And then, barely audible:
“I’m sorry.”
Sorry? What’s she talking about?
She coughs again; the snow around her head is spotted by blood.
“Don’t talk! And stay still!”
I hear Andreas speaking to someone in the distance, but I can’t hear what they’re saying. Or, maybe my brain just can’t decode their meaning.
Then he comes back. Hunches down next to me, puts a hand on my shoulder, and looks at Margareta.
“They’re on their way. Best not move her.”
I nod.
“What was she doing up there?” he asks.
“No clue.”
I stroke Margareta gently on the cheek again. The skin is cold and a little rough.
Margareta opens her eyes and looks at me, and at that moment I have just one thought in my head, as obvious as it is selfish: Don’t die, goddamnit. Mom needs you here. So does Magnus.
We hear steps in the forest.
“Are they here already?” I ask.
“No, it must be somebody else,” Andreas says.
The steps get closer, and two people arrive—an older woman and a boy. The boy has a large wound across one cheek, and blood is smeared on his chin.
It takes a few seconds for me to recognize them.
It’s Hanne and Jake Birgersson—Stefan Birgersson’s son. I remember the terror in his eyes the last time I saw him, when we picked up his father for interrogation.
Jake points to Margareta and opens his mouth as if he intends to say something, but no words come. Instead, he stops, stands in silence. Hanne nods, as if she knows what Jake is trying to say.
“She…tried to kill us,” Hanne says, gesturing at Margareta.
I shake my head and smile involuntarily.
“No,” I say. “Of course she didn’t.”
Andreas puts a hand on my arm.
“Wait a minute, Malin,” he says, and turns to Hanne. “What happened?”
Hanne seems unsure and looks at Jake as if seeking his support.
“She pulled down…”
Hanne looks uncertain, points to Jake.
“She pulled him off the cliff,” she continues, as if struggling to make sense of what happened.
“Margareta?” I say. “There must be some misunderstanding. Why would she—”
“Quiet, Malin,” Andreas says, with a sharpness in his voice that both bothers and surprises me.
“But,” I say. “Why are they saying Margareta pulled him off the cliff? They’re standing right there.”
Jake meets my eyes. His are dark and expressionless. He tugs on something that’s hanging down from under his coat. It looks like a ball of pink yarn. Long threads hang between his fingers and drag in the snow.
Then he looks down at his hand and wrinkles his forehead.
“It was the sweater,” he says. “It catches on everything.”
“It caught on a branch a meter below the edge,” Hanne clarifies. “I managed to pull him up again. If it hadn’t been for that…”
Hanne leaves the sentence unfinished.
“They killed that cop,” Jake says quietly, nodding at Margareta. “And she kept the woman with long hair captive in her basement.”
I shake my head and stand up.
The forest is spinning around me, and my nausea returns. The cold disappears and my thighs and neck start to pour out sweat.
“No,” I say. “You must have…They would never…”
I’m almost laughing, it’s so absurd. My chest feels tight, and my fingers are tingling.
Jake and Hanne watch me in silence.
“How do you know this?” Andreas asks, looking at Jake.
“She…”
Jake seems to hesitate, takes a deep breath, then continues:
“Hanne told me.”
“Is that right, Hanne?” Andreas asks.
Hanne looks unsure. Her eyes flicker back and forth from me to Andreas. She puts a hand to her hat and adjusts it a little.
“Yes. No. Or, yes. I think so.”
At that very moment a figure rushes out from the darkness.
Magnus.
He hurls himself at Hanne and slams something hard against her head. I think it’s a rock. The sound it makes when it crashes into her head is alarmingly dull.
Hanne screams loudly and shrilly, like an animal.
Andreas reacts immediately, throwing himself at Magnus and trying to grab hold of his arms. But Magnus is strong, far too strong for his own good. He raises the rock and slams it against Hanne’s head again.
And again.
As for me, I stand frozen in the snow. Can’t move, can’t speak. Can barely even think. But above all, I can’t understand what’s happening in front of my eyes. That my aunt—a harmless old lady in her seventies—lies severely injured in the snow, while my mentally handicapped cousin tries to kill Hanne.
Then Jake comes running with a big branch in his hand. He stands wide, raises the branch, and swings it at Magnus.
It hits Magnus’s head with a loud crack.
Magnus rolls to the side and falls into the snow. Andreas grabs his arms and puts them in cuffs. Then he looks at me.
“For fuck’s sake, Malin. Were you planning to stand there and watch him kill Hanne? What’s wrong with you?”
Andreas goes over to Hanne and helps her sit up. Pulls off her hat and runs his fingers along her head. Her gray hair is matted with blood.
“Owwww,” Hanne whimpers, and grimaces.
“I think it’s superficial,” Andreas says, deflating a little as if from relief. Then he sits down in the snow with a heavy thud and puts his head in his hands.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
Andreas doesn’t answer. He shakes his head back and forth.
“I’m sorry,” I say again.
Jake
The cop whose name is Manfred pours some hot tea into a small plastic mug and pushes it slowly across the table to me.
It feels strange to be sitting in the old grocery store.
We’re sitting at a table in a room behind the shop. The walls are covered with photographs, documents, and handwritten notes. They form a kind of patchwork quilt. There are Post-it notes here and there. A laptop sits on one of the chairs.
Manfred is special.
I don’t know if I like him—I hardly know him. But he has an elegant style, as if he actually cares about what he’s wearing—even though he’s a man.
He’s wearing an olive green wool suit with leather buttons. The fabric has a slight pink pattern, and a pale pink handkerchief sticks up from his breast pocket. His beard is red, as is his hair, which is a bit damp and stuck to his temples.
I sip on the tea and touch the bandage that covers my cheek.
Manfred drove me to the hospital in Katrineholm. They said I probably had a mild concussion and should take it easy for the next few days. I got three stitches as well, and they promised the scar would barely be visible in a few weeks.
I didn’t tell them I wanted that scar, that it’s important to me because it proves what I did for Hanne.
I want it to be there forever, like a silent reminder whenever I look in the mirror.
Hanne also had to go to the hospital, but she didn’t need stitches. I think one of the other police officers drove her back to Berit’s later.
What happened to Margareta and Magnus I don’t know.
“Now let’s try this again, then I’ll take you home,” Manfred says. “Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Did you meet Hanne in the woods the night she was found?”
“Yes. It was a Saturday.”
“Saturday the second of December,” Manfred says, running a hand over his beard and making a s
craping sound.
“I think so. I didn’t check the date.”
“And when you did, she mentioned that Magnus or Margareta had hurt Peter.”
I consider how honest I should be.
I’ve decided not to mention the diary. Hanne wouldn’t want Manfred and the other police officers to read about how sad and ill she was, even if the book contains important information.
But now Margareta and Magnus have been caught. The policemen have found Magnus’s disgusting murder basement and Peter’s frozen body. And apparently P’s car was in Margareta’s barn. So Hanne’s diary can’t really be that important anymore. They have all the evidence they need.
“She said that, yes.”
Manfred nods and writes something in his notebook.
“And then she told you Magnus had kept a woman prisoner in his basement?”
I nod.
Manfred lays down his pen and massages his temples. His hands are huge. When Dad sees hands that big he usually calls them “toilet lids.”
Manfred puts his toilet lids on the table, meets my eyes, and I immediately feel nervous, because his expression is so stern. Just like Dad when he’s about to chew me out.
“I have to ask,” he says.
I nod, because I already know what’s coming. I’ve been thinking about it since I left the Katrineholm hospital. Twisting and turning it in my head like a Rubik’s Cube.
“Why didn’t you tell anyone? You must have known it was important. That Margareta and Magnus were suspected of very serious crimes.”
Manfred looks at me.
“The truth, Jake,” he says quietly. “You have to tell the truth. Do you have a problem with that?”
I don’t respond.
Instead, I look down on the worn surface of the desk. At the hundreds of tiny scratches that came from all the people who ever sat here: men, women. Maybe even children.
But nobody like me.
No one aberrant.
“I thought that police officer was already dead,” I say, and trace one of the scratches with my finger.
Manfred sighs a little.
“Yes. He probably was already dead. But still. You couldn’t know that for sure. Right?”
“No.”
“So why didn’t you say anything, Jake? Why? I think you know a lot more than you’re saying. And I believe you told someone else, too. Someone who called the police and tipped us off.”
I shiver, but not from the cold—I’m still wearing my coat and Manfred has the floor heater on full blast, and it’s pointed right at us.
“Jake?”
I shake my head slowly. I want to say it, but it’s as if the words get stuck in my mouth and refuse to come out. As if all my strength and determination fell off that cliff along with Margareta.
Manfred sighs again. Stands up, walks over to the wall, and grabs a small paper box. Then he comes back, sits down, and puts it on the table.
The box is brown and maybe ten centimeters long and five centimeters wide.
He meets my eyes, opens the box, puts a hand in it, and takes out a small, transparent plastic bag. Places it in front of me on the table.
I lean forward to get a better look.
At first I think it’s empty, but then I see it.
A small gold-colored sequin glitters inside the bag.
“Jake?”
Manfred’s voice isn’t angry; instead, it sounds almost pleading.
I close my eyes, because I don’t want to look at the sequin. But there’s no way to shut the images out: the glittering dress, the lipstick, and Hanne’s soaking-wet, injured body creeping out between the bushes. It almost feels like I’m standing there again, that I’m back in the woods, surrounded by the smell of wet soil and rotting leaves, the rain whipping against my face. Yes, I can actually see Hanne in front of me. But she looks different now. She smiles at me and stretches out her hand.
I saved her, I think. I did that.
I look at Manfred, at his elegant suit and his pale pink handkerchief. At his rosy round cheeks, and his tired eyes.
Maybe he’ll understand?
He raises one eyebrow.
“Jake?” he repeats, as if it were a question.
And then my thoughts scatter again—flying away like birds or butterflies, whispering to me that maybe everyone is sick or weird, if you look closely enough. Or that maybe there’s no such thing as sick or healthy. And that maybe there’s nothing wrong with wearing a dress, even if your name is Jake, and you live in a backwater like Ormberg, and unfortunately one day you’ll grow up to be a man.
A dress is just a dress. A piece of fabric that you can like if you want to.
But killing somebody?
That’s wrong for real, because death lasts a very long time.
“Yes, it was me,” I say. “I like dresses. Do you have a problem with that?”
* * *
—
Manfred drops me off in the driveway of Ormberg’s most beautiful house. Before I get out of the car, he puts a hand on my shoulder.
“Well done, Jake,” he says. “Well done!”
Only that, then he falls silent.
I open the door and jump out of his big car. I throw my bag over my shoulder, squinting in the bright morning light, and start to make my way to the house. The snow crunches under my feet, and the front door opens just as Manfred pulls away.
Dad is standing inside.
He takes a step out into the snow, and then another down the stairs, even though he’s not wearing shoes. Then he starts running toward me, throws his arms around me, and hugs me harder than I can remember him ever doing before.
“Jake, goddamnit. You scared the shit out of me!”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
We stand there for a moment. Dad’s breath is warm and smells like beer.
“We can’t stand out here,” he says finally. “I’ll freeze my ass off. And my toes. Come on, let’s go inside!”
Everything looks like usual at home. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it feels like something should have changed. As soon as we step into the hall, I start to worry what Melinda will say when she sees me. I’ve pushed that thought out of my mind for the last few hours, but now it comes back, roaring like a jet into my head.
“Melinda?” I ask.
“With Markus,” Dad says. “Do you want something to eat?”
“No, thanks. We had a hot dog on our way back from Katrineholm.”
Dad nods, and looks at me. Reaches a hand toward the bandage on my cheek, but freezes before touching me.
“Damn! I just can’t believe it. You saved that old lady’s life.”
“Yes.”
“Honestly, I didn’t think you had it in you.”
“Have what in me?”
Dad shakes his head.
“Oh, forget it. But I wanna hear everything later. You probably wanna rest for a while. You probably didn’t get any sleep.”
I nod and head up the stairs.
My room looks the same, as well: The soft, thick carpet tickles my feet, and the posters, hung on the wall with tape, have come loose here and there and flutter a bit in the draft from my windows. Even the unmade bed and the dirty socks and the underwear lying in a pile on the floor are exactly the same.
I sit down on the mattress and feel the fatigue overtaking me. My head and cheek ache, my legs are stiff, and nausea lurks just below my throat.
Slowly I let my body sink down into the mattress. Pull the blanket over me without taking off my clothes. Close my eyes.
I’m so tired. I think I could sleep for days.
When I turn on my side, I feel something hard against my neck, like a Lego. I sit up on my elbow and examine the object. Turn on my bedside lamp and hold it up to the lig
ht.
It’s a small package, not much bigger than a matchbox, and wrapped in gold paper. “To Jake from Melinda” stands in round, slanted handwriting. And Melinda has drawn a heart next to it. The pen must have stopped working when she did it, because sections have been filled in with a different-color marker.
I take off the paper and throw it on the floor.
Inside is a small box.
I open the box and see a bottle with a pink top. I take it out and hold it closer to the light.
It’s nail polish with tiny gold flakes in it. When I shake it, the glittery particles hover in the liquid. It reminds me of those glass globes with a miniature winter landscape inside, where the plastic snow swirls when you turn it over.
Malin
Mom is sitting at the kitchen table when I come home the next morning. Her eyes are red-rimmed, and a balled-up tissue sits on the tablecloth in front of her. When she sees me, she rises and smooths down the blouse that’s stretched over her heavy bust.
I go over to her and give her a hug, but she doesn’t hug me back. Instead, she pats me on the back, as if I were a football player who’s just scored. The top of her head barely reaches my shoulder, and I feel a sudden tenderness for her.
“Malin,” she says, pushing a lock of hair out of my face. “Sweet baby.”
I sit down on the chair next to her and wonder how much my colleagues told her about what happened. But I suppose she knows most of it, since Manfred sent two people to interview her as soon as he got to Ättestupan.
When it became clear that my aunt and cousin were murder suspects, I was pulled off the investigation. Hanne and Peter must have been on their trail. Of course, they didn’t tell the rest of us, because my family was involved.
I don’t know what’s going to happen now, but Manfred told me to go home and rest up. Still, I stayed in the woods for a long time, walked in circles around the cairn before continuing on to the ironworks. Then spent the rest of the night in the office, reading preliminary investigation protocols.
I think I was trying to understand.
I don’t know if I feel any wiser. Margareta and Magnus are surely guilty of terrible crimes, and I’ve lived my life here, side by side with them, and never suspected a thing.
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