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The cabbie jostled Ronja awake. “Goodness, ma’am, I was ‘bout to call an ambulance. That’s some impressive jet lag.”

Reality inundated her senses. She fluttered her eyelids, caught the glint of a silver tooth in the driver’s smile, and smelled his bubblegum. “Pick-Nicollet Hotel,” he said. “Biggest we got downtown.”

Ronja’s eyes cut to the tote cinching her wrist.

The driver reached to help, and she accepted his thick, hairy arm around her waist, gently hoisting her. She clocked her vision around the scenery. A red brick monstrosity loomed twelve stories high, obstructing the sun. It looked a bit weary though, like her. Well, she didn’t ask for the fanciest hotel.

Slightly rejuvenated from her brief nap, Ronja paid the driver and tread carefully, not trusting her senses were at full capacity. She entered the double doors, lifting her sunglasses, and went past a couple engaged in a spat next to their stacked luggage. Just beyond the long reception desk was an opening to a restaurant: Waikiki Room. It was endless green booths, straw huts and chairs, people chattering, glasses clinking. It looked busy. Lunchtime perhaps?

She set her sight on the receptionist. The woman talked on a phone sandwiched between her shoulder and ear, writing in a ledger.

Ronja swiveled her attention to the bickering couple. She swiftly bent down, allowing the sunglasses to topple to the carpet, and unclasped the hooks of a baby blue suitcase. The couple paused their fighting, and Ronja retrieved the glasses, casually waving them as if signaling, Ah! There they are! She went toward the desk. And waited.

Soon there came a soft clunk and a collective gasp. The couple’s arguing reached a sudden crescendo. “How did that happen!” yelled the woman. “You didn’t close it?” She dove to the carpet where clothes and undergarments were scattered.

The receptionist dashed over to help.

Ronja darted behind the desk counter and worked fast. She grabbed the blue ballpoint pen, scanned the reservations, crossed one off, and scrawled her alias on it, matching the script.

Hotel key in hand, Ronja exited the elevators, whisking through the hallway. She found room 705 on the brass plate.

Ronja inserted the key and opened the door.

She cried in relief upon seeing the two full beds covered in polyester, candy-apple spreads. Sleep! More appetizing than food, more quenching than water. Ronja collapsed into one. It smelled of smoke and cursed her stomach, but she didn’t care as she unwound the scarf from her long, matted curls, releasing the metallic stench of blood.

She was unclasping her bra when knocking sounded on the door. A voice cried in Swedish for her to open. “Ronja, snälla, öppna dörren.”

A wash of dread covered Ronja. Peter! Her eyes shot to the doorknob turning. Her scrambled brain had forgotten to lock it! Ronja sprang to action but only managed to stumble and slam the door into his foot.

Peter cursed. He was too strong, and he forced himself inside.

She curled into a ball next to the teak desk, digging her fingernails into her knees. Perhaps the heat radiating off her would melt her into the carpet. Should I scream for help? Except she had no energy to scream.

He fell to his knees at her, touched a strand of her bloodied hair. “I thought you were dead.”

Ronja slapped his hand away, too weak to move. Where could she go anyway? Why even be angry now? He’d won. Tracked her across the globe. One step ahead, no less. How had she missed him?

Peter answered her silent question. “I knew your plan all along. My plane landed in Minneapolis before yours, and I waited, praying you were alive, that somehow—Ronja, I’m—” He paused, likely sensing the useless apology would only fan her infuriation with him.

Of course he must have discovered the airline tickets. But when? She mentally chastised her heedlessness, wondering if he was mocking her, gloating in his victory. Why hadn’t he tried to stop her if he knew what she was plotting?

Ronja neutralized her face, though surely he could feel her invisible flames emanating, and she lifted her gaze.

“Are you all right?” A mist encroached the corners of his piercing yet haggard eyes, and his Adam’s apple bobbed as if he were forcefully swallowing the gathering emotion. No, he did not appear to be mocking her at all.

They stared at one another, and he entreated her again. She looked away.

Peter rose with a defeated sigh and tucked his hands into the pockets of his black pants, causing the sleeves of his wrinkled dress shirt to tighten against his biceps. He removed a hand and reached toward Ronja again but then slid it back into the pocket.

She kept her tone even, speaking in Swedish, “Leave before I call the police.”

With a heavy, disbelieving exhale, he replied, “I have a contact in Chicago. His name is Gabby. He said we can stay with his nephew here.” He paused. “Ronja, you have nothing. I can give you what you wanted.”

“I wanted an honest life,” she fumed.

Peter’s remorse turned into a sardonic, closed-mouthed laugh. “Honest? How much money have you already stolen? That was a clever distraction in the lobby. You didn’t want to take the chance they wouldn’t have an open room?” Peter crouched at her level again, resting his forearms on his knees.

Why isn’t he asking about the horse? Ronja slid her eyes to the tote concealing the Dalahäst, lying carelessly on the wrinkled bed.