A Nearly Normal Family(73)

Shirine looks uncomfortable.

“That sort of thing can certainly be a tragedy.”

“I mostly just wanted us to move on. We were already a family, you know?”

“I understand.”

“Don’t do that to your little girl, to little Lovisa,” I say quietly. “Promise me.”

“I promise.”





* * *



When Shirine has left I think about Michael Blomberg’s idea, to place the blame on Linda. An “alternative perpetrator,” as he put it. He has discussed it with Mom. He must have.

I know how it works in Sweden. If there are two potential perpetrators, it must be proven beyond all reasonable doubt which of them did what, or that both are equally guilty—otherwise neither one can be convicted. I’ve always thought this was messed up and ought to be changed.

My heart aches when I think of Amina. I miss her so much. Amina. Mom. Dad.

I think about when I was little and my dad was my favorite person in the world. Can it go back to being like that? Is it even possible? Or is everything ruined?

Maybe it would be best to confess everything. It would be simplest. For me to tell the whole story to the police and end this shit.

Then I look around. The smell, the walls, the boredom. Time that never passes, the nights that kill me. I’m not going to be able to handle it; soon I won’t be able to deal with it anymore. I thump my head on my pillow and scream. I have to get out of here!





64


“This is just nuts,” Amina said when I told her what had happened. “What if she’s right? How can you be sure it’s Linda who’s the psycho and not Chris?”

“Come on. If there’s anyone who would recognize a psychopath, it’s me.”

We were walking our bikes through the park as a big group of middle-aged women in running tights and colorful sneakers did fire hydrants on the nearby lawn.

“Did she seem … off?”

Amina looked at me and I didn’t know what to say.

“Isn’t it pretty ‘off’ to track down a girl who’s dating your ex?”

“Maybe,” said Amina. “But she said she wanted to warn you. If you don’t have feelings for him anyway, maybe you might as well…”

I shot her a look of annoyance.

“I know Chris.”

“You’ve known him for what, three or four weeks?”

“Long enough to know he isn’t a psychopath.”

Naturally I was curious what was in the drawer Linda had been talking about. But I decided not to mention it to Amina. It would only give her more fodder.

“Are you going to tell Chris?” she asked. “That Linda came to H&M?”

“I’m not sure.”

I knew I should. But then again: one person’s ignorance was another person’s power.

“Promise you’ll be careful,” Amina said before we parted ways outside the arena. “You’ve got your pepper spray, right?”

I felt for it in my purse and nodded.





* * *



I biked to Chris’s place, where I showered and changed clothes. He kissed me slowly, and the scent of his neck made my knees tremble.

“You twist up my brain,” he said. “I wasn’t supposed to jump into anything again so soon.”

I wondered what he meant by “anything,” but decided it was best not to know.

We drank wine and played Trivial Pursuit. Chris whistled when I knew which director had been married to Sharon Tate, one of Charles Manson’s victims. I soaked up his praise, but I didn’t think it was the right time to reveal that I’m a bit of an Aspie when it comes to psychopaths.

Anyway, in the end I let Chris win.

No, actually, he won fair and square. He could rattle off a whole ton of kings and dates from, like, before Christ. I’ve never liked history. I prefer the future.

“I’m getting tired,” he said, shaking the last few drops of wine from the bottle.

We stood up at the same time and he rested a hand on my hip. His expression went hard and sharp. He guided me firmly ahead of him to the bedroom.

“Is something wrong?” he whispered into my ear.

I shook my head.



* * *



We’d hardly fallen asleep when Chris’s phone woke us up again. He rolled onto his side of the bed and turned away as he spoke. It was something about a meeting, negotiations, and bidding.

“You’re welcome to stay here and sleep in,” he said, kissing the back of my neck. “I have to head to a meeting right away.”

“Now? What time is it?”

“Five to seven.”

“Fuck no.”

I watched, eyes half closed, as he put on a ridiculously expensive suit and knotted his tie in front of the wardrobe mirror.

“Maybe I’ll stay right here until you get back.”

He turned around and pinched my big toe.

“Kids these days.”

“I’m a teenager. I need lots of extra sleep.”

He smiled and his eyes turned to diamonds.

“Don’t you have to work today?”

“Yeah. Boo.” I sighed. “But I don’t start until ten fifteen.”