Hidden in Snow (The ?re Murders, #1)(18)

How are you feeling now?

Hanna is sitting on the generous pale-brown velvet-covered sofa in the living room, with a blanket over her knees. She is still in her pajamas; she couldn’t be bothered to get dressed today. She didn’t have the energy to cook either; she made a couple of sandwiches and opened another bottle of red wine.

It took her a long time to get to sleep after the conversation with her mother last night.

The scent from a bowl of white hyacinths reaches her nostrils. She doesn’t really understand why the decorations irritate her so much—all the Advent candle bridges in dark wood, the red apples surrounding the chunky candles in lanterns tastefully arranged in groups on the floor. Fragrant fir branches have been scattered across the porch, and white Advent stars hang in virtually every window, spreading their warm glow.

It’s typical of Lydia to decorate the entire house for Christmas, even though the family has spent only one weekend here in December and will be away on their cruise until well after New Year.

To be fair, she probably didn’t do it herself. Last year she’d employed a company to both buy and decorate the tree. Everything was done by the time the family flew up from Stockholm on December 22.

Hanna sighs. She shouldn’t be so negative—Lydia means well. It’s just that she can be a little . . . suffocating.

Her sister’s enormous energy makes Hanna feel small and inadequate, even though Lydia has often been her only refuge and support. Without Lydia as a buffer between Hanna and her mother, life would have been unbearable when they were growing up.

I’m ne, she texts back. She always makes a point of answering her sister’s messages; otherwise three more will arrive in quick succession. Lydia isn’t the kind of person to give up at the first hurdle.

She reaches for the remote to see what’s available on Netflix. The last thing she wants to watch is a feel-good movie where the girl falls into the boy’s arms at the end, to the sound of slushy music. Nor is she interested in crime thrillers—too close to reality. She can’t cope with being reminded of her profession right now.

It’s the only thing she’s ever wanted to be. A police officer.

Before she realized that, the future was unclear, incomprehensible. After she graduated from high school, she drifted around doing casual jobs, mostly in bars in Europe. She partied a lot more than she should have done, demonstrating precisely the lack of character that her mother accused her of.

While Lydia sailed through law school and secured a post as an associate attorney with a prestigious law firm, Hanna perfected the role of the useless kid sister, the one who was incapable of pulling herself together and training for a career.

She tightens her grip on the wineglass. She knows exactly what it was that gave her a new direction in life.

It was the rape in Barcelona.

She can still see the cramped cellar, the irregular gray stone walls, the disgusting smell of damp and mold. The earth floor shredding the skin on her back as she was roughly pressed down beneath the weight of the bar owner.

She can still feel Miguel’s disgusting fingers on her body, the sense of powerlessness as she tried in vain to push him off, make him stop.

He was her boss, and considerably older. She was only twenty-two, young and naive.

Afterward, when she’d made it home to Sweden and the physical scars had healed, her rage and all those other emotions needed an outlet. Joining the police gave her the opportunity to hit back, to stand up and show those bastards that they couldn’t treat a woman however they wanted.

Every time she put away a pimp or an abuser, the sharp edges of the pain inside her softened slightly.

Her phone buzzes again. She glances at the display and gives a start.

What the hell?

It’s Christian. Which means he must have been back to the apartment and found out what she did before she left.

Hanna blushes as she remembers pouring his expensive red wine down the sink. He’d bought it at an auction and was saving it until the day he could afford his own cellar.

At the same time, there is an underlying feeling of satisfaction. It serves him right.

She wonders if he’s checked out his wardrobe.

In a way she realizes it wasn’t entirely rational to cut up his ties or pour ketchup all over his designer suits, but immediately after he’d walked out, she’d searched blindly for a way of getting her revenge. She had to do something concrete. The tears had stopped flowing when she meticulously set about ruining his precious clothes.

She would never have imagined that she could do such a thing.

Hanna has no intention of responding to Christian’s message. She switches her phone to silent and puts it aside.

She ought to eat something, but she isn’t hungry.

She glances in the direction of the kitchen, at the other end of the house. The whole of the upper floor is open plan, with the living room, library, kitchen, and dining room seamlessly flowing into one another. She’s never been particularly interested in interior design; that was Christian’s thing. However, even she can see that the muted shades of gray, beige, and chocolate brown create a tasteful harmony.

Each little brass knob has been carefully chosen. Beautiful reindeer-horn ceiling lamps echo the surrounding mountain landscape and its fauna.

It is only Hanna herself who sticks out like a sore thumb.

She is the detail that jars, an item from IKEA that has lost its way and ended up in Nordiska Galleriet.