“But isn’t an investigation supposed to be objective?”
He shrugs.
“We’re talking about human beings here. We’re only human, all of us.”
Then he fingers the black beads of his necklace and seems to brace himself before dropping his little bomb.
“Linda Lokind.”
He waits me out with his gaze.
“What about her?” I ask.
“Do you know her?”
“Not know, exactly. Lund is a small…”
“Pond.”
Blomberg leans back and winks.
“Now tell me, Stella. You have had contact with Linda Lokind, haven’t you?”
“Had contact?” It sounds so formal. “I mean, I know who she is.”
“You do?”
Blomberg nods slowly. The question is, how much does he know?
“I met her once or twice. That’s it.”
“But you know she and Christopher Olsen were together for a few years? They lived together.”
I try to act surprised, but Blomberg hardly seems convinced.
“I’m planning to present Linda Lokind as an alternative perpetrator.”
“What? To the police?”
He nods.
“You can’t do that!”
I feel dizzy and hot. My mind is spinning.
“But it could mean your freedom,” Blomberg says.
Does he believe Linda is the one who killed Chris? I reach for a glass of water and accidentally splash some on the table when I go to pour. Blomberg follows my every movement with interest.
“Linda Lokind filed a police report on Christopher Olsen after they broke up last spring. According to her, Olsen was a real tyrant. But there was no proof, so the investigation was closed pretty quickly. A reasonable motive for revenge, right? And it doesn’t matter whether it was true or not. In Lokind’s mind, Olsen was a violent man who assaulted her in the most horrific ways.”
“In Lokind’s mind? You think she was lying?”
Blomberg waves a hand.
“It doesn’t really matter. There’s still plenty to suggest Lokind as the perpetrator. We’ve dug up quite a bit on her.”
“What do you mean, ‘dug up’? You’re not the police,” I say. “You’re only supposed to defend my rights. Not play investigator.”
He gives me a look that says, oh, sweetie.
“This is how it goes. When the police don’t do their job, we have to fix it for them. It’s not about pointing the finger at Lokind. I just want to make sure there’s reasonable doubt about your guilt.”
I’m sweating hard now. The air in here is stuffy.
“No,” I say. “This isn’t okay. Don’t mix Linda up in this.”
He looks surprised.
“But it might be your salvation, Stella. I’m going to have to talk to your mom.”
“You have to fucking follow confidentiality. I could get you disbarred.”
Blomberg rests his hands on his stomach. It almost looks like he feels sorry for me.
“You have no idea what Ulrika has been through for you.”
“What do you mean?”
He scoots his chair back and stands up.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” I say.
My mom basically only cares about herself and her career. I was never good enough for her. What could she possibly have had to go through for my sake?
“I’ll be back,” Blomberg says.
He turns around and raps at the pane of glass.
“You believe it too, don’t you,” I say.
“Believe what?”
“You think I did it.”
58
On Sunday after Tegnérs Amina and I met at a burger joint. The outdoor seating area was deserted, even though it was June. The sky was all gray clouds and the wind chilly. Inside, hungover college students sat crouched over their course literature, oozing trans-fats through their pores.
After we’d ordered, Amina took my arm.
“Did anything happen?”
I dropped my tray on the table with a thud.
“No, I told you.”
“Come on, something must have happened,” she nagged. “Just a little hookup?”
She sounded annoyingly curious, and not enthusiastic in the least.
“Are you jealous?”
“Quit it.”
Amina is the only person I know who eats hamburgers with a knife and fork. She stuck her fork in the burger and sawed away with her knife.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to go to his place. We were only supposed to share a cab.”
“Stop it. I’m not jealous.”
“I swear, nothing happened.”
Amina cut through her burger so hard that the knife squealed against the plate.
“You know that stalker he was talking about?” I said. “It was his ex.”
“What?”
I told her the whole story of Chris’s ex and how she refused to accept it when he fell in love with someone else. How she had followed and harassed Chris’s new girlfriend and then went to the police and accused Chris of assaulting and raping her.
“That’s sick,” Amina said, her face full of disgust. “You should seriously stay away from guys like that.”
“Guys like that? It’s hardly Chris’s fault that his ex is a freak.”
Amina didn’t seem to agree.
“Are you going to see him again?”
“Why would I?”
I sounded much more certain than I felt.
* * *
I worked all day on Monday. I found my pepper spray in a jacket pocket and put it back in my purse. I got home late and changed into sweatpants, spread peanut butter on two slices of bread, and curled up in one corner of the sofa to look through my feed on my phone. That’s when I discovered that Chris had sent me a friend request.
What did he want with me? A loaded, hot twenty-nine-year-old who ran several companies and traveled all over the world. Obviously I understood exactly what he was after. I knew I should follow Amina’s advice. There was no reason to have further contact with this guy.
I hesitated for a moment, then accepted the request. It was only Facebook, after all. It wasn’t like I was planning to marry him.
It only took thirty seconds for the first message to arrive.
I’m thinking about you, he wrote.
There was something about that. At the time I couldn’t put my finger on it, but now I know. It was the verb, the present tense. Like he was always thinking about me, like he was doing so right now.
Stella? He wrote when I didn’t respond right away. That’s a really beautiful name.
I typed a short reply, erased it, tried again, and erased it once more. At last I sent:
It means star in Italian.
He sent a star emoji.
My dad loves Italy, I wrote. He’s actually kind of obsessed.
Chris sent a thumbs-up.
Italy is sweet. Cinque Terre, Tuscany, Liguria.
I sent a yawn emoji in response.
The bubble with three dots let me know he was typing again, but no text showed up. I squeezed my phone. At last it appeared.
Did you know that when people are asked on their deathbeds what their greatest regret is, they never regret the things they did but what they didn’t do?
What did he mean? Was this how twenty-nine-year-olds flirted?
I’m not planning to regret a fucking thing, I wrote.
He sent a smiley face.
I think we’re the same, he wrote. We’re the kind of people who are never at peace. People like us have to find our way to one another to survive.
He was trying to analyze me. I hate people who do that.
You don’t know a thing about me, I wrote.
He responded: I bet I know more than you think I do.
This guy was just too much.
For example, I bet you sleep naked.
What? I read it three times.
I want
ed to be furious, but I couldn’t help being tickled. It was so unexpected.
Gotta go to bed now, I wrote.
He answered: Sleep tight, little star.
* * *
I called Amina right away. She sounded depressed.
“Do whatever you want,” she said.
“Forget it, I’m not interested.”
Even I could hear how much it sounded like a lie.
“I’m just so tired of how nothing ever happens,” I said. “It’s so fucking boring here.”
“You’ll be out traveling soon.”
“Soon?” Amina and I have never experienced time in the same way. “That’s months away. If I even manage to go.”
“Of course you will,” said Amina. “Time flies.”
I lay down in bed with my computer. A few days earlier, I had found an American site about psychopaths that turned out to be a real gold mine. A ton of researchers and psychiatrists wrote long, interesting entries for it. I read that psychopaths are sometimes described as predators who manipulate those around them with their exceptional charm and charisma. Those who encounter the seductive flattery of a psychopath seldom realize they’re being manipulated until it’s too late. Psychopaths lie often and without guilt. Psychopaths lie for their own gain, to improve their self-image, and to get ahead in life.
I’ve always been a master at telling lies. Was that a psychopathic trait?
Psychopaths know they’re lying. And so did I. And sure, sometimes I lied for my own benefit. I wasn’t sure that I always felt guilty when I lied. What did that say about me?
I read about a woman whose whole life was ruined when she met a man who cheated her out of everything she owned. I felt sorry for her, of course, but at the same time I couldn’t help but feel some disdain.
* * *
On Friday the sun came out. The city emptied quickly, everyone on their way to the coast or a park. I was at work when I saw Chris’s message. I never check my phone when I’m at the store. Especially not when Malin is there—the store manager. She’s the type who would fire you for using your phone during working hours. There are rumors that she stopped giving one girl hours just because she chewed gum at the register.
But I was on break when I saw the message from Chris. I was alone in the break room and maybe that was lucky, because my reaction involved maybe a little too much teen-girl cheering.
Can you be ready at 6? A limo will pick you up. I suggest a dress. Maybe pajamas. Oh no, that’s right, you sleep naked.
My whole body got the butterflies when I read that.
On the one hand Chris was too much. On the other hand, my life was too boring. I’d never ridden in a limo and I confess I am both materialistic and easily impressed.
How dangerous could it be? A date. Who doesn’t want to get dressed up and take a limousine to a fancy restaurant that serves dishes you can’t even pronounce?
I held off on answering Chris for a while, but the truth is I never really hesitated. The offer was too good to refuse.
At six on the dot, I was standing on the sidewalk near my house in my newest, sexiest dress as the limo pulled up. It was one of those mega-huge ones with a white interior and a well-stocked bar. We opened a bottle of Moët and toasted as we headed across the bridge to Copenhagen.
“I’m so glad you wanted to come along,” said Chris.
His eyes were glowing.
When we arrived, he ran around the car and opened the door for me. Then he guided me ahead of him, one hand resting gently on the small of my back. Apparently the restaurant had Michelin stars and was world famous. I’ve forgotten the name. The food was mostly just weird, and despite four courses I wasn’t anywhere near full.
“Can we stop here?” I called to the driver when we passed an ice-cream stand on our way home.
I bought a giant soft-serve with whipped cream and fruit topping. Then we sat there at a folding table with gulls at our feet, and Chris watched wide-eyed as I got sticky with fruit and licked my fingers clean.
“I dig your style,” he said.
I didn’t get what there was to like, but naturally I was flattered.
We rounded off the evening at a rooftop bar with a view of the Sound; you could see all the way to Sweden. A ruddy guy played sad songs on the grand piano and Chris stared at me so intently, and for so long, that I almost blushed.
“Tell me your dreams?” he asked.
“Sorry, I was just thinking…”
“No,” he interrupted, and tiny peanut-shaped dimples appeared in his cheeks as he laughed. “I mean, what are your dreams, what do you want to do with your life?”
“Oh.”
I didn’t laugh, not at all. My stomach twisted in a familiar way.
“I hate that question.”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t answer it.”
Chris raised his eyebrows.
“It’s true,” I said. “All my friends know exactly what they’re going to do; they’ve, like, planned out their whole lives. Travel, education, job, family. I can’t do that. I just get bored.”
“Me too. It sounds awful. That’s not what I meant at all.”
“I think it sucks having to plan next weekend ahead of time. I want to be surprised.”
Chris’s laughter made his eyes sparkle like diamonds.
“I’m exactly the same way.”
I smiled at him. Despite the age difference, we had quite a bit in common.
“Most people my age live extremely routine lives,” he said as the pianist played that Elton John song from The Lion King. “It started happening when we were around twenty-five. People were suddenly so damn boring. Every day is the same, they do the same things, watch the same TV shows, listen to the same podcasts, eat the same food, go to the same gym, follow the same Instagram accounts, and have the exact same opinions about everything.”
“Ugh, I hope I never end up that way.”
“No risk of that. You and I are different.”
He hummed along with the refrain. Can you feel the love tonight?
“That’s why I quit handball. I was actually really good, got to go to the national-team camps and stuff. But suddenly everything had to be so regimented. Every offensive had to be planned out ahead of time and if you tried to take any initiative on your own you’d get chewed out by the coaches. It wasn’t fun anymore.”
“They killed your creativity.” Chris sighed.
“And the excitement. How exciting can it be when everything has been decided in advance?”
“You sound so wise.”
“For my age?”
He laughed.
“Age is overrated. For most people, it’s the same as empty calories. The years add up, but development stands still.”
An hour later, our driver pulled up in the limo and opened the door for me. I caught a few jealous glances from the corner of my eye.
In the middle of the Öresund Bridge, Chris opened the sunroof and got up. We stood close together, the wind in our hair. It was like we were floating. I was exhausted as we sank back into the white leather again. We gazed at each other and it almost felt like we’d just had sex. Chris laughed with his face so close to mine that our lips couldn’t help but meet. A quick kiss, and he let go of me.
“I’m sorry,” he said, looking like he was guilty of an unpardonable violation. “It just happened. I’m sorry.”
I leaned back, my arms behind my neck, and stretched out my legs.
“Stop apologizing. Kiss me instead.”
But Chris’s shoulders sagged and his gaze seemed to shrink.
“There’s nothing I’d rather do,” he said.
“But?”
I straightened back up, squeezed my knees together, and gathered my hair in one hand.
“I still haven’t gotten over everything that happened with my ex. I swear, this has nothing to do with you. I just need more time.”
“I understand.”
I thought of Amina. In all our ye
ars as best friends, we had never ended up interested in the same guy. But we had anticipated the risk and promised each other never to let a guy come between us. This time it felt strange. Amina was the one who’d met Chris first, at the bar. And she’d sure seemed interested. I felt like I should back off, forget Chris and move on.
“Thanks for being so understanding,” Chris said, placing his hands on my knee. “Our time will come.”
59
“I can’t read this,” I say to Shirine, handing back the book she’s just given me.
It’s called Rape and is the thinnest, most modern book I’ve received from her, but the text on the back cover makes me feel nauseated.
“What do you mean?” Shirine asks.
“It doesn’t seem like my kind of book.”
Shirine shrugs her shoulders with a smile.
“For someone who’s hardly read any books, you seem to have very firm views on what you do and don’t like,” she says.
“I’m happy to challenge my own views!” I say. “It’s not that.”
“Okay. Then what is it?”
She deserves an explanation.
“I can’t read about rape,” I say, turning away.
I feel Shirine staring at me.
“Oh no,” she says. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“How could you know?”
I slowly turn around to see her sad brown eyes.
“No one knows,” I say. “We never reported it.”
“We?”
I take a deep breath and stare at the desk. I can’t believe I’m doing this. So many barriers slam down inside me, shouting at me to stop, and still I tell her. This is not how I was raised. There are some things that are no one else’s business. Some things that you keep within the family.
Despite that, I tell Shirine about the confirmation camp, about Robin and Dad, my idiotic plan to punish Dad, and everything that happened after.
“I’m so sorry, Stella.”
I just nod. My voice won’t hold any longer.
I’ve never even told Amina the whole story. For a few years, I thought it was because of who I was, because I was different. All those thoughts and feelings just brought shame. If I revealed my innermost thoughts to someone, they would probably lock me up on a psych ward and hook me up to a drip of their very strongest drugs.
A Nearly Normal Family Page 20