My heart was pounding. I looked around, but there was no one in sight.
“I think you should go now.”
“I will. You don’t need to be afraid of me, Stella.”
She was small and thin, extremely pretty, and didn’t show the slightest sign of being unstable or dangerous.
“I just want you to be careful,” she said. “Chris isn’t who you think.”
I stuck out an elbow and crowded my way past her.
“Please, listen to me. Chris is trying to trick you.”
I quickly headed for the stairs, but I could sense her following me. My heart pounded even faster.
“Look in the big cabinet in his room. The room he calls his office,” she said as I swung down the stairs. “The locked drawer, at the top right. You’ll find the key in the bottom left drawer.”
I headed for the registers. I didn’t turn around until I had reached the short line and could feel some degree of safety.
I just stared at Linda’s back. She was heading out the glass doors.
“What’s going on?” Benita asked from behind me. “You look like someone’s been chasing you.”
I tried to calm my breathing.
“Nothing,” I said. “It was nothing.”
I didn’t know what to think.
63
“Seriously?” I say when Shirine arrives with more books. “Those are super thick.”
Crime and Punishment. Six hundred and forty-six pages of nineteenth-century Russia.
“Listen,” I say, paging through it with my thumb. “If I could choose between reading this or having cramps for two weeks straight…”
“You’ll like it.”
“I’ll read it. To escape the stench in here for a while. Because there’s nothing else to do.”
Shirine smiles at me.
“And this one,” she says, resting a finger on the next book.
It’s called Thérèse Raquin, and it’s also from the 1800s, but it’s only 195 pages—hardly longer than an H&M catalog.
“I think I’ll start with this one,” I say.
As I read the foreword and the first chapter, Shirine sits beside me.
The book is pretty blah, tons of descriptions of Paris, and soon my mind begins to wander. I sneak a look at Shirine. It occurs to me that I don’t know much about her.
“How many kids do you have?” I ask.
“Just one,” she says, with a small, surprised smile. “Lovisa.”
“Why?”
She looks puzzled.
“Because it’s a beautiful name. My husband’s aunt was named Lovisa.”
“No, no, not that. I mean, why do you have a kid?”
“What?” she exclaims.
“Or was it a mistake? A broken condom?”
“It was not a mistake.” She smiles. “It seemed like a good time. I … I really don’t know.”
I roll my eyes.
“I have a theory, Shirine.”
“Go figure,” she says, and sighs.
“I think a lot of people have kids for their own sake. Kind of like how when everything seems gray and boring you pop downtown to buy a new lipstick just to feel a little better for a minute.”
“Are you comparing bringing a child into the world with buying lipstick?”
“Sure, maybe it’s not the best analogy, but you know what I mean. People have kids to make themselves feel good, brace up their own identity, kill the boredom—you know, whatever.”
“Or because it’s the greatest thing that can happen to you, the most beautiful form of love that exists. The meaning of life?”
“Come on, Shirine! The meaning of life? Seriously.”
She shakes her head with a smile.
“Are you going to have more?” I ask.
“More what?”
“More kids. Are you and your husband going to have more kids?”
“I think so. I think it’s good to have siblings.”
She still isn’t looking at me.
“My parents felt the same way. They went at it like rabbits for years so they could have another kid. It didn’t work. I don’t know, maybe God wasn’t really happy with how they were handling the one they already had. Anyway, sometimes it feels like half my childhood revolved around this sibling that never actually appeared.”
Shirine looks uncomfortable.
“That sort of thing can certainly be a tragedy.”
“I mostly just wanted us to move on. We were already a family, you know?”
“I understand.”
“Don’t do that to your little girl, to little Lovisa,” I say quietly. “Promise me.”
“I promise.”
* * *
When Shirine has left I think about Michael Blomberg’s idea, to place the blame on Linda. An “alternative perpetrator,” as he put it. He has discussed it with Mom. He must have.
I know how it works in Sweden. If there are two potential perpetrators, it must be proven beyond all reasonable doubt which of them did what, or that both are equally guilty—otherwise neither one can be convicted. I’ve always thought this was messed up and ought to be changed.
My heart aches when I think of Amina. I miss her so much. Amina. Mom. Dad.
I think about when I was little and my dad was my favorite person in the world. Can it go back to being like that? Is it even possible? Or is everything ruined?
Maybe it would be best to confess everything. It would be simplest. For me to tell the whole story to the police and end this shit.
Then I look around. The smell, the walls, the boredom. Time that never passes, the nights that kill me. I’m not going to be able to handle it; soon I won’t be able to deal with it anymore. I thump my head on my pillow and scream. I have to get out of here!
64
“This is just nuts,” Amina said when I told her what had happened. “What if she’s right? How can you be sure it’s Linda who’s the psycho and not Chris?”
“Come on. If there’s anyone who would recognize a psychopath, it’s me.”
We were walking our bikes through the park as a big group of middle-aged women in running tights and colorful sneakers did fire hydrants on the nearby lawn.
“Did she seem … off?”
Amina looked at me and I didn’t know what to say.
“Isn’t it pretty ‘off’ to track down a girl who’s dating your ex?”
“Maybe,” said Amina. “But she said she wanted to warn you. If you don’t have feelings for him anyway, maybe you might as well…”
I shot her a look of annoyance.
“I know Chris.”
“You’ve known him for what, three or four weeks?”
“Long enough to know he isn’t a psychopath.”
Naturally I was curious what was in the drawer Linda had been talking about. But I decided not to mention it to Amina. It would only give her more fodder.
“Are you going to tell Chris?” she asked. “That Linda came to H&M?”
“I’m not sure.”
I knew I should. But then again: one person’s ignorance was another person’s power.
“Promise you’ll be careful,” Amina said before we parted ways outside the arena. “You’ve got your pepper spray, right?”
I felt for it in my purse and nodded.
* * *
I biked to Chris’s place, where I showered and changed clothes. He kissed me slowly, and the scent of his neck made my knees tremble.
“You twist up my brain,” he said. “I wasn’t supposed to jump into anything again so soon.”
I wondered what he meant by “anything,” but decided it was best not to know.
We drank wine and played Trivial Pursuit. Chris whistled when I knew which director had been married to Sharon Tate, one of Charles Manson’s victims. I soaked up his praise, but I didn’t think it was the right time to reveal that I’m a bit of an Aspie when it comes to psychopaths.
Anyway, in the end I let Chris win.
No, actually, he won fair a
nd square. He could rattle off a whole ton of kings and dates from, like, before Christ. I’ve never liked history. I prefer the future.
“I’m getting tired,” he said, shaking the last few drops of wine from the bottle.
We stood up at the same time and he rested a hand on my hip. His expression went hard and sharp. He guided me firmly ahead of him to the bedroom.
“Is something wrong?” he whispered into my ear.
I shook my head.
* * *
We’d hardly fallen asleep when Chris’s phone woke us up again. He rolled onto his side of the bed and turned away as he spoke. It was something about a meeting, negotiations, and bidding.
“You’re welcome to stay here and sleep in,” he said, kissing the back of my neck. “I have to head to a meeting right away.”
“Now? What time is it?”
“Five to seven.”
“Fuck no.”
I watched, eyes half closed, as he put on a ridiculously expensive suit and knotted his tie in front of the wardrobe mirror.
“Maybe I’ll stay right here until you get back.”
He turned around and pinched my big toe.
“Kids these days.”
“I’m a teenager. I need lots of extra sleep.”
He smiled and his eyes turned to diamonds.
“Don’t you have to work today?”
“Yeah. Boo.” I sighed. “But I don’t start until ten fifteen.”
He bent over and his tie dangled between my breasts as he kissed me.
“The door locks automatically. You can just pull it shut when you leave.”
Once he was gone I tried to fall back asleep, but even though I’d hardly gotten a wink I felt wide awake. My skin was crawling; my feet itching to move. I gave it fifteen minutes or so, tossing and turning and fluffing my pillow at least a hundred times. At last I gave up and slipped to the kitchen with the comforter wrapped around me.
The fridge was full to bursting with delicacies and I set out a hotel-level breakfast for myself. Then I ate with my feet up on a chair and listened to Lund awakening through the half-open balcony door.
Linda’s words echoed in my head. The big cabinet, the top right drawer, the key in the bottom left.
I walked into the hall. Stood before the mirror for a moment, considering.
I needed to pee. In the bathroom I snooped quickly through his medicines. Nose spray, allergy pills, pain relievers. Nothing exciting.
I washed up and went to the room Chris called his office.
Next to the window was a desk. On the wall hung an impressive painting; it must have been two meters wide. It was impossible to tell what it was supposed to be, but I had no doubt it was worth more than a year’s salary at H&M.
The facing wall was taken up by a large filing cabinet. This was what Linda had been talking about.
I turned to look out the window, realizing that this was a betrayal of Chris. But it would be stupid not to check what was in that drawer. If only to do away with the minor doubts I was having. Chris would never know.
I crouched down and pulled out the bottom left drawer. Inside were two plastic boxes with lids. The first was full of little stuff: bracelets, key rings, old swimming-achievement badges. Keepsakes he apparently hadn’t had the heart to toss.
The next plastic container was slightly smaller. The lid gave me some trouble, but at last I managed to pry it off. At the bottom were a dozen or so keys.
I considered the drawer at the top right of the filing cabinet. There were two keys that might reasonably fit that lock. I tried the first one, but nothing happened when I turned it. I decided to try out the other one too. There was a click from the lock as I turned it.
I pulled out the drawer and stared down into it.
What had I expected?
I stood there, gawking, unable to get my thoughts in order.
65
“Why did you react so strongly at our meeting the other day?”
Shirine pulls her colorful infinity scarf up to her chin and looks at me. She confronts my stubborn silence with question after question.
“Is it upsetting to think about? Do you think it might help to talk about it?”
I sigh. I don’t know why I’m back here again. I could keep playing sick; I could protest wildly, physically resist.
“Are you familiar with the concept of thrill seeking?” Shirine asks.
I cross my arms and stare at a spot on the wall behind her. I don’t want her to think everything is just fine now, back to normal quick as a wink. She promised not to have a bunch of preconceived notions about me, and yet she assumed I was talking about Chris when I asked about control freaks.
“Researchers have shown that some people need extra stimulation to experience joy. We often call them thrill seekers,” she says. “For example, a person might pursue extreme sports like mountain climbing or bungee jumping. But it might also be the case that someone seeks out risky relationships and enjoys conflict.”
I struggle to look as blasé as I possibly can, even though I’m actually listening attentively.
“Was he exciting, Christopher Olsen?” Shirine asks.
This time she is much more cautious about mentioning his name—her back is straight and her finger is probably on the panic button.
“Oh, lay off.” I sigh.
“You like excitement, right? Isn’t that true?”
I give a loud snort.
“I like your analyses. For real. If I ever need a therapist, I’m sure I’ll be calling you.”
I look her in the eye.
“Your sense of humor…,” she says.
“A defense mechanism, right?”
She doesn’t respond.
Finally, I think. Finally, she’s giving up.
* * *
Before leaving, I snap Thérèse Raquin shut so hard that Shirine glares at me. At first I identified with Thérèse quite a bit—her frustration over how bored she is and how nothing ever happens. Thérèse gets, like, married off to Camille, who isn’t a girl, like I thought at first. Thérèse likes dudes, obviously, we’re talking the 1800s here. Anyway, soon she meets another guy, Laurent, and she falls in love and has an affair with him. All three of them rent a little boat and the lover Laurent throws the husband Camille overboard and he drowns.
After the murder, Thérèse and Laurent argue about which of them is at fault. Both of them totally lose it and end up wracked with guilt and planning to kill each other. In the end they commit suicide together.
“I didn’t like it,” I say, mostly to annoy Shirine.
“It didn’t make you think?”
“It did,” I said. “That was the problem.”
* * *
After lunch, I have an hour to myself at the gym. I increase the resistance on the exercise bike and pedal my thighs full of lactic acid, letting the sweat trickle off my forehead until it forms a little puddle beneath me.
Then I do a few rounds of chins and dips. My strength is the resilient sort. On the handball court, I loved catching the ball with a defender or two on my back. I was at my best when they were hanging on me like backpacks, struggling to keep me at the six-meter line. Five years in a row I was our internal high scorer.
Sometimes I miss it. I miss the sense of community, and the competition—setting a goal and fighting hard together to achieve it. But in the end I couldn’t handle how planned it all was, how the coaches determined every step you took, every pass and shot. I felt like a game piece that was being guided by other people, and all the joy of handball disappeared.
After the workout I stand in the shower for an extra-long time, standing as straight as an arrow, letting the water envelop me in a deafening tunnel. I can honestly feel the smell running off me.
I think about Thérèse and Laurent in the book. Anyone is capable of murder. Is that what the writer was trying to say? No doubt he is right. If a person is violated deeply enough, there is no limit to what she might do. This is something I kno
w from experience.
I step out of the shower like a freshly lit sparkler, then dry off and get dressed before the guards tug at me.
“You almost smell good,” Jimmy says, a nasty grin on his face. “But remember, you’re still a murderer whore. You can’t wash that off.”
66
Amina, best friend that she was, immediately came to my rescue.
“This isn’t normal, Stella. It’s not healthy.”
We were sitting in the living room, our feet on the edge of the sofa, and I had just told Amina about the things I found in Chris’s drawer. Mom and Dad had gone to an Italian food festival and were going to spend the night at a castle in the countryside.
“Lots of people like that stuff,” I said. “Bondage and S&M. Tying each other up and things. It’s more common than you think.”
“But honestly. Could you do something like that?”
“Not me.”
The very thought of not being in control, of being restrained while having sex, made me shaky.
“Why did Linda want you to see those things?” Amina wondered.
I didn’t know. In the locked drawer I had found a black leather gag with that ball thing that gets stuffed in someone’s mouth. A plastic bottle full of transparent liquid, a dark-gray rag, and a pair of sturdy metal handcuffs. At the bottom was a jackknife, its blade glaringly sharp.
“I suppose she wants to scare me off. It’s not exactly proof that Chris is a psychopath.”
“But the knife. Why does he have a knife?”
“You tell me.”
I hardly dared to think about it.
“Are you going to ask him?”
“What the hell would I say? That I happened to find the key to his locked drawer?”
He’d already sent three messages I hadn’t responded to. I didn’t know which way was up anymore.
“He lied about his age,” said Amina.
“It was only a white lie.”
Amina sighed.
“Can’t we do something else?” I asked. “Go somewhere?”
Too many thoughts were buzzing in my brain.
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