says. He rises and leaves the room. Olivia Lundkvist follows, but stops in the doorway.
“People like you are always hard to deal with,” she says.
“Like me?”
“People who think they know better than everyone else.”
I go over to her. “I don’t give a shit if you like me or not. All that matters now are my children.”
Detective Olivia Lundkvist’s face isn’t far from mine. For a moment, I think she’ll reply with another sharp comment, or maybe just drag me down to the station. But then I see a smile at one corner of her mouth.
“Okay,” she says, turns around, and leaves.
Stella
Henrik takes me in his arms. We stand in the middle of the room for a long time, holding each other. I lean against his chest, feel his breath in my hair. So much has happened lately we’d need to talk about it for days, weeks. But at this moment we don’t need words.
Milo returns to the room and lies down in bed. I sit next to him and tell him about his big sister. I tell him she’s alive.
“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.<
br />
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.
The landline is ringing.
I look up and wonder if it’s Stella. Mom answers, her voice sounds artificial. She lies and says I’m not here, that I never went home with her. She talks about Stella, says she’s dangerous.
I have seen Mom angry before. I’ve seen her be manipulative. But for the first time, I realize she’s sick and she will never be well. That she is the one who is dangerous.
And she’s no longer trying to hide it.
Mom forces me to drink more tea. I suspect there’s something in it, that it’s poisoned. I spit it out when she’s not looking. Put my fingers down my throat and vomit when I’m in the bathroom.
She leads me out of the house and into the car.
The sun shines in my eyes, the light is blinding. My left thigh aches where the desk hit it. Gunilla and Nils are almost always outside. But now they’re nowhere to be found. Not a human in sight.
Where are you? Why aren’t you doing anything? Why are you letting her do this to me?
All those times I went to the school nurse. Scratches and bruises, stomachaches and headaches. Real and imagined pains. Why didn’t she react? Not once did she ask how things were at home.
The car rolls out onto the road. I turn around and look at the house. I know this will be the last time I ever see it.
Mom stops at a gas station. I pretend I’m still sleeping and watch her. She leaves the car, walks in, and talks to the guy at the checkout. He follows her outside. She’s a different person now, happy and easygoing. How does she do it?
She’s always been fake. She lies and pretends in front of other people. She has the ability to make people trust her, confide in her even. No one has understood her true nature, not even me, and I grew up with her.
The guy looks so friendly. I want to make him understand, wish with all my heart he could see who she really is. That he’d understand how insane she is. But he just smiles and laughs.
Kerstin
The guy at the counter smiles at me. I smile back. I feel so stupid, I say, but I think one of my blinkers is broken. Is there any chance he could help me change the bulb? I don’t want to annoy the traffic police, don’t want to get pulled over.
Of course he can help me, that’s a quickie. Right now he doesn’t have much else to do. We chat for a bit in the meantime. I tell him I just picked up the car from the garage, but they apparently weren’t very thorough. He’s friendly and accommodating. We laugh and he thinks I’m pleasant. I can be if I want to. I know how to do it.
He wonders how my daughter’s doing. She seems to be sleeping pretty deeply, he says.
That’s good, I answer. She needs it. I tell him she’s sick.
He hopes she’ll get better soon.
Thank you, I’m sure she will.
I don’t like the look he gives her, but choose to be indulgent. He’s been helpful. And my blinker is working again. I walk around to the trunk and take out my water can, then I follow him back into the gas station again. I put some canned food into a shopping basket, pay, and thank him for the help.
Hans always took care of these kinds of things. Now
that he’s gone, I have to manage on my own. And I do. The problem with Hans was that he made me weak. But I can’t afford to be weak, I have to be strong. For my child’s sake. For my own sake. And I am. Stronger than anyone can imagine.
Hans wanted to come between my daughter and me. He wanted love that was meant for me. He should never have tricked Isabelle into moving to Stockholm. He never should have encouraged her to stay there over the summer.
I was forced to get rid of him.
And with his last breath, my weakness disappeared. I could see it in his eyes. He finally understood. It was his last gift to me.
A large SUV with raised ride height has parked in front of the exit. The music is thumping. So-called music. It sounds more like one unending primal scream. Several young people are leaning against the car, a few sturdy guys and some scantily clad girls. They stare at me as I come out, make faces at me and laugh.
A young guy with his cap on backward walks toward me. He bumps into my shoulder as he passes.
“Be careful,” I say.
He glares at me like it was my fault. Then he gives me the finger and calls me an ugly word.
As I always seem to be doing, I swallow my vexation and walk on. Rude little snot.
I go around the corner and fill the can with water. It’s heavy and thumps against my leg as I carry it back. I stop and change my grip.
Finally, I arrive at the car. It’s empty.
Isabelle
I see Mom and the attendant go back into the gas station. I manage to open the car door and get out. My heart is pounding, blood rushing in my ears like a waterfall. My body feels heavy, and I’m unsteady on my feet.
There are other cars in the parking lot, but nobody is sitting in them. There is a bus not far away and a truck next to it. I stumble toward the road and wave my arms at a car that swings in my direction. The driver sees me. An older man in a brown cap wearing glasses with thick frames. He waves back, passes by, and disappears.
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