Chapter 30
Kjell
"Let me repeat, Jakob." I sigh heavily and place the pens I scattered on my desk during the day back in their holder. "The Blohm article is dead."
His forehead wrinkles, and he pushes his lower lip forward. It's undeniable: he doesn't understand. And I wouldn't either in his place.
"Something's not right here," he says, concerned. "Before you went to Öland, you were sure you had a major story in your hands."
My stomach ties itself into knots. "I was mistaken."
Oh God.
I don't want to lie to him, but what else can I do? If I confide in Jakob about what I've found out, everything could spiral out of control. He'll publish Sky's story, and that would not only be her downfall but mine as well.
"Bullshit." His hand slams on the desk. I've never seen him like this before. What the hell is wrong with him? "As if you've ever been wrong about something like this. You just have to look at people to know they're hiding something."
That might be true, but it's not as simple anymore. My once clearly defined boundaries have become soft lines that blur into each other. So much so that sometimes I can't see them anymore.
"Why are you doing this?" There's disappointment in Jakob's voice, and that's even worse than the fear that had gripped him before. "Do you have something going on with that girl? Is that why our dream doesn't matter to you anymore?"
Of course, it still matters to me. But Sky means just as much to me, at least. I jump up from my chair to release some of the pressure building inside me. "We don't need the Blohm story; there are much more interesting stories out there."
"Then it's true." My best friend shakes his head in frustration. "Two months ago, you fought theRyktesspegelnwith all your might. You were so upset about your journalistic integrity that you wanted to publish under a pseudonym."
"And that's still the case," I quickly clarify, avoiding any mention of Sky and me. None of those articles will ever be published under my name.
At this moment, I realize how lucky I've been so far. If Sky had stumbled upon any of my previous articles, she would have known who I really am.
What if it still happens? And before she's ready to deal with it?
No, she won't find out. OnlySanningens Ögonblickhas my name, and it's an insignificant newspaper. Besides, currently, they only publish one issue per quarter. She would have to actively search for it to find out. And even then, it could be a simple coincidence. After all, I'm not the only Kjell Mattson in Sweden.
I shake off the unease from my body, but it clings to me. In desperation, I look at Jakob. "If you don't have an idea for a story, I'll find one myself. No problem."
His shoulders slump forward heavily. "Do that," he replies, rubbing his eyes, which have deep shadows under them. "But do it quickly, okay?" I've heard that pleading tone again in our phone conversations during my time on Öland.
He's hiding something from me, and I've known that for longer than just today. Our situation might be much worse than he's admitted so far.
I feel a cold fear creeping up my spine, a fear I've never had in my life: the fear of the truth. And what it's connected to. The pressure it would impose on me. The impossible decision I'd have to make. The consequences it could bring.
Heaven, what have I become in the past few weeks? Since when do I fear the truth?
"I have to go now," I force out, not giving panic a chance to take over, and grab my jacket from the desk chair.
Jakob says nothing and just looks at me sadly.
"See you tomorrow." I rush out of the office.
Down the stairs, out into the cold winter night. Neither the crisp air nor the starry sky can calm me. I bury my hands in my jacket pockets, feeling the plastic packaging from Milan that's still there. The grissini is reduced to crumbs, but I crush it once again with my fist.
My questions started all this mess.
And thanks to her answers, I'm now trapped in a web of lies. The sticky threads are closing tightly around my neck, yet I quicken my pace to get to Sky's as soon as possible.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and reread her message from this afternoon.I need your help. 7 pm, at my place, it says, and she didn't need to write more because I remember the promise I made to her on the drive back to Stockholm.
That promise, at least, I'll keep because it was supposed to be the truth.
