Chapter 8
Kjell
I tap my notepad with the pen softly as Skady seems to search for an answer.
No.Sky. That's what she wants to be called, making this situation even more peculiar along with her instructions. It's evident she wants to keep her identity a secret. But why? Doesn't she realize that her information can be found in the birth registry? Anyone who knows how could uncover that Blohm has a daughter. Even if there are no public photos of Sky, her appearance could likely be discovered through thorough research.
With her chin raised, she stares at the back of the taxi driver's head. "The third rule, no questions," she states matter-of-factly.
Since she opened the door for me today, her behavior has been strange. At times, she seems like a new, fun-loving Sky. Then I catch glimpses of the old, haughty Sky. Just like now. How she doesn't even look at me when she speaks. The arrogant way she formulates her instructions.
That alone is why I manage to continue deceiving her.
Incredible as it is for me, in the past twelve hours, I've actually lied twice—twice as many times as I have in the five years before.
Half the night, I searched for this Söderberg. On the fifteenth call I made this morning, I finally got it right. With a sick feeling in my stomach, I pretended to be an employee ofTouch av lyxand declined the job for Milan.
"Note that down. No questions." Sky's voice brings me back to reality.
I pretend to jot down the third absurd rule as well. "And what if I want to know where the restroom is?"
She snorts. "Then you follow the signs that say 'restroom.'"
"Very funny," I reply dryly.
Not a second later, she turns to face me, fixing her gaze on me. She even squints her eyes a little as if that would help her see me better. "Yes," she murmurs absentmindedly. "Very funny."
It's not easy to guess what's going on in her head. Perhaps she's considering how to get rid of me, or maybe she's wondering why my face looks familiar. Does she remember after all?
Nonsense. During her numerous visits, she never consciously looked at me; that was far beneath her dignity. Therefore, it feels strange to be looked at so intensely by her today. An odd fluttering sensation stirs within me. I feel vulnerable to her and her deep blue eyes.
"And what if I need permission for specific shots?" I continue to ask because she is the last person I want to be vulnerable to. The first two rules were already ridiculous, but this one takes the cake. No one can ask no questions. How is that supposed to work?
She clears her throat, then raises her eyebrows. "I said no questions, and you're already asking the second one in a row. What part of that didn't you understand?" Skady, alias Sky, tries to sound strict, yet something in her tone isn't forceful or commanding.
It's fear.
She can't fool me; I know she's hiding something. Is it just that she's Blohm's daughter? Or is there more?
The last rule suggests there is. No questions. That practically screams secrets. But for now, I'll leave it at that.
I raise my hands in a pretended compromise. "Understood," I say.Challenge accepted, I think, already searching for ways to make her talk without asking questions.
Unfortunately, it's not that easy. The rest of the way to the airport remains silent in the taxi. I discreetly size her up, but most of the time, all I see are her wild curls. She turns as far away from me as possible, facing the window where the city's facades and then the pre-winter expanse of Stockholm's outskirts pass by. The sun rises slowly behind the trees. Shadows and light play across her head in succession, causing her hair to shimmer.
She wants nothing to do with me, only checking her phone every twenty seconds, paralyzed. I shouldn't care about that, but somewhere deep inside me, it still feels lousy.
I want to learn more about her. I want to know who she is and what's going on in her mind—for work, of course.
We're taken to an outdoor area at the airport where a flashy small plane is waiting. If this doesn't fit the picture perfectly, I don't know what does. Little Skady, alias Sky, was probably showered with amenities her whole life, which is why she turned into such an arrogant cow.
"Must be nice to own a private jet," I say as I follow her up the plane's stairs.
"Mm-hmm," she murmurs so softly that I can barely hear her over the noise of the engines.
"Where may I…" Stop. That would be a question, and I'm not supposed to ask any. "I'll take this one," I say cheekily, pointing at the seat obviously reserved for the most important person on the plane.
An impressive leather chair, similar to an executive office chair. All the other seats are narrow and inconspicuous.
