Page 111

She felt the heavy pressure build inside her chest, and it finally burst. She scraped the chair back and went after her mother. Ulla found her in the bedroom. Ronja was robotically touching Peter’s shirts, lifting the sleeve of one and running it across her face, inhaling. Ulla watched her do this, and she finally cried out, “I don’t want to leave him. Neither do you.”

Her mother turned her back, shielding her reaction.

“You took me away from him once. When I didn’t have a choice, and I’m tired of your stupid, cryptic answers. I want to know everything! Why do you think leaving my father again⁠—”

“He’s not your father.”

“He is!” Ulla slammed the bedroom door shut. “I refuse to go with you unless you tell me the truth. And don’t think I don’t know when you’re lying to me!”

“What does Peter tell you?” her mother snipped back, facing her. “Ask him! Ask him why he’s still in contact with the man who tried to have me killed.”

“How—why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to scare you.”

“Peter wouldn’t . . . are you sure?”

There was a sudden pause in her mother’s demeanor, as if she’d contemplated this, too, but then quickly shook her head. She opened her mouth to respond but cocked her head, listening. “What was that?” She rushed to the door, past Ulla, mumbling, “He wasn’t supposed to be home for hours.”

Ulla followed her down the short flight of stairs, crossing the living room to the kitchen.

There he was. His back faced them, still wearing his heavy coat, shoulders slumped, head bent. In one hand was a bottle of Jameson whiskey. His favorite. In the other, Ulla’s letter to Curlers. Peter didn’t acknowledge either of them, just slowly set the whiskey on the table.

Ulla glanced remorsefully at her mother, but her mother kept her eyes away. Her face was masked, serene, and not at all the face of someone about to be caught in nearly a year’s worth of lies.

Ronja went to Peter and wrapped her arms around him, placing a docile kiss on his stubble. “You’re home early,” she cooed, along with Swedish endearments. “Such a wonderful surprise.”

Peter didn’t respond to the touch or the kiss. He set the letter down and ran a palm over his face, wiping his lips.

He stared at Ulla, and she averted her gaze, unable to hide the swell of tears. Her mother picked up the letter, reading it as if for the first time. “You were going to give this to Curlers tonight? Peter, Ulla was going to tell you, she’s moving⁠—”

Peter cut her off. “Ulla, where are you going?”

Her mother continued, “The Cities.”

“I asked Ulla,” Peter said, steadfast.

“Mamma, please,” Ulla pleaded with her. “I can’t.”

Peter shifted to Ronja and placed a tender hand on her round stomach. It was such a fearsome contrast to the growing fire in his eyes. He shook his head, and her mother stepped back, but he gripped her wrist. “Tell me why.”

“Ulla doesn’t want to live in Mora anymore, there are better jobs⁠—”

Peter swiped the whiskey from the table and smashed it against the wall above Ronja’s head.

Ulla stifled a scream. The alcohol stung her nostrils. She focused on the liquid smearing down the wall, joining the littered shards of glass at the baseboard.

The only perturbation in her mother was a subtle widening of her eyes. Peter looked just as collected, as if smashing a full bottle of expensive whiskey was a common occurrence. But then Peter flashed his eyes to Ulla, and she cried harder seeing the hurt in them along with all the memories they’d shared this past year, the first seven years of her life, as if asking whether she found him as disposable as the alcohol soaking the wall and carpet.

He placed that hurt onto her mother. “If this is what I mean to you, Ronja, after all this time, go. But I want that fucking horse. Don’t you think we’ll be even?”

Her mother remained stoic. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t lie.”

“I’m not lying. It’s at the bottom of Lake Mälaren.”

He slammed a fist into the wall.