He could never tell anyone about this. What he’d witnessed, everything that had happened recently, and was happening right now, in front of him, was the sort of thing he had no choice but to carry alone. Sooner or later, that’s all you are. Alone.
He felt so stupid, so childish. And Killian—he’d tried to convince Sander to take a step back. So he wouldn’t get hurt. How long had his best friend been lying to him?
As he stood by the window outside the cabin he’d helped his best friend build, emotions stirred in his blood, winding around each other, becoming hard to pick apart: humiliation over having been betrayed and duped; grief over seeing them like this, like a peeping Tom; shame, as if he had done something wrong. And also a peculiar, reluctant heat that seeped through his thighs and into his belly, an excitement that grew as he stood there watching Felicia take Killian into her body, all of him, as though he were witnessing Fate itself.
Something in the distance tore his attention away from what was going on inside the cabin.
A car was coming.
38
“Goodness, you’re still here?”
Gerd stood in the doorway, a thick envelope in her hand.
“I had a supervisor during training who could do that,” Siri said.
“Do what?”
“Sneak up on folks without making a sound.”
“I’m not sneaking.” Gerd stepped into the room. “You just weren’t listening. What are you doing here?”
“I’m working. Isn’t that enough?”
“On the night before Christmas Eve?” Gerd looked at the empty chair on the other side of the desk. “Would you like some glögg?”
It wasn’t long before Gerd had set her envelope on the table, pushed the chair back, and crossed one leg over the other with a steaming glass in hand. The scent of the alcohol-free mulled wine spread through the room, spicy and strong. A lull came over them, a pleasant stillness.
“It’s pretty nice out here,” Siri said at last. “The nature, and everything, the houses. They’re small, and old, but lovely.”
“Yes,” said Gerd. “I don’t think I always notice anymore, myself.”
“Are you from here?”
“From Åled,” Gerd said. “You?”
“From town.”
“I mean, originally. Or whatever the word is.”
Siri paused as she drank.
“Indonesia,” she said eventually.
“Can I say that? ‘Originally,’ I mean.”
“You can. But I’m guessing it’s not a questionyouget very often. And I’ve been in Sweden for almost as much of my life as you have.”
“You know, out here, for us—it’s not easy for people to navigate the right words. Swedish has become a minefield in recent years. Anything can suddenly be wrong. But I didn’t mean any offense, if that’s how you took it.”
Siri didn’t respond. Her eyes on the envelope, she asked instead, “What have you got there?”
“Photographs from the party. There weren’t as many as I thought, actually. Maybe people don’t bring cameras to parties anymore.”
They had, after considerable effort and some help, managed to locate three disposable cameras. Gerd had shown her badge and had the film developed at Göte Karlsson’s Photos on Viktoriagatan in town, while she enjoyed a schnitzelburger from the station canteen a few blocks away. When she returned to Göte Karlsson’s Photos, a large stack of photographs was waiting for her in an envelope on the counter. She thanked Göte, told him to send the bill to the Halmstad police, and took off.
Gerd pulled the photos from the envelope.
