Page 108
Ronja spun Curlers’ number on the rotary and skirted a glance to see he was watching her. She covertly pressed the receiver button to cancel her dialing and completed a quick zero for the operator.
Through the receiver, a voice said, “Operator, how may I help you?”
Ronja exuded a fake cheerfulness. “It’s me. I lost the location, what was it again?”
“I’m sorry,” said the woman on the other line, “what is your need?”
“Give me the phone number. Let me call them?”
“Ma’am, I’m not quite clear—”
“I’m sure it was the last number dialed. Go on, I’ll wait.” Ronja kept her cool, feeling Peter hover.
The operator said, “The number you just called?”
“Yes, yes hurry please.”
“Would you like me to connect you?”
“Oh, you found it! Yes!” Ronja stretched the cord to the kitchen junk drawer, opened it, and retrieved a scrap of paper and pen. Her heart thundered as she listened to the operator connect her.
One ring.
“Mmm hmm,” Ronja wrote down random digits, shooting a quick grin to Peter.
Two rings.
“Wh-what was that last number?” she continued the charade.
“Hello?” answered a man.
Ronja dropped the pen. The kitchen grew dim, shadowy. She dug her nails into the countertops.
“Hello?” the man’s voice said again.
She hung up.
Ronja gunned the engine of the wrecker. The radio was tuned to a scratchy pop station out of the Twin Cities. “Money for Nothing” played its crass electric guitar tones. The road in front of her wavered, and her gut began tossing itself. She let up on the gas. On the steering wheel, she drummed her nails.
“Mamma?” Ulla’s worry from the passenger seat sounded far away to Ronja. “Are you okay?”
Are you okay? Peter had asked, eyes on the clenched receiver in Ronja’s hand. Did you get what you needed?
Ronja nodded to Ulla. “Yes, yes, älskling.” She zeroed her vision on the road, spotting the state patrol ahead. Her nails continued their rhythm, counting out the beats of her next steps.
First, tow the car. Then, plot her and Ulla’s disappearance.
She pumped the brakes and maneuvered the wrecker behind the Dodge that was belly up in the ditch.
Ulla craned her head to assess the damaged car. She pushed open the door, sending in strong winds that were left wild and unchecked on the highway. She stuck her head back in, her ponytail flapping across her cheek. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
Ronja opened her door, inhaled, and jumped down. Her boots sounded on the asphalt as she went to join Ulla, her mind a rapid machine. How much time did she have? How much time before the man on the other end of that phone line, the one Peter had been speaking to—Gabby—the one responsible for plotting Ronja’s murder twelve years ago, would snatch her and finish the job?
The asphalt tilted and smashed her.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Ulla
