Strangers: A Novel(52)

I hesitate briefly before putting the key into the lock. Is Joanna still here? Could she be lying in wait for me, to finish off what she failed to do yesterday?

Nonsense. I asked Ela to take care of her. Did she take Joanna back to her place? Or could both of them still be here, even?

The clicking sound when the latch of the lock snaps back, something I’ve probably never taken note of before … now seems overly loud to me. I enter the hall, listen while holding my breath. Nothing.

A few minutes later I’m certain: Joanna’s not here. I enter the living room, open the bottom right door on the cabinet. That’s where we keep our liquor. I can’t remember when this door was last opened during daylight hours.

I opt for vodka, half-filling one of the heavy whiskey glasses from the shelf above the bottles. The alcohol leaves a fiery trail as it makes its way down into my stomach. It tastes disgusting this early in the day, but it still helps.

My eyes sweep over the entrance to the kitchen and linger there. Without thinking much, I approach it, the glass still in my hand.

Bewildered, I stop for a second when I see the sparkling clean countertop. I walk closer, carefully inspect the spot where Joanna attacked me.

I don’t know if I still expected there to be blood everywhere. I don’t know if I expected anything at all, but still, the meticulous cleanliness leaves me stunned. Joanna tries to kill me, then she just up and cleans the place as if she had all the time in the world …

Stop! I tell myself. Joanna’s in an exceptional situation; her actions can’t be explained by logic. And it might just be that Ela cleaned up the place. Or helped Joanna. I push aside the thought, flickering in my mind, that maybe Joanna cleaned up the crime scene to erase any traces of it.

I go back into the living room, collapse onto the sofa, and take another sip from the glass. When I lean forward to put it back on the table, needles of pain jab me in the back. The aftereffects of the accident. If it was an accident. Was it really that some drunk had lost control over his car? And first crashed into the back of my car, then into the side of it with his second go? How likely is that?

Or did someone ram me on purpose to push me off the road? And not long after Joanna … Hang on. Is there a link between what happened in the kitchen and the car crash? Was that her plan B in case she didn’t manage to kill me?

But that would also mean her attack on me wasn’t in the heat of the moment, triggered by her confused state and without any conscious intent on her part, but a well-devised plan instead. One including a backup plan.

I fight these thoughts back, search for a counterargument, but my mind refuses to let me lose sight of the logic. I feel like screaming. Just sitting there and screaming until the despair, anger, and disappointment are gone.

I want my life back. I need an anchor.

Work. Gabor. I’m going to have to report back at some point anyway.

I’m just about to lean to the side to grab my telephone when I pause. Is this the right thing to do right now? Things have changed for me at G.E.E. as well. This project, the one I’m not supposed to be part of, the one Gabor’s excluding me from. With the help of some of my so-called workmates as well, apparently. Is that really going to help me right now?

Plus, it’s Sunday today. Which means I’d have to call Gabor at home. Not that it’s a problem; just like every other department head I have his cell number. For emergencies.

I pull myself together. Fuck it, why not? Right now. If all this shit isn’t an emergency, I don’t know what is. And if anyone has some explaining to do around here, it’s definitely Gabor. I’ll tell him what I think of all this secrecy bull-crap about the big contract; I’m going to give it to him straight. Now or never.

Gabor picks up after a single ring. I make an effort to greet him in a halfway normal manner.

“Herr Thieben!” he calls down the phone line. “How nice to hear from you.”

I don’t buy his cheerful manner. He’s overdoing it.

“How are you doing? Have you recovered at all from that awful business? My goodness, what a terrible affair. The boiler … Just like that. How’s your partner doing? I heard from Herr Bartsch that you were a bit … displeased that I sent him to your home.”

I’m so fixated on the project that I need a moment to remember what he’s talking about. Then it comes flooding back. The company psychologist, at our house. Funny, I’d completely blocked that out.

“Well, his behavior wasn’t that great either,” I curtly explain. I don’t feel like talking to him about Bartsch right now. “I’m calling about something else.”

“But you haven’t answered my question yet. How are you doing?”

I take a deep breath. “Not so good. I was in a car accident yesterday. Someone forced me off the road.”

“Good Lord. Everything’s happening to you all at once, isn’t it? I’m sorry to hear that. Were you hurt? Were you in the car on your own?”

“Yes, I was on my own,” I explain, feeling irritated. “Must have been some drunk. The police are looking for him. I’m doing OK.”

“Things really don’t seem to be going well for you at the moment.”

“Certainly seems that way. That’s also the reason I’m calling.”

“Oh, do you need more time off? That’s no problem, take as many days as—”