Charlotte M. Andersen was still fighting against her promise of confidentiality. That’s how she had lived her life for so long, steady and loyal. Never betray.

“I gave her the name Hannah. With an h at the end, I thought it looked nice.”

That’s why it took such incredible willpower for her to say even that much, though she knew what she was doing was right.

“And the foster family I placed her with had the last name of Ohlsson. So—Hannah Ohlsson. Just as normal as I hoped when she was put into the national registry. Sensible, childless people who had helped with shorter placements in the past. Six months later, they adopted her. I visited regularly back then. She was doing fine. When she turned seven, we said goodbye to each other, my oversight was no longer required by law. I think I’ve run into her a few times over the years here in town, but it’s hard to say, children change so much as they age.”

“Ohlsson?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“A sweet little house about five kilometers outside of town. I’m pretty sure that at least the parents still live there.”

Ewert Grens had honestly never been much of a runner. And age and a permanent limp after a bullet shattered his knee hadn’t made him any better. But that’s what it felt like he was doing now—running. Toward the front door and the parked car. Toward the outskirts of that beautiful summer town. Toward a house where a girl who had once been so alone had grown up and become a young woman.

He hoped he wasn’t too late.

He hoped she was still alive.

Chapter 26

Birger Jarls Street was asleep. Just like the rest of Stockholm’s inner city. Even though it was a weekday and almost time for lunch. The buses were just as empty as the sidewalks, the shop staff moving less than the mannequins, the restaurants without the smell of frying but with butter dishes slowly melting away. Over thirty-three degrees and windless—warm had turned to hot had turned to panic.

Piet Hoffmann didn’t even notice it. However, after a couple of hours of peering into a window on the fifth floor of an office building, he was sure the two men who worked there were on site. When he leaned forward toward his windshield, he could just make out one of them through his binoculars, the man who early yesterday evening sat in a parked car watching Hoffmann’s house while Zofia, Hugo, Rasmus, and Luiza slept. Piet Hoffmann had asked him for a light and the security guard had told him to go to hell without recognizing him at all. Even though they’d worked together a few times. His disguise had held. At least in the dark, with his hair covered and his face partially obscured by an oversized baseball cap.