ELLEN

12.30 P.M.

The questions from Dr Hiralgo were grinding around in her head as she drove out of the parking lot. She’d been there for almost two hours as it was their first appointment and he wanted to form an understanding of Ellen. She was completely worn out, and her body felt heavy.

They should start at the beginning, as he put it. Go through what happened that day, when Elsa disappeared, and process the memories. You should become friends with your history. Not put a lid on it, as Ellen had done for all these years. He had prattled on about identical twins and how complicated that relationship could be, especially if one of them died. How hard it could be for the surviving twin to move ahead and how that person could feel guilt after the death, guilt about being the one who survived. That was why Ellen had a hard time letting go of Elsa. She had heard that explanation countless times from psychologists, therapists, and others who tried to understand her and help her, but it hadn’t helped; they wanted to put her in a compartment, and that only made things worse and made her heart pound so hard that she thought it would stop.

What do you remember? What were you doing? What did you feel?

Everything was murky and unclear. Feelings of guilt mixed with anger and hopelessness. The conversations with Dr Hiralgo wouldn’t fix anything; it was just going to stir up the sort of thing that she didn’t want to remember.

‘Death, death, death!’ Ellen screamed, hitting the steering wheel so hard her palms ached.

How could her mother force her to go to this clown? He didn’t even have a licence to prescribe sleeping pills. As luck would have it, she had a few left.

Dr Hiralgo had asked about her dreams. That kind of hocus pocus. For once she actually agreed with her dad. The image of Elsa burnt in her memory.

She’d imagined Dr Hiralgo as the type that sat on a pillow and inhaled incense, but instead they’d each sat on a stick-back chair in a room that was tiled all over. It was like a big bathroom with white tiles on the walls and floor and black seams that held them all together. No other furniture. It was incredibly strange. Had her mother actually sat there? Ellen couldn’t picture it. And what had they talked about?

He had asked about her father. What their relationship had been like when she was little. The questions had been as numerous as they were intrusive, and Ellen had a hard time remembering.

Then he’d tried from another angle. ‘Do you remember what you had for breakfast that day?’

Of course she didn’t. She was eight years old.

He gave her a little notepad, where she was supposed to write down everything she thought of so they could talk about it next time they met. Little fragments. Dreams. Whatever.

She didn’t want to. No — she couldn’t go there any more.

Slowly she drove up the street in the Östra Villastaden neighbourhood. She didn’t really know what she was doing there, but for some reason she’d got the idea that she ought to drive past her father’s house. He was at work anyway at this time of day, so there was no risk of running into him.

She turned on the stereo. Didn’t know what she was listening to. But she needed sound.

‘Welcome to Suburban Idyll Deluxe,’ she said out loud to herself as she drove past the homes from the nineteen-twenties in different pastel colours. Here, everyone lived in their little bubbles, as if the world were a fine place where everyone was happy and fortunate. Everyone was friends and drove each other’s kids to soccer practice and such. You focused more on bouquets of fresh flowers and what fruit the kids should take with them to school than on getting involved in world politics and the refugee crisis and how the world was in the process of falling apart. For God’s sake, she thought, but knew it was hypocrisy — she was just as awful herself.

And in reality, they were probably unfaithful to each other, the whole lot of them.

Ellen found herself thinking about a friend in high school who lived on this street, but a few houses further down. His parents had socialised with the neighbours across the street. One summer they’d been on holiday together, and when the summer was over his mother moved in with the neighbour and the other mother moved in with Ellen’s friend and his father. Completely undramatic. They simply exchanged partners. It worked for six months, then the neighbour’s dad came over with a shotgun and wanted to shoot Ellen’s friend’s dad.

In the end they all moved.

And into the villas moved new, happy families.

Slowly she drove up to her father’s house. She’d forgotten that it was pink. Elsa’s colour. Because they were identical twins, people had a hard time keeping track of which was which, so they’d each been assigned a colour. Elsa became the pink little princess, and Ellen got yellow. Yellow was ugly. She felt completely cold inside, though it hurt at the same time.

It was clear enough that all that had had nothing to do with anything, but it sure as hell hurt. Every time. It was as if she was stepping on the same mine over and over again. Like a toy train that just circled around and around, and broke into different pieces every time it went through the tunnel. Each time it needed to be built up again, but small pieces disappeared along the way.

She stretched up in her seat and tried to see into the garden, but a big hedge hid the view, and it was only possible to peek in through the gate. For a brief second, she thought about going in, but realised she wasn’t strong enough and so continued staring at the well-tended garden with the pool. She hadn’t remembered that they had a pool and had a hard time taking her eyes off of it.

That he could even have a pool, considering that one of his daughters drowned. Actually, she didn’t understand how anyone with children could live near water.

When she’d driven past so far that she couldn’t see any more, she turned her eyes ahead. Was forced to slam on the brakes and was thrown forward against the steering wheel, even though she was driving so slowly.

She was only a few centimetres from having run over a girl on a moped.

The girl had no helmet. Her hair was tied up in a bun on the top of her head and she was wearing a short, extremely short, black jumpsuit and dark sunglasses.

Ellen tried to unbuckle the seatbelt to get out and apologise, but couldn’t get it undone. Shaken and unfocused, she swore and rolled down the window instead. The girl on the moped accelerated.

‘Wait!’ Ellen shouted.

The girl turned towards her, raised her hand, clenched it, and slowly raised her middle finger and formed her mouth in slow motion.

Fuck. You.

Then she sped away.

Ellen leant back and closed her eyes. Tried to breathe regularly and made herself push away the image of what could have happened.

She didn’t know how long she’d been sitting like that when the phone rang.

‘Ove.’

‘I’ve been checking up a little, and those bastards have messed up. I’ve known Börje a long time, and he’s not like that, he’s a good friend of mine and a really capable policeman.’

You’re all cut from the same cloth, she thought.

‘But I have someone here with me who is going to relieve the Nyköping police of press questions during this investigation so that they can focus on the right things.’

‘And …’

‘Yes, you’re going to be taken very good care of and you’ll get sufficient insight into what’s happening in the investigation so that you’ll keep quiet about your audio file.’

‘But …’

‘If I hear talk about Börje and his colleagues’ little misstep, I have plenty that I can disclose concerning you, too. You can’t get this information confirmed by anyone in the police force. Do we understand each other? Listen then, because I’m only going to say this once.’

‘Mm, I’m listening.’ She pulled down the sun visor and looked into the mirror. Slowly formed her lips.

Fuck. You.

‘I can confirm that it is Liv Lind, forty-one years old. She was beaten to death and died as a result of the injuries. Assault.’

‘When did she die?’

‘Sometime between eleven o’clock and five in the morning, we think.’

‘Give me something else.’

‘She was pregnant.’

‘What?’ Ellen sat up. ‘Who’s the father?’

‘Bring that up with your new contact. She’ll be in touch with you before long.’