Chapter 4
Kjell
Unobtrusively, I turn away from the reception computer at the rehabilitation unit and dart in front of the counter. Less than a minute later, I hear the footsteps of the helpful nurse.
"Here you go," she says cheerfully, handing me the bandage I had asked her for earlier. Her bangs stick out wildly in all directions. "Should I put it on for you?"
"Please." I remove the tissue from my bleeding index finger. Yes, it's crazy that I intentionally hurt myself, but this way, I didn't have to lie to anyone to gain unnoticed access to the computer. "Thank you so much," I say after she finishes her work.
"Is there anything else I can do for you?" Suddenly, her words hold a suggestive tone.
For a moment, I look at her. How innocently she gazes at me, with an open posture and a smile, as if she's had sunny thoughts all day. Then I shake my head.
"You've already done more than enough for me." I wag my bandaged finger demonstratively and make sure to get away. After all, I have a mission, and the first loose end I'm tackling is Room 308 of the intensive care unit.
He's there, I'm sure of it, even though the name Henry Gustavson is quite common in Sweden. From my research earlier, I know that Henry is his middle name, and where Gustavson comes from is more than obvious.
Still marked by the painful encounter with the woman at the entrance, I hobble up the stairs to the third floor and stop in front of the double door. Through the glass pane, I can see no waiting area in the hallway. So I won't be able to linger there unnoticed.
Deep in thought, I press myself against the wall, keeping a close eye on the intensive care unit hallway. Not for the first time, I'd prefer to turn on my heel and leave, but I gather my courage.
"Think, Kjell," I murmur, tapping my fingers on my thighs.
At that moment, the second door on the right side of the hallway opens. That alone is why I can recognize the room number. 308.
Restlessness fills me, and when I see who leaves Gustav Blohm's hospital room, my mouth falls open.
This can't be true!
The attractive redhead from earlier enters the hallway with her head lowered. She frees herself from her disposable gown and fumbles for a pack of tissues in her stylish handbag with trembling fingers. She presses one firmly to her face and eventually leans against the wall.
A violent shiver runs through her body. She sinks to the floor, maybe because her legs can no longer support her, or perhaps her circulation is failing. I don't know; I only see her a few seconds later already crouching on the linoleum. She clasps her arms tightly around her legs, rocking back and forth.
Out of nowhere, she now turns her tear-streaked face toward me. The blue of her eyes glows. She doesn't even look at me, yet suddenly, my heart grows heavy, which is crazy. Utterly crazy.
People almost never show their true selves, but no one is more manipulative than this woman. And that's not a hunch but a proven fact.
How can I feel for her now when she played such a wicked game with me back then? Besides, she's a stranger. I don't even know her name.
I tear my gaze away from her and try to think clearly again. For safety, I hobble up the stairs to the fourth floor. I arrange myself among half-dried potted plants and white plastic chairs, keeping a close eye on the stairwell. The redhead still haunts my thoughts, so much so that I can hardly concentrate.
First, the facts. She was with this Blohm. It's obvious that she's not part of the hospital staff, just like the fact that the visit had taken a heavy toll on her.
Either she saw him today for the first time since his accident, or his health has drastically deteriorated. In any case, she must have a personal connection to him, or else she wouldn't have been so upset.
Her bright blue eyes appear in my thoughts. Seeking help. Desperate.
I quickly breathe against the strange feeling her presence has stirred in my chest.
What is her relationship with Gustav Blohm?
To be his wife, she's damn young. Maybe they're having an affair? She could be one of those gold-digger girls who latch onto rich and powerful men to profit from their money and status.
Perhaps she hoped for a modeling career or a life of luxury? And now, with her sugar daddy fighting for his life, her dreams are crumbling one by one, like a long line of dominoes losing their support with just one trigger.
I fixate on the human body diagram on the wall and listen for any activity on the floor below me. Nothing. The redhead is still in the intensive care unit.
I revisit the theory. It fits, but I don't want to settle for the first solution that comes to mind. I take out my phone from my pocket and lean against the stair railing.
If she's really his lover, I should find something about it in the gossip press. I delve into the research and don't give up until I come across a clue.
Gustav Blohm divorced from a certain Ida Lund nearly six years ago, who subsequently vanished.
That's a start. Tomorrow, I'll conduct further research on this. I mentally note the government portals and public data sources to check. For now, it's more important not to lose track of the redhead's trail. My instinct tells me there's something to discover here. Perhaps even something significant.
Wait a moment. Why didn't I have this idea much earlier? This is how I can connect my journalist's honor with what Jakob wants from me. I'll start with what people want to read.
But I'll end with a truth worth telling.
Filled with newfound energy, I push away from the stair railing and step up to the window. The darkness of the late Swedish autumn envelops the city. Countless lights penetrate the thin fog, giving the view a mystical quality. Snow could fall from the clouded sky for the first time this winter.
As it does every year, the thought gnaws at my heart. Yet I'm powerless against it. I can already see thick flakes silently descending to the ground. I feel them landing on the tip of my nose. And I remember the moment when, at the age of eighteen, I stood by the window and watched the first snowfall of the year.
I still remember how dirty I felt as it wrapped the entire world in its purity.
Snow covers everything up.
But one day, it melts. It loses its structure and seeps into its own filth.
Then you see the world for what it truly is. And the longer the winter has lasted, the more painful that moment is.