“It’s a crib sheet, for a test. He can’t have that in the notebook; if anyone finds out he’ll get in trouble.”
“But you can’t just rip it out.”
Sander folded the paper and tucked it into his pocket. Down the road, the Söderströms’ house was a dangerous tower, big and dark and secluded.
“Come on,” Sander said in a low voice. “Let’s get this over with.”
28
The Söderströms’ 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. Acondolence 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.
