Ida had her hand pressed on my crotch. I could smell the alcohol on her breath. We were in the bathroom now. Bathtub and shower, a floor big enough for dancing. A gigantic mirror. Ida locked the door behind us.

‘Ida,’ I said again.

‘Don’t say anything,’ she said while looking at me. ‘You don’t need to say anything. No one needs to know.’

I swallowed again.

It wasn’t that Ida wasn’t attractive. She was. She was gorgeous. And God knows I’d dreamt about a gorgeous girl doing exactly this to me, in a bathroom. But all I could see was Mari – her eyes, her hands, her hair – and that stupid text message she’d sent me, the one about me being the best and all, but that she couldn’t be with me any longer.

I guessed Ida could tell, because she suddenly stopped what she was doing.

‘So … Mari could have you, but … I can’t?’

I stood there watching the change in her eyes from one moment to the next. No more seduction. No more lust.

‘Ida, I…’

‘No one says no to me.’

I didn’t know what to say.

‘You’re going to regret this,’ she said.

I tried to think of the right thing to say, something that might repair the damage that had just been done, but nothing seemed right.

‘I’m sorry,’ was all I said.

‘Get out,’ she said.

‘Ida,’ I tried. ‘Don’t…’

‘Just get the FUCK OUT!’

Her scream was so loud I thought someone might hear it, even if the music was still thumping downstairs. I fastened my belt and hurried out. But I didn’t like what I’d seen in Ida’s eyes when she screamed. She’d frightened me.

46

46

Susanne had seen the text messages, but she’d ignored them. She didn’t have anything to say to the police – she’d said everything ten years ago, over and over again. While she was having the worst time of her life. She didn’t have a single thing to add. End of story.

But when she noticed his car coming up the driveway, she didn’t know what to do. She put down her glass, then changed her mind, grabbed hold of it once more and swigged it down, feeling that lovely, beautiful warmth in her chest. She took a deep breath, thinking about what she was going to say, how she was going to handle it. Handle him.

She decided to meet the bastard at the door.

‘So you are home,’ Yngve Mork said as he walked up the porch steps.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said with a smile that felt as fake as a plastic Christmas tree. ‘I was just about to call you back.’

‘Really. Been busy?’

‘Well,’ she said. ‘Yes. Sort of. There’s been a lot to do and … a lot to think about lately.’