High Risk

by Simona Ahrnstedt

  He felt a lump in his throat and got up from the table, embarrassed. He went over to the dresser where she kept her photos, pausing in front of a picture of him and his sisters. It was taken that first summer after the divorce, and he had never seen it before. “How old were you here?” he asked, studying his gangly body and set face. Yes, he had been angry at her.

  She came over to him. “You were fourteen, so I must’ve been about to turn thirty-four.”

  Only thirty-three, four years older than Ambra was now. Alone with four kids. He had never reflected on how tough that must have been for her.

  “Wasn’t Charles there?” he asked.

  “Then? No, I hadn’t met Charles yet.”

  “I always thought that was why you and Dad divorced. Because you met Charles.” For a while, he’d hated her because of it.

  “No, that wasn’t why we got divorced, your dad and I. Did you think that?”

  She never let on, but it must have been a struggle, to keep the house running, to keep them clean and fed, all while working full-time. Dad had just disappeared into his own work, didn’t have time for them.

  “Mom, did Dad drink?” he asked, though he suspected he knew the answer.

  She bit her lip, leaned forward, played with the wax of the candle she’d just lit. She nodded. “Sometimes I cried with worry at night. I wanted you to be secure, and I fought so hard to keep us together, to keep the house. All the debts I had to pay off, worries about you. I loved you all so much, trying to do the best for you.”

  “I had no idea.”

  “I’m glad. I didn’t want you to know, any of you.”

  “It would’ve been better if you’d let us in. We could have helped out.”

  “Maybe. But being a parent isn’t easy. There’s no manual.”

  He hadn’t exactly made things easier for her.

  “I know you blamed me for Dad’s death,” she said.

  “No,” he replied, but that wasn’t quite true. Mom and Charles got married, and not long after that, his father died. For a long time, he did blame her, assumed that his father died of a broken heart.

  “I’m sorry, Mom.”

  “I know you loved your father, that he was your idol. And he loved you all. He wasn’t unkind, he was a good father.”

  “But not a good husband?”

  She slowly shook her head. “He did the best he could. And I tried until the very end. Getting divorced was the hardest thing I ever did. When I saw the effect it had on you, the way you missed your dad, I had so many doubts I thought I would break down. You and your father were so close. Sometimes it feels like I put my own happiness before yours.”

  She trailed off and raised a hand to her mouth.

  Tom had seen his mother cry only once before, he realized.

  When he was about to leave for his first foreign operation. Silent and pale, she gave him a ride to the airport. He was exhilarated, tense, hadn’t been allowed to say where he was going, but she understood that it wasn’t to some safe part of the world.

  She had hugged him tight and cried, for the first and only time. And he was just eager to get away.

  “I’m sorry, Mom. For causing so much trouble.”

  “You’re one of those people who actually tries to make a difference. You have to know how proud I am of that. You have such a strong sense of right and wrong. Your father did, too, in many ways.”

  She took a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her nose. “And you haven’t caused any trouble. My dear Tom, sometimes I don’t think you realize how important you are to us, how much you mean to your family.”

  “You mean a lot to me too,” he managed to say.

  She patted him on the cheek and sat back down at the table. “I know that. How is Ellinor? Is she still . . . ?”

  “With Nilas? Yeah.”

  “She told me over the summer. I’m so sorry. I know how much you always loved Ellinor.” She fell silent, wiped a few crumbs from the tablecloth into her palm, and then dropped them onto her napkin.

  “Mom? I thought you liked her,” he said in surprise.

  His whole family knew Ellinor well, had met her, spent time with her. Tom had always assumed they liked her and that she fitted in perfectly.

  “I do, absolutely,” she said, though her tone wasn’t entirely convincing.

  He wondered whether she somehow knew that Ellinor had cheated on him. Not only with Nilas, but also once before. He hadn’t told anyone, it wasn’t anyone else’s business, but maybe his mom suspected something nonetheless.

  “I’ve been on a few dates with another girl,” he said hesitantly.

  She placed her hands in her lap and gave him an encouraging look.

  “I don’t know whether you would like her.”

  “Why not?”

  “She’s completely different from Ellinor,” he said. Though maybe that didn’t have to be a negative. “Her name is Ambra.”

  “Pretty name.”

  “She’s a journalist. A little younger.”

  A shadow crossed her face. “Not too young?”

  He laughed. “No, Mom, she’s not too young. It’s probably nothing serious, so please don’t tell the others. I just thought you might want to know that there’s hope.”

  “That makes me happy,” she said, and her eyes glistened again.

  * * *

  They spent the rest of his visit talking about the garden and his sisters, and toward the end Tom found himself promising to stop by again soon.

  They hugged when he left. “Take care, Mom. Call me if you need any help. And get some rest.”

  He drove back into town. Halfway there, he had a sudden thought, turned off toward the center, and parked in the garage beneath the posh NK—Nordiska Kompaniet—department store. He went up to the home décor department and picked out some pillows, a few ceramic pots, curtains, and an everyday dinnerware set. When he spotted a brightly colored blanket, he grabbed that too. It reminded him of Ambra’s apartment. He arranged home delivery for everything but the blanket, which he took with him there and then. Afterward he went down to the menswear department and bought a suit, shirts, and underwear. His hands full of bags, he caught sight of a sign for the toy section. He went up again and found a shop assistant.

  “I want a gift for a boy. He’s about eight, but I have no idea what he likes. Just nothing with guns.”

  “Lego is always popular.”

  “Sounds good. It should be something big, too. Can I get it gift-wrapped?”

  Tom left the department store with the enormous parcel beneath one arm and bags in both hands. He would go home and drop everything off, and then he would make an appointment for a haircut.

  Last fall, he had returned from the dead.

  But it was only now that he finally felt alive again.

  Chapter 45

  Ambra stared at the screen with aching eyes and tried to focus on the newsfeed. She hadn’t planned to work today, but when Grace, sounding pressed for time, asked whether she could do another shift, she’d said yes. Though now she was starting to feel the effects of not having gotten much sleep lately. The newsroom was always stressful, but with so many people out sick, she barely had time to use the bathroom or eat; she just sat at her desk drinking gallons of coffee. She wanted to binge on something, but she didn’t even have time for that. She had three pieces waiting to be written and roughly twenty-five phone calls and messages to answer. None of them from Tom.

  She’d sent him a brief reply when he’d texted her yesterday, but after that she went out like a light and then he’d stopped writing to her. She tried to pretend it didn’t bother her at all, but she couldn’t. What if he had given up? Did he regret inviting her to the party on Friday? She should write something, maybe call him, she should just . . .

  The screen on her cell phone lit up and she looked down at it, hoping it would be him. But it wasn’t Tom, it was Elsa.

  I saw Esaias today. He was talking to a man. I took a picture. Can I attac
h that to this message?

  Ambra replied with the clearest instructions she could, and a picture soon arrived.

  Do you know who that is? I feel like a TV detective.

  Ambra studied the blurred photo of the tall man dressed in dark colors that Elsa had attached. She had never seen him before.

  Nope. Be careful, Elsa. Don’t overexert yourself.

  Imagine if something happened to Elsa. The woman was almost one hundred.

  She sent Ambra a happy face in reply.

  Ambra studied the picture of the man again. It was a fuzzy, bad picture, and he was only half facing the camera. It could be anyone. But there was something in his posture that set an alarm bell ringing at the very back of her mind. Could she do an image search, maybe? She just had time to add it to her mental list of Things-I-Need-To-Do before she looked up and saw Oliver Holm approaching her desk.

  He had a smirk on his face, and those broad shoulders, that shiny hair, the bounce in his step, made him look like a Disney prince. He was good looking, and several of the women watched as he sauntered past with his bulging biceps and carefully orchestrated scruffiness. Several of the men, too, actually.

  Oliver stopped several desks away. From the corner of her eye, Ambra saw him exchange a few words with one of the editors. They laughed, then Oliver ran a hand through his hair and was given a thump on the back in reply to something he said.

  After he said “sup,” he took a few more steps and stuck his head around the door into Investigative. Ambra couldn’t help eavesdropping a little now, but all she could hear was a low murmur. She tried to focus on her work, but it was impossible. What could he be talking about with them for so long?

  “Cool, we’ll talk later!” he said loudly, and Ambra hurried to look down at her computer, pretending she hadn’t seen him. Oliver moved on, like a victor striding through the office, like someone who had won the lottery and was just waiting for the money to clear his account.

  If she had a nemesis, it was probably Oliver Holm.

  He approached her desk and she lowered her head even farther toward her computer, as though the letters on her screen contained the meaning of life.

  Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop.

  Oliver stopped.

  Of course he stopped.

  “How’s it going here? Writing a bit?”

  Ambra didn’t reply, just looked up at him, wished she could say he was nothing but a blond bimbo. Sadly, he was a little too sharp for that.

  “I just thought you might want to know that I’ve got something really good on the go. I was just in with Investigative, sounding it out with them, and they were pretty damn interested. What about you? You doing another of your socio-realistic sob stories? More emotional clickbait?”

  Oliver’s eyes lingered on Ambra’s notes, where she had written Social Services in huge letters.

  She turned the pad over. “All fine here. What about you, offered the boss any cigs lately?”

  Oliver smirked. “No need to be bitter. Who knows, there might be a quota to bring you in somewhere else?” He laughed, as though they were just standing there telling jokes.

  “Yeah, since I don’t have any relatives to give me a leg up here, I guess I’ll cross my fingers for that.”

  “Poor little Ambra. Must be tough that I cut you out all the time.”

  And for the first time, Ambra thought that maybe Oliver was right. Maybe he was the better journalist. She was just about to say something to snub him, or at least try to come up with something intelligent, when Oliver raised his hand in greeting to someone behind her. She turned around. Karsten Lundqvist, the security expert, was coming toward them.

  “Hey, man,” Oliver said.

  Karsten studied him over the top of his glasses and didn’t reciprocate the greeting. “Ambra, do you have a moment?” was all he said.

  “Oliver was just leaving,” she said, and she couldn’t stop herself from feeling a sense of schadenfreude when she saw her nemesis’s face. Karsten was one of the heavyweights at the paper. He’d won awards, been stolen from the competition, and was immune to fawning.

  Karsten straightened his glasses and gave Oliver a dismissing look. Ambra could have hugged him. Irritated, Oliver left her desk.

  Karsten pulled up a chair and straightened his glasses again. “I’ve been thinking about what you said.”

  “About Chad?” Ambra had almost forgotten that they’d talked about it almost two weeks earlier, had been satisfied with Tom’s explanations. Thinking more about sex than private wars, if she was honest. But now she felt slightly ashamed. How professional was that, really?

  “Something there doesn’t add up,” Karsten said.

  “What?”

  “Something did happen in the area we were talking about. There are a ton of rumors. My contact is going to get back to me, if you’re still interested.”

  “But why hasn’t anyone written about it?”

  “The Central News Agency did actually write a paragraph. But a tiny battle in Chad isn’t really a priority, if that makes sense. Russia, Syria, Isis, yes—the Western world has its hands full.”

  Ambra scratched her forehead. “What do you think? Could there be a link to Sweden?”

  “No idea. I don’t have time to get into it. You want the information I have?”

  Ambra nodded. She would look into it later. One more thing to add to her list of things she didn’t have time for. It was getting long.

  * * *

  Close to tears from exhaustion, Ambra walked home late that night after working several hours’ overtime. It was snowing, and she was so focused on not slipping on the treacherous ground that she forgot she hadn’t bought any food. It was only as she started to climb the stairs that she realized she didn’t have anything to eat at home. But she was too tired to turn around.

  As she climbed the last flight of stairs, she saw that there was something outside her door.

  A brown paper bag. She paused. Her first thought was that it could be a threat of some kind. She had never received anything like that before, not at her home, but she knew several female colleagues who had.

  She cautiously approached the bag, bent down, and looked inside. She saw a bouquet of flowers and a basket wrapped in cellophane. Hardly a threat. With a renewed sense of energy, she picked up the bag, unlocked the door, and hurried into the kitchen without taking off her coat. She put it down on the table and unpacked the gifts.

  It was a deli basket full of cheese, biscuits, grapes, baby plum tomatoes, and a bag of expensive candy. The bouquet was made up of tulips in every color: purple, yellow, pink, multicolored, double and single, an orgy of colors. She read the card attached:

  These flowers reminded me of your apartment, of color and joy.

  Looking forward to Friday.

  Don’t work yourself to death.

  Tom

  It was the perfect present. The perfect note. Personal, luxurious, considerate, but without being over the top or pushy. She filled a vase with water and placed the flowers in it. Then Ambra opened one of the cheeses, cut a thick slice, and added it to a crisp salt biscuit. She licked her fingers, took the flowers and the basket into the living room, placed everything on the coffee table, and then went back into the hall to take off her coat.

  While she ate and looked at the flowers, she couldn’t help but think that if Tom didn’t want anything serious, he’d chosen the wrong way to go about it. To her, this felt like more than something temporary, more than just a fling. Did he realize that? And did he feel the same?

  Chapter 46

  Mattias rubbed his chin. It was almost fifteen hours since he’d started work now, and his stubble bristled beneath the fingers. But it had been a good day. He and his new team had managed to fight an aggressive attack from a Russian troll factory spreading rumors about Swedish politicians. He’d also given the security police a reprimand, discussed questions of national security with the government, and had met with the head of the milita
ry.

  He’d had time to think about Jill, too, and to check her Instagram account roughly twenty times. It was . . . He didn’t know what he would call this behavior. What was he going to do about her? He had sent her two messages since their dinner but hadn’t received a reply.

  On one hand, Jill seemed like a busy woman. She recorded songs, posed for photographs, and appeared on TV, so maybe she just didn’t have time to reply. But on the other, Mattias suspected she was annoyed that he’d left her outside the Grand Hôtel in the middle of the night.

  Not that he blamed her. And not that it was the first time. Work had always come before relationships with him. It wasn’t something he planned, it was just how it always turned out. But he found himself thinking about Jill, and often. And now he was in the habit of checking her Instagram account, following her life, laughing at her occasionally hysterical posts, and worrying about some of the comments.

  He told himself it was just about keeping an eye on her trolls. Every time a hateful or threatening comment appeared, he would check it against the list of names Filippa gave him; several cropped up time and time again. The more he looked into it, the more he realized he would have to dig deep if he wanted to find the net trolls’ real identities. He would talk to Filippa about it, see what she could find on the deep web, the invisible part of the Internet almost five times the size of the ordinary web. He opened Jill’s latest picture. A selfie uploaded just a few hours earlier. Glistening red lips, full Hollywood hair, a low-cut top. His eyes fixed on that mouth of hers.

  Mattias had rules when it came to his love life. He didn’t date anyone for longer than two months or so, counted from the day of their first date. Only the best restaurants would do. He initiated things when it came to sex, thought it was more respectful that way, but he also didn’t have anything against being seduced. In conversation, he was personable but private, would talk about anything but his family or his job. He was careful to be clear about what he was looking for: closeness, company, sex. And also what he wasn’t: a long-term relationship, a shared future.