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“This better be good.” Peter screeched the door shut, and she followed him, taking off her mittens and working to unzip her coat. The heat intensified her nausea. I need to talk fast. If she could talk at all. Words, the lack of them, were Linnea’s perpetual nemesis. A short hallway led directly to a tiny bathroom and bedroom. A cramped living area held meager furniture. She flapped her coat lapels to fan her face but made no move to sit. Peter walked past her into the galley kitchen.
“I—I have a few questions to ask,” she said, opening her purse and retrieving an envelope, “and I’m begging you to answer truthfully. I promise you’ll never hear from me again.”
“Too bad. Not every day I get woken up by a pretty stranger.” Peter grabbed a carton of orange juice from the fridge and a glass from the drying rack in the sink. “Want some?”
“No, thank you.” Her heart was slamming. Should I have brought money to bribe him? A lump expanded her throat, and she forced out the vital question: “Are you Ulla Bergstrom’s father?” Ulla. How long had it been since Linnea had spoken her name aloud? She plunged into the longing, the shame. She grabbed her chest as if she could lift herself above it.
Peter paused, the edge of the glass on his lips. He caught his breath and set it down. “Where is she?”
Linnea stared at the dingy, beige carpet. “I don’t know.”
“Is she okay?” His voice was thick.
“I haven’t seen her since 2005.”
“What was she doing in 2005? That wasn’t too long ago. At least not for me.”
Shit. Linnea wasn’t prepared for reverse interrogation. “Ulla and I . . . we were . . . we grew up together. In Mora. We were—close. Before you moved there, and she gave me this—” She undid the flap of the envelope, retrieved the document inside, and unfolded the picture of a Swedish horse figurine. For a beat, Linnea rested into the familiarity of that sweet horse Ulla had given her when they were girls. Its vermillion shine, the rare jewels dotting its harness.
When Peter saw it, he leaned back and cursed. “You have the Dalahäst?” he gasped, referring to it in Swedish.
She shook her head. “No,” she released the pained lament. “No. Not anymore. My ex, he sold it. What do you know about it?”
“Your ex sold it?” His gaze roamed along her designer apparel.
She looked to the heavens, unprepared to explain the role Everett Barnes had had in the betrayal of Ulla. But then Peter laughed, derisively at first, shaking his head as if in disbelief. His eyes filled with—tears? “Why do you care who Ulla’s father is?”
Linnea’s hopes plummeted, and she repeated herself, “Are you?”
Peter eyed her and said nothing. He snatched the picture of the Dala horse and seemed to get lost in the photograph.
“Listen,” she pressed, before the sorrow collapsed her shaking voice. “All Ulla wanted in this world was to know her father. If you’re not, then I think this horse is the key to finding him. Please just tell me anything you know. Anything.”
“Why?” he challenged again.
Linnea hesitated. “Be-because it’s my fault her mother died.” There, she said it. “I know thirty years is a long time to make it up to her, but I . . . ”
Peter’s face changed at the mention of Ulla’s mother. “I loved Ronja,” he whispered. He gave her a sharp look. “If you believe you caused her death, then you owe me a name now.”
She really hadn’t thought this conversation through. Chemo brain? Peter was a convicted felon. An old man, but still. Of course he’d want her name. “Linnea. My maiden name is Larsson.”
Peter studied her, as if drawing back in time, and seemed to find her there. “I know who you are.”
“Did Ulla ever say anything about me?” Linnea couldn’t help herself.
“You were a bitch.”
Her quick breath came out as a squeak. Linnea nodded. What else was she expecting?
“You definitely deserve her hatred.” Peter connected his eyes to hers, but she found no hatred in his.
There was a knock on the door. Taylor.
“Time’s up?” Peter asked.
She held her stomach, the hope of Peter’s truth keeping her sickness at bay, and went to open the door.
Taylor’s face was tight. “Mom.”
