Chapter 28
The Soderstroms’ place was waiting for them like a haunted house.
“Let’s make this quick,” Killian said, looking at the front door.
“Yeah,” said Sander. “Super quick.”
They rang the bell and waited. Nothing happened. Sander tried the door.
It was unlocked. They cautiously stepped inside, breathing in the silence.
“Hello?” Sander called.
A shotgun was leaning against the wall in the front hall.
Flowers on a table, tons of bouquets. Sander recognized the one his mother had purchased.
A condolence gift, she had called it. In the living room was a Christmas tree, decorated and lit up, on a preprogrammed timer.
If you walked by at the right moment, you could see it turn on or off while no one was there.
The vacuum cleaner was sleeping in a corner.
Coats hung from pegs and leftovers were shriveling on the stove in the kitchen.
Someone, probably Karl-Henrik, was moving around in the basement. He didn’t seem to have heard them.
It wasn’t perfectly silent. The sound of clinking bottles leaked faintly through the floorboards, and from above they heard the dull murmur of a television.
“Hello?” Sander called, louder this time.
No response.
They went upstairs. Sander avoided looking into Mikael’s room, even though part of him really wanted to.
She had said they were just friends, so surely it was true.
Or was it? Was she lying, had Felicia ever been in there?
Recently, maybe? He pictured a shirt that didn’t belong, a forgotten hair tie, lip gloss on Mikael’s nightstand.
“What’s wrong?” Killian asked.
“Nothing.”
The door to Filip’s room was closed, but they could hear music from the other side, loud music coming through headphones, and it sounded like he was typing furiously at his computer.
“I—” came a voice from the stairs, startling Sander.
It was Karl-Henrik. Sander didn’t understand how he could possibly have snuck up behind them without a sound.
There had always been something frightening about him, as if a smoldering fuse always trailed behind him.
Now, as he leaned against the wall at the top of the stairs, blinking blearily, it felt like Karl-Henrik might detonate at any second.
“You,” he said, when he realized it was Killian. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Killian gulped. “We were just bringing Filip his backpack. He left it at school.”
Karl-Henrik grabbed the wall so he could stand up straight and stared icily at Killian. “How the fuck do you have the balls to come here? After what you did?”
“He didn’t do anything.”
Karl-Henrik’s head cocked in surprise, as though he hadn’t registered that there were two of them until Sander spoke.
“Oh no?”
Karl-Henrik took a step toward them. He stank of alcohol, stale and sour. Slowly he brought a hand to Sander’s shoulder. It was heavy as a brick as he rested it there.
“You better watch yourself.”
Sander tried to get away from that hand, but Karl-Henrik was strong, and he suddenly squeezed Sander’s shoulder hard, like he was trying to wring water from a sponge. Sander hissed and tried to free himself.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Killian said, about to intervene, but just then something happened.
The door to Filip’s room swung open and there stood Filip, looking like he always did, wearing baggy jeans and a gray hoodie.
His gaze wandered, his eyes struggling to stitch the scene into a comprehensible whole: Floor.
Dad. Backpack. Hand on shoulder. Wall. Door.
Sander. Killian. Wall again. Distant point.
“You have company,” said Karl-Henrik.
He had let go of Sander. He turned around and staggered back to the staircase, where he grabbed the railing and went back downstairs without another word.