Chapter 43
The swelling on Killian’s nose had subsided. All that was left was a scab of dried blood. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt under his unzipped winter jacket. The path to the cabin had been shoveled after the day’s snowfall. As the cold swept in, the ground turned to ice.
On the table in the cabin was a wrapped present. The paper was red with silver curlicues and said “Merry Xmas” in English. The ribbon had spirals of white.
He picked it up and held it out to Sander.
“Merry Christmas.”
Sander stared at the present, feeling feverish. Killian clearly hadn’t wrapped it himself; his packages always looked like someone had sat down on them by mistake. He wondered if Felicia had done it.
“But I don’t have anything for you,” Sander said without taking it.
“That’s okay.” Killian smiled uncertainly. “Here. Merry Christmas.”
Sander hesitantly accepted the gift but didn’t say anything. It wasn’t very heavy. He considered throwing it at the wall.
“What did you want?”
He had been blinded to all but his own feelings until now, but Sander was starting to realize that something really was wrong. Even so, he found himself unable to care.
“The cops were here yesterday, late last night, and they took a sample of my blood. They’re going to compare it to the blood on the steering wheel in the car.”
He fell silent, as if trying to read what this might mean in his friend’s face. But Sander revealed nothing.
“Okay,” he said, with neither judgment nor sympathy—just as a statement.
“I’m screwed, aren’t I.”
“Tough to say,” Sander said bluntly.
Killian seemed to be waiting for Sander to say more.
He didn’t. Instead he fiddled with the present and wondered what was inside, finally set free from everything around him.
This was what he had needed, he realized now.
The wedge that would break him away wasn’t between him and his dreams of Felicia, or between him and his parents. The real parting was with Killian.
“Tough to say? What’s that supposed to mean?” Killian said. “What is going on with you? Is something wrong?”
“No. Nothing’s wrong.”
“I don’t know what to do,” Killian said.
“Well, for starters, you should chill out,” Sander said flatly.
“I have to get out of here.”
“Where to?”
It was like a fresh brand of panic was taking hold of him. “I don’t know. Just, take off. Take Mom’s car.”
“Okay,” Sander said, as dully as before. “So do it.”
Killian’s eyes went wide. “Is that all you have to say?”
“Yeah. Just go. It’s just as well.”
As if it was my fault, Sander thought, and then he said it aloud, in a voice that rose, surged up like a wave he couldn’t hold back. The words fell from his lips even as his eyes began to sting.
“As if this was my fault. This is exactly what always happens, I’m the one who has to clean up your mess, because you’re so stupid and thoughtless that you can’t even predict the consequences of your actions.”
“But Sander, I—”
“No, listen to me,” Sander snapped, because along with his rage came sudden clarity, banishing everything that wasn’t significant now.
“So you’ve come to me again. Me. When everything catches up with you and you’re about to go down for it, what do you do?
” He weighed the Christmas present in his hand, small and dainty.
He squeezed it hard. The paper rustled. “I thought you were my best friend.”
“I am.”
“How can you be? You call me. Me! And meanwhile you’ve been lying to me for ages. Haven’t you? So what are you going to do now, when I refuse to help you?”
“But you are my best friend.” Killian froze. “Is this about Felicia?”
The name was a needle in Sander’s heart, but he didn’t let it show.
“Felicia?” He said her name like it was an insect he wanted to squash.
“Do you think I care about Felicia? I’m getting out of here, Killian!
I’m going to Stockholm, because I’m going to study the fucking law.
You know, law and order. I don’t give a shit what goes on around here, because that’s the work I want to do.
I’m not about to get involved; this could ruin everything for me.
What the fuck am I supposed to say when they come to me, huh? ”
“But you said—”
“You only ever think of yourself, Killian. Always, nonstop. You always have. You don’t give a single shit about me. Don’t you get that?”
Killian looked stupider than ever, his arms hanging slack at his sides.
“You know he was all over her, right?” he said.
“What? Who?”
“Mikael. Felicia. He raped her. Or he tried, at least.”
“When?”
“Like around St. Lucia Day. She told me, she didn’t know what to do.”
“What the hell does that have to do with this?”
“I mean…everything.”
Sander stared at him, far too upset to absorb what Killian was saying.
Or was that exactly what he was doing? Taking it in, feeling how this knowledge changed shape and turned into fury and jealousy: Of course Killian knew, while he didn’t.
Of course he and Felicia had conspired to hide it from him, from everyone.
Sander’s eyes widened. “Was it you?”
Killian looked surprised. “Who did what?”
“Uh, Mikael! What the hell do you think?”
Killian averted his eyes.
“Just answer me!”
Killian gave up. “I guess maybe I should just leave right now.”
Sander sensed something new inside himself, a dark seed that had been planted within him long ago and was finally beginning to sprout. With all his might, he hurled the present against the wall. It made a dull thud and fell to the floor. Killian gazed sadly at the package but didn’t say a word.
“Because what else can you do, Killian? When you come to me, and I don’t help you, what do you do? Just run away. Go ahead, because you never could solve anything on your own. Don’t just stand there like a fucking idiot, leave, for Christ’s sake!”
Without a word, Killian glanced toward the car, his mother’s Saab, and all at once Sander could sense that everything around him was decaying, falling apart; how finally, now, his fate had turned as he stood with an adamant finger pointed straight at Killian’s chest, a command.