“Your handwriting. Not exactly easy to read.”

“It says . . .”

“I can see what it says, Grens.”

The archivist typed something on his keyboard and peered at his computer screen.

“Yes . . .”

A few more clicks.

“. . . it seems to be here.”

“Good. Well then . . .”

“But I’ll need your ID. You know the rules.”

Grens knew. Same thing every time.

Usually around this time Grens would start to raise his voice, his neck and face would flush an angry red, a vein would start to pulsate near his temple. But not today. Ewert Grens took a deep breath and pushed his ID up to the glass for the eyes of the archivist who’d known him for thirty-five years. And it seemed as if the man on the other side of the glass lingered a moment too long—disappointed by this break in routine and this lack of conflict. Then he readjusted his glasses and with an electric beep he opened a secure door and disappeared into the windowless room behind him, then returned quickly with a blue and a green folder that he pushed through the gap.

“You know the rules, Grens.”

“I know the rules.”

“Then you know . . .”

“I know that, just like the last time I checked out classified documents—I can only take them if I promise to copy everything and send it straight to the tabloids.”

He started to leave.

“I won’t disappoint you, I promise.”

•   •   •

Hallway, elevator, hallway.

And with every step that he took the blue and the green folders in his hands grew heavier, almost like a tiny head resting against his shoulder.

The coffee machine. A third cup. Then his office and a Siw Malmkvist song and the folders on his desk.

He stared at them for a long time, first from the vantage of his open window, then the closet, then his corduroy sofa, and finally from the door of his office.

There they lay.

Returning his stare.

He took a step closer.

Put a trembling hand on the top folder. He’d never wanted to return to those tiny hopping feet and that stench unlike any other.

He opened it and met the first page.

Chapter 7

A blue folder. Fairly thick. The archive number written in pencil. Rubber-stamped in the top right corner in faded black:

WITNESS PROTECTION PROGRAM

Ewert Grens leaned back on his sagging sofa, took a swig from his plastic coffee mug, then grabbed four stapled stacks of paper.

REPORT:

Seven pages from the Stockholm Police Commission.

INVESTIGATION PROTOCOLS:

Four pages from the Tech Squad.

AUTOPSY FINDINGS:

Twenty-two pages from Solna Forensic Medicine.

PRELIMINARY INVESTIGATION:

Fifty-four pages of his own investigation.

He looked around the room. She’d slept right here. On the very sofa where he was sitting now.

Back then the corduroy was in much better shape, stripes still basically intact, and the little girl slept with his balled-up jacket as a pillow. Deep sleep. Snoring even. Probably for the first time in days.