by Isa Hansen
“OK?”
Oskar stared up at the sky. “The photographs.”
Zari didn’t know what he meant by that, but she said, “I’ll go with you. Wait for me, I’ll let Ebba know.”
She went back inside and leaned in toward Ebba from the back of her chair: “Oskar’s worried. We’re going back to Celia’s to check on something.”
“I’m coming with you,” Ebba said. She spoke into the ear of the guy next to her, rising from her seat.
Zari grabbed her coat and bag on the way out.
The walk to Erik and Anette’s house was a short one; they were only a few blocks away. Oskar used the spare key that Celia had given him to let them into the house. He searched the kitchen and when he didn’t find what he was looking for, headed to Celia’s room. There he began to flip through newspaper printouts that were in a pile on her desk.
He rapidly flicked through the articles. From the pile he pulled out two articles and laid them down side by side.
Zari leaned over to see better. She zoned in on the headlines and correlating photographs, wondering what Oskar was looking for.
To the left was an article from when Liv had won a swimming competition. Next to it was an article covering a fundraising party at the Rosensköld estate.
Oskar bent over them, attentively studying the picture in one, then the other.
“What’s up?” Ebba asked, bouncing on her feet. She was getting antsy; she never liked being out of the loop.
“Help me look at something,” he said to them.
Ebba stepped closer, and Zari waited for him to go on.
“Is this the same person?” Oskar asked. Both photos covered a small crowd of people. The tip of his finger touched the face of a person at the Rosensköld estate, then pointed out another face among the people congregated around Liv and the two other swimmers.
Zari studied the pictures. It was hard to tell. In the lake photo the face was only partially visible. In the other, the one at the estate, a shadow fell over part of the room, dimming the contours. “I’m not sure,” she said.
Ebba stood quiet, her brows pulled tight. “I might know who that is.”
Zari and Oskar lifted their heads.
Ebba said to Oskar, “Do you remember in fifth grade when we were supposed to do a paper about the career of a family member and then go up in class and talk about them? Do you remember Alex’s presentation?”
Oskar’s forehead creased, then a sharp agonized look hit his face.
“Yeah,” Ebba said in response to the look. “Let’s confirm this.” She pulled Celia’s laptop computer toward herself, muttering, “I’ve been stupid.” She leaned over the desk and clicked on the keys, looking plagued. “So very, very stupid.”
Zari and Oskar stood back and watched Ebba operate a quick online search.
After some frenetic clicking, she stopped and stared at the results on the screen.
Ebba shook her head in agitated little motions. “Yes, that’s exactly who it is.” She was breathing hard and fast, her body taut. “This isn’t good.”
CHAPTER 44
With the air of someone heading off to make a private phone call, Celia strolled down the hall. While walking, she set Ebba’s phone to silent. Soon she came upon the family lineage tree that she recalled from her last visit. Scanning quickly, not wanting to be seen, she concluded there was no family symbol on it. She continued down toward Alex’s quarters.
She made sure she was still alone in the hall before she entered.
Alexander’s apartment looked a little messier than when she’d been there before. Clothes were flung over armchairs in the living area and dishes were strewn around in the kitchenette.
She set down her untouched champagne flute on the kitchen counter and stepped around, quickly and quietly, looking for anything that could point to Alex being her stalker. Last time she was there she’d only peeked into the bedroom. She moved the sliding door and proceeded to the sleeping space that held a bed, a desk, and a television corner.
Alex’s laptop computer was on the bed. She reached over for it.
The computer was password protected. She wouldn’t even know where to start guessing so set the computer aside, eyeing the room for any other electronic devices.
There was an iPad on the desk.
That device was also password protected.
A door to the closet stood ajar.
She went to the door. Poking her head in, she found it was a walk-in closet that spanned the length of the room. In tidy, organized lines were sweaters, shirts, t-shirts, suits, ties, and designer shoes. She entered and flicked her way through Alex’s wardrobe. At the far end there was a supply of coats and boots; she kept rummaging.
She halted at the sight of a coat.
A dark raincoat with something sticking out of the pocket. She pushed away the garments on both sides of it.
She pulled out the object from the pocket: a black mask, the faceless kind.
So the mugger had been faceless, she thought. It wasn’t just in her head.
Celia held the mask, kneading it in her hands.
It was Alex.
All of it was Alex.
Elise had been telling the truth. Alex was trying to scare her.
Her emotions flashed hot and cold. A heated anger mixed with a cool satisfaction of knowing—of being an important step ahead of him.
Now she had to keep moving. She couldn’t be detected. That would ruin everything.
So she rearranged the coat the way she found it, stuffed the mask in her bag and kept searching the apartment. What she really needed was to get to Alex’s phone. He probably kept it on him.
Time to see how good her pick-pocketing skills were. Chances were his phone was password protected, too, but she was desperate enough to try anything. She wanted real evidence, something beyond the mask in her bag.
She slipped out of Alex’s apartment.
Down the hall someone was walking in her direction. Filip, with a girl clinging to his arm. He hadn’t seen her yet. She took a swift turn to the left which brought her to a staircase.
She took quick light steps up the stairs which spiraled to the next floor.
On the second level she found herself in a hall. The room straight to her right looked like a study or a reading room.
She’d wait there until the coast was clear.
Books were stacked on bookshelves all along the walls. Some of the books were new and pristine while others looked to be centuries old, faded and loose in their bindings.
Up ahead there was a desk that stood on dainty, swirly-detailed legs just below the window out to the front yard. Moving deeper into the room, she saw the symbol. On the wall. It was painted in muted colors and sat in a gold-colored frame. It was the same symbol. A bird, a shield, a knight’s head, and garlands of leaves twining around the contours.
***
“We have to hurry!” Zari’s voice cracked with panic.
Oskar, Zari, and Ebba had left Celia’s and were sprinting toward Ebba’s house to get to her Volvo station wagon.
They arrived at Ebba’s, flushed and panting.
“You had anything to drink?” Ebba nodded to Oskar, pulling her car keys from her bag.
“No,” he said.
“Then you’re driving.” She threw her keys to him.
He caught them in one hand. “But I’m still practice driving.”
“Great. You can practice now.”
He didn’t argue. They all climbed into the car, doors slamming. In the driver’s seat, Oskar tried to ignite the engine. At first the car only coughed. He banged his fist on the steering wheel and tried again. When the car finally roared into action, they skidded off in the direction of the Rosensköld estate.
“I’m trying her phone again,” Ebba said from the back seat.
She had Celia’s phone pressed to her ear.
“Faan,” she cried, “she’s not answering.”
She tried again.
&nbs
p; No answer.
Ebba kept on, hitting the call button again and again. After multiple tries, she sent a text, hoping Celia would see it on time.
Then she called Björkby police station.
***
Celia stepped past the symbol over to the window.
She viewed the moonlit driveway.
Cheerful party sounds rose up from the steps below her. She could hear people laughing and talking but couldn’t see them.
It was then that her mind grasped at something faintly familiar.
The landscape below shifted with memory and transformed from winter wonderland to a sunny day in late summer. She recalled the first time she came to the house. What a lifetime ago it seemed: when she stood there, newly arrived in Sweden, looking up at the house with its imposing windows.
Someone had stood by one of these upper windows. Watching her.
With the memory something connected for Celia. Something spread through her—something shattering and vivid that set her on edge. She leaned against the desk, straining her mind.
Alex vaguely reminded her of someone.
And Alex’s father, Thomas, even more so.
When he handed her the champagne glass, the way he held his head, his posture. The stout, athletic build. Her thoughts were clicking fast. Then a sharp realization.
She knew exactly who.
Her thoughts kept spinning.
That summer’s day when she looked up at the window; something happened. Alex changed after that. He went from smirky and flirty to watchful and terse.
Warning signals sparked while her psyche reached for information: there were still missing bits but an image was starting to emerge. That little kernel that she’d missed, it had fallen into place.
Celia grabbed the phone from her bag.
There were dozens of missed calls.
And a text message.
The text confirmed her suspicion and fears, exact and to the point.
From somewhere in the depths of the corridor, in the otherwise completely silent quarters of the mansion, a clicking of shoes echoed. First distant, then getting closer, coming up the stairs. Celia turned back to the doorway, her mind and heart racing.
She had to get out of the house.
CHAPTER 45
Celia sprang out of the room and bolted down the hall.
Footsteps echoed from the stairway behind her. She couldn’t go back the way she’d come. There should be another staircase, in the middle of the house. From there she could get back to the first floor and rejoin the safety in numbers that the party provided.
She came upon the stairs and descended, her feet flying down the steps.
One level down, a landing with a door to the right. She heard sounds from the party through it. She pushed the door; it wouldn’t budge.
She pushed another time. Locked.
Footsteps again.
The stairs extended down to a lower level.
She raced down the steps.
Maybe she could get out from the floor below.
She arrived at the next landing, another door. She gripped the handle. This one was unlocked. She found herself in the basement. In a stone hallway.
The walls were cement and rock, and there was a queer smell that seemed out of place. Chlorine. She pressed on through the stone hall.
Shoving open a robust door at the end of the hall, the smell of chlorine strengthened. More stone walls and smooth tiles underfoot. Up ahead, a large rectangular swimming pool gleaming in tones of blue and green.
She had to find a way out: there was a row of doors on the other side of the pool. She darted toward them, passing a poolside bar. She approached the doors, slamming them open. They were all closets and storage areas. No exits.
A sound. She halted and listened. Those same footsteps. Her eyes scanned for a place to hide. The closets weren’t an option. She could get locked in and then it would be over.
Her eyes landed on the bar. It was a tall bar top lined with bottles close to the entryway. She fled back around the pool and in under the bar.
Just in time.
Steps closer now.
Clicking against the tiled floor.
Crouching, Celia could see the shoes—sleek black boots.
“Celia, I know you’re in here. You might as well come out…” Her voice was softer than she usually spoke, coaxing. “Come out so we can talk.”
Celia moved her head slightly—her breathing sounded like a freight train inside her head.
The boots had walked out of sight.
She held her breath.
But then there they were again; standing straight ahead, allowing just enough space for her to get through to the entryway. If she could just make it to that doorway. She could run back the way she came. Up and around, and back to the party. She had to go. Now.
Soundlessly, she pulled off one shoe. It was as if she were no longer inside her own body. With her heart pounding wild and the walls around her shifting, she hurled the shoe, away from the door.
Then she jolted, sprinting toward the entry.
She thought she could make it—thought she’d get to the door.
But then her hair was yanked with a strong pull.
She was dragged back.
She swung around.
There stood Yvonne: her body curved and flexed, her face stone cold.
Yvonne let go of Celia’s hair, quickly circling around her, blocking the entry to the tunnel.
Celia took wavering steps back.
Yvonne moved in on her until she was backed up to the edge of the pool, the water gurgling at her back. She stood frozen, her body arched, taking quick spastic breaths.
They stared at each other.
She stood only a few feet from Yvonne.
Yvonne Lagerkvist, née Rosensköld.
Sister of Thomas Rosensköld.
Ebba’s text had confirmed it: Yvonne is aunt of Alex. Was the swimming instructor.
“You’ve been busy putting your nose where it doesn’t belong,” Yvonne said, her tone more absent of emotion than hostile. “We were hoping it wouldn’t come to this. We’d hoped you’d go away on your own.”
“You killed her,” Celia said. Her breathing felt strange, unnatural. “She was innocent and you killed her.”
Yvonne continued to speak in a detached manner, as if she were talking to herself or someone far away. “She had promise, that girl. Was a strong swimmer and could have gone far. But I wasn’t about to let her ruin my life.”
Celia demanded, even though she didn’t want to know: “What did Sten do to her?”
“It was a misstep.”
“A misstep?” For a second Celia forgot herself, edging closer to Yvonne. “A misstep? She was just a young girl!”
Celia’s mind was connecting the dots and filling in the blanks. Sten hurt Liv who then went to her swimming coach. She’d followed the advice of a good-willed woman who encouraged her to speak out: to talk to an adult in her life.
“Liv came to you…”
“She should have stayed quiet,” Yvonne said. “There was no way I was going to let a silly little girl destroy everything we’ve built up. She was going to make an official report, and I couldn’t have that. I wasn’t going to bear that kind of humiliation.”
“She didn’t know you were his wife?”
“I used my maiden name during my athletic career.”
Yvonne stood imposingly in front of Celia. She could tell that Yvonne had the body of a former athlete. She was still in good shape now, even though she had to be well over 60. She was tall, straight postured, and strong.
Then Celia’s eyes grew big with realization: “You killed her here.”
Of course she did. So much easier than at the lake. That would have been risky. Someone could have seen.
The light from the swimming pool painted Yvonne’s face a sickly shade of green. “I invited her over for a private lesson. I told her that she needed to focus on something positive. Told h
er to skip school so we could get an early start. She came over. But the timing was wrong. Thomas arrived home earlier than expected. He saw her dead.”
Celia pressed her hands against her stomach, fighting the nausea that pressed its way up her throat. The scene played inside her head. They must have kept Liv’s body in the house until they had the chance to dispose of her in the night. She was already in her swimming suit. All they had to do was leave her bike by the trail and place her body in the water. Everyone knew she was a swimmer.
“Your husband changed the date of her death,” Celia said. “To ensure you’d have a solid alibi—the night of your fundraiser.” She stared at Yvonne. “What did Sten do to get that date changed?”
“Never mind that.” Yvonne inched closer to Celia. “We have a talent for making stories fit our needs. Don’t you worry: we have yours all figured out. Foreign exchange student couldn’t handle her liquor at a classmate’s dinner party and slipped into the pool. Nice and clean. There will be a hassle in the short term because it was our pool, but it will age nicely. Nothing sensational about it.” Yvonne smiled wanly. “Our family is all about longevity, you see. Survival is in our DNA. Years from now, no one will remember you, just like no one remembered Liv until you came around.”
Yvonne clamped down on Celia’s arms. A hollow-sounding scream came out of her.
“They can’t hear you,” Yvonne said, her face macabre. Before Celia understood what was happening, she was dragged over to the bar. Yvonne clutched a bottle from the shelf and battled Celia down, holding her hair in a tight fist.
A bottle was shoved into her mouth, her head forced back.
Alcohol poured into her.
She coughed, sputtered, the spirit burning her throat.
She kicked at Yvonne—managed to knee her in the face and scramble free.
Jumping to her feet, she swayed. Her foot slipped.
Falling, hitting water, she was in the pool.
She swam toward the other side, fiercely paddling her legs. The pool was deeper than she expected, she didn’t reach the bottom with her feet.
A loud splash. Yvonne sprang up in front of her, like a witch, with her hair flat against her scalp and mascara running in black clots from her eyes.
