High Risk

by Simona Ahrnstedt

  * * *

  “Hi, I’m Lotta,” said a woman wearing a silver cross around her neck when Ambra registered at reception a while later.

  “Ambra Vinter. Thanks for agreeing to meet with me.”

  Lotta wore the same tense expression that Ambra had seen on countless social workers. A woman Ambra once interviewed, an experienced manager in one of the country’s most socially challenging areas, called the process that most social workers went through “vision meets reality.” They were constantly experiencing burnout, or worse: becoming cynical, hardened, or indifferent. Many took sick leave or resigned, which only led to an even greater burden on those left behind, who were given more and more cases with increasingly limited resources. It was a depressing, endless downward spiral.

  They sat down in Lotta’s room, which was full of journals, files, and stacks of paper. Documents about suffering, children needing help, and families. Ambra said no to coffee. The dark atmosphere of the room was already affecting her. Lotta placed one palm on a stack of documents, as though to reassure herself that they were still there. Or maybe to prevent Ambra from launching herself at them and starting to snoop. There was a withered hyacinth on the window ledge, competing for room with yet more papers. Ambra wondered whether Lotta met the children she worked with in this room, or whether they went somewhere more welcoming.

  “You asked about the Sventin family. I can’t discuss individual cases, but what I can say is that to date we haven’t received any complaints.” Lotta pursed her lips.

  Her words almost sounded rehearsed. But social services and the press often found themselves on a collision course. It didn’t necessarily mean she had anything to hide.

  Ambra tried to look as reflective and understanding as she could. “I understand, you’re bound by confidentiality. But they do still have foster children? That can’t be confidential.”

  “I can’t comment on that.”

  “But is it correct that they have two girls right now? Who aren’t their biological children?” she persisted.

  Lotta opened her mouth, but before she had time to speak, the door opened. A nearly bald man appeared in the doorway. He had a few wisps of white hair combed across his scalp, and his face was flushed. He gave Ambra a stern look. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lotta virtually shrink back behind the table.

  Not a good sign.

  “What’s she doing here?” he asked.

  Ambra got up and held out her hand. “My name is Ambra Vinter. I’m a reporter with Aftonbladet. Are you in charge here?”

  He didn’t offer his hand, of course. “I’m Ingemar Borg, and I’m the manager here. Why are you here? You have no right to be here.”

  “I’m just asking routine questions. I’m not looking to harass anyone,” she continued as calmly as she could.

  “You’re the one asking questions about the Sventin family, aren’t you? You should know that they meet all the criteria for a family home. They’re experienced and have made a real contribution for over twenty years now. They’re specialists in children no one else wants.”

  Well, he had no concerns about confidentiality, at least. “You make them sound like saints.” Ambra had trouble keeping the acid tone from her voice.

  The man took a step toward her. “I recognize you.”

  “I work for Aftonbladet, as I said. Maybe you saw my byline?”

  “No. I know you. What was your name? Ambra. You lived with them, didn’t you? I remember all our kids. You were one of them. Lied and ran away. What are you up to? Are you even here for the paper?” He took another step toward her.

  She didn’t remember him at all. But she was a child back then, and the majority of adults were just anonymous, uncaring strangers.

  “Make sure she leaves,” he said to Lotta, whom Ambra saw nod out of the corner of her eye. He turned on his heel and left, the door still wide open.

  Lotta swallowed and swallowed. She clutched the little silver cross around her neck. “I’m new here,” she said in a stifled voice. “I should never have agreed to this meeting. He’s right, we never had any formal complaints.”

  “But?”

  Lotta gave her a pleading look. “I can’t risk my job. I need to ask you to leave. I’m completely snowed under with work. This was a mistake.”

  “I’m leaving. Thanks anyway.”

  “Is it true, what he said? You lived with them?”

  Ambra gathered her things and pulled at her scarf. “You have my number. Call whenever you like. If you want to talk.”

  “But what do you want from us?”

  Ambra looked at the terrified social worker in the crowded, depressing room. “For no one else to go through what I did,” she said, and left the room.

  * * *

  Ambra walked back to the hotel. It was dark, and the air was so cold that it stung her nose whenever she breathed in. Shivering, she hurried to her room and took a long, hot shower.

  She applied some lipstick and filled in her eyebrows; she was fond of her bold brows. And her dimples. She put on a little eyeshadow and hoped the haunted expression she saw on her face would disappear during the course of the evening.

  Just before six, she went down to the lobby. At one minute to the hour, she saw Tom’s huge black car pull up outside the hotel. She liked that he was on time.

  He leaned over and opened the passenger side door from the inside. Ambra jumped in and sank into the luxurious leather seats. She turned her head and looked into his dark, dark eyes. Today had been a strange day, and her defenses were down. Who was Tom Lexington, really? A nice, normal guy she was attracted to? A crazy ex-soldier? Could a person be both? She was well aware that the dumbest thing she could do would be to cross some kind of professional line with him—which, technically speaking, she already had. Every instinct she had was screaming at her. This was a potentially dangerous man with far too many secrets.

  But she didn’t have the energy to be sensible. Not today. She had survived Esaias Sventin. She could probably survive one dinner with Tom.

  “Hey.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m looking forward to tonight,” she said honestly.

  “Me too.” He tore off, and the snow sparkled in the winter darkness as they drove towards Jukkasjärvi.

  Chapter 31

  It took thirty minutes to drive from Kiruna to Jukkasjärvi. Tom was focused on the road ahead. The visibility wasn’t great and Ambra was deep in thought, so they didn’t say much. He kept to the speed limit but still had to slam on the brakes when three startled deer ran out on the road, right in front of their headlights. The deer quickly disappeared into the forest on the other side.

  “Christ, they came out of nowhere,” Ambra said, her voice shaken.

  “I saw them,” he said reassuringly.

  He parked outside the Icehotel and noticed that she was shivering.

  “It’s the river, it lowers the air temperature,” he said as they walked toward the hotel, surrounded by tourists in overalls and guides in ponchos made from reindeer skin. There were fires burning in huge iron barrels, the low hum of snowmobiles.

  “It’s so blue,” she said in amazement. The ice really did shimmer in tones of the sky and the sea.

  “The ice from the river is that color,” a guide said helpfully.

  “It looks like something from space,” she said, and Tom agreed. They entered the hotel and walked around with groups of Japanese tourists; Swedish couples; and hordes of Germans, Americans, and Danes admiring the rooms. Each was unique; some were just small boxes, but others were entire suites, with spectacular decoration. And everything was cut and sculpted from snow and ice.

  “They build a new one every year,” Tom read from the brochure. “The sculptors come from all over the world. They create a room each, with different themes.”

  They were standing in a room containing a huge peacock made from snow and ice. The icy patterns on its tail feathers glittered blue. Even the bed in the middle of the room w
as made from ice, covered in reindeer skins. The floor was snow. “Could you imagine spending the night here?” he asked, though he suspected he knew the answer.

  “No. It’s beautiful, but too claustrophobic. You?”

  “Maybe. Want to see the church?”

  They stepped inside. Their breath was a cloud around them, but the temperature was a balmy twenty-three degrees, not nearly as bad as the fierce cold outside. “Absolutely everything is ice,” she said, glancing around. The benches, the pulpit, everything glistened so cold and white.

  “Let’s go see the ice bar,” he suggested. She looked a little pale, but she nodded and they walked over. A glittering ice staircase awaited them, booths made of ice, with reindeer skin-covered benches to sit on. The place was almost full, the music loud and the noise level high.

  “It’s like being inside a frozen soap bubble.”

  Tom ordered a drink for each of them, small cocktails in square ice glasses. They were almost impossible to drink from.

  “It’s frozen solid.” She laughed as she tried to loosen her glass from the ice table.

  After they finished their frosty drinks, they walked over to the restaurant.

  “It looks like Narnia,” she said as they passed illuminated ice sculptures between ancient, snow-covered pines.

  The restaurant was warm and welcoming, and they sat down by the window table Tom had booked.

  “I didn’t think it was possible to get a table here. Isn’t this place super popular?” she asked, studying the menu the waiter handed to her.

  Tom simply hummed. He’d had to call a certain Norwegian billionaire to get the best table, but he didn’t plan on telling her that.

  “Have you been here before?” she asked.

  “No.” It was strange. They had lived in Kiruna for so many years but never eaten here. Ellinor always said it was too touristy.

  “You don’t think it’s too touristy?” he asked.

  She smiled, and her dimples appeared. “I am a tourist, so it’s a good fit. But I’m so hungry I’m shaking. Can we order appetizers?”

  Tom tore his eyes from her tempting dimples and ordered Kalix caviar for both of them. The orange delicacy arrived on top of a huge block of ice, with diced onion, sour cream, and small buckwheat waffles.

  “It’s a work of art,” Ambra breathed.

  “It’s the local caviar, and the very best quality. The people of Norrbotten keep this to themselves.”

  “This might be the best thing I’ve ever eaten.” Ambra sighed, sipping the champagne he had encouraged her to order. The color was back in her cheeks. Earlier, in the car, she’d seemed so tense he had seriously considered calling the whole thing off. He sipped his low-alcohol beer. She looked happy. Something, he realized, she rarely did. Usually, Ambra Vinter looked as if she were carrying the weight of democracy and the world on her shoulders. He liked her like this, giggly and bright eyed from expensive champagne, her dark locks reflecting the candles on the table. He caught her eye. Ambra twisted a lock around her finger and stuck out the tip of her tongue to catch a stray roe that had caught at the edge of her mouth. She picked up her glass and smiled at him over the rim. Champagne suited her. “How’s Freja?” she asked.

  “I gave her a new chew toy before I left, so I hope she isn’t attacking my shoes or the furniture while I’m gone.” She laughed.

  They talked about everyday things while that special energy they had started to buzz between them. He asked about an article he had read. They talked about skiing (she had never been), about whether she should have wine or beer with the main course, and about gossip in the Swedish media—columnists who could barely write, editorial writers with megalomania, which attention-hungry celebrities would do almost anything just to appear in the paper. “There’s one actor who always talks about how much he hates the tabloids in interviews and who calls us roughly every six months to ask why we haven’t written about him in so long.”

  “Weird. So, what did you do today?” he asked as a waiter brought new cutlery and glasses for the main course.

  “Saw Elsa, ate with her.” She pulled gently on her ear, seemed to hesitate. “After that, I did an interview with a social worker.”

  “Was that why you came to Kiruna?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is it a secret interview?”

  She played with her knife, ran her index finger over the tablecloth. “Not secret, exactly, but it’s not really official either. Just something I’m looking into.”

  “Did it go well?”

  She shook her head. “No.” She looked down at the table with a frown. Her long lashes cast shadows over her cheeks. “It went badly.”

  “Want to talk about it?” he asked quietly.

  He waited as she was served the red wine she’d ordered. Tom continued to drink his beer. Once the waiter disappeared, she said, “I have to say, these trips to Kiruna, they’re definitely eventful. I met someone . . .” She fell silent. Her tense expression was back. Tom waited. She started over.

  “I went to church today.”

  “In Kiruna?”

  “Yeah. The father of the foster family I lived with was there.”

  “You were a foster kid up here?” He didn’t remember whether they had talked about this before. But that would, of course, explain why she used to live here. He hadn’t thought of that.

  She nodded, twisted her glass. The red wine swirled inside the bowl. “Yeah. When I was ten. One of many foster families. One of the worst, actually.”

  “How many were you with?”

  “Not sure. More than ten, in any case. I didn’t stay with some of them very long. If they don’t think you fit in, you move on.”

  “And if you don’t like them?” he asked, feeling the anger bubble inside him.

  She gave him a sarcastic look. “No one listens to the child. It makes no difference how it’s supposed to be—that’s the way it is. I don’t actually remember how many families got sick of me. But that man. I ran away from him when I was eleven. It felt surreal to see him again. And the way I reacted was crazy.”

  “How?” he asked. He felt the hairs on his arms stand on end. What had the man done to her?

  “It was like my body reacted automatically. I was thrown back to that time, felt all those old feelings. It was horrible.” She took a deep gulp of her wine and looked up at him.

  He definitely recognized that. But his flashbacks were from things he had experienced as a grown man, things he was trained to endure, things he had, in a sense, chosen to expose himself to. She was just a child. A small, orphaned girl.

  “What happened when you lived with them?” he asked. Did they hit her? Other kinds of abuse? His grip tightened on the glass.

  She had put her glass down and was sitting with her hands wrapped around her upper arms, as if she was freezing, though the room was warm. “All kinds of physical abuse. Punishments. Slaps. Psychological things too. Things I only really realized were completely sick once I was an adult. Nothing sexual,” she added. As though that made it any better.

  “Jesus,” he said with emphasis.

  “Yeah. And I know there are kids living with him and his wife now.” Her voice broke slightly. She cleared her throat, tensed her jaw. “Anyway, I saw him in church today. It was tough.”

  She grabbed her glass and took a couple of sips. Her hand trembled, and Tom had to hold back from getting up, going over to her chair, pulling her into his arms, and saying that next time someone wanted to hurt her, she should come to him. Next time, they would have to go through him.

  Ambra twisted her glass again. “When you see him—shit, I can’t even say his name—objectively, you would never suspect a thing. It’s a really strange feeling. That we can’t tell what people are really like just by looking at them. Even today, that’s one of the things I find most difficult. He’s so decent on the surface. Calm and polite. Respected in the community. Everyone listens when he preaches. But he would change when he was at home. It was t
errifying. The monster waiting inside,” she said, taking a deep breath.

  Tom nodded. He’d met plenty of monsters in his time, knew exactly what they could be like. Evil wasn’t visible on the surface.

  “In the end, you start to doubt your own experience,” she said thoughtfully. “You think that you’re overreacting, that you deserved a beating. That you’re spoiled. Ungrateful. Even today I have trouble processing certain things I experience. It’s hard to explain.”

  She gave him a lopsided smile. “I feel like I’m ruining the mood a little.”

  He wanted to place his hand on hers, tell her he liked their conversations, regardless of whether they were easygoing or serious.

  Ambra was unlike Ellinor in so many ways. Ellinor didn’t like difficult things, and he had automatically protected her from all the negative aspects of his work. She was a fundamentally happy and positive person, and she came from a stable, secure family. Ellinor looked to the future, and she had a phenomenal ability to shake off anything bad or unhappy. Tom always liked that about her, the fact she didn’t get bogged down by things. But now he wondered whether that had actually helped drive them apart, the fact they never talked about the difficult things. Was that why he was attracted to Ambra? Because she was so different, new, and fascinating?

  Though that wasn’t the whole story, he knew. He liked Ambra because she was who she was. And because she was pretty, of course. There was no point denying that. Not strikingly beautiful like Ellinor. Ambra was like a complicated, well-crafted mechanism that you had to get near to appreciate.

  “What?” she asked with a smile over the edge of her glass.

  He was saved from answering by their food arriving. She had chosen the reindeer with juniper and lingonberry; he opted for the elk fillet with rösti and blueberry jelly. He was happy to have something else to focus on for a while. He needed to process his thoughts a little. It was desire he felt for Ambra—there was no point denying that. He’d been living like a dead man for so long, and now he was starting to feel alive. With life, sure as fate, came desire. It wasn’t so strange. He was a man. She was a woman.