Mariana Hermansson had backed against one cell wall as he screamed at the top of his lungs. She stepped forward, stood close to him again; she simply didn’t like when people tried to scare her.

“I warned you, Ewert, do not doubt me again. I even told you it would be the same as losing me, either you trust me or you don’t. But you won’t listen! You run around accusing me and Sven and Wilson, and then you do it again! I understand that this is stressful, that the whole investigation is personal for you—I’m even happy that you can feel anything at all. But now, Ewert, you’ve lost not only me, you’ve lost yourself.”

“You’ve changed your pattern, Mariana.”

“What?”

He was no longer screaming.

And yet, his statements were sharper, more aggressive—they cut deeper.

“I’ve had you followed. You lie about canceled meetings, spend time in places you have no connection to.”

“What did you say? You had me followed? Who . . .”

She stopped short. She’d seen a movement on Sven. Some discomfort on his face.

Shame.

That was the expression. She was sure of it.

“You . . . ?”

And now he looked down at the cell floor.

“You, Sven? Have you . . .”

“Yes. Ewert asked me.”

A cell is a tight space. Too tight for two people’s rage.

And now Mariana Hermansson’s fury crashed into that of Ewert Grens.

“Ewert?”

“Yes?”

“When we’re done with this, when this investigation is over—you and I are over, too.”

“Excuse me?”

“After ten years? Everything we’ve gone through? And you still don’t know if you can trust me!”

“People will do anything if they’re forced to, Hermansson. Is someone threatening you? Like Hoffmann? I would understand if that were the case, and if so, we can turn it back on them, if you just let me . . .”

“Ewert, it’s me.”

“What?”

“I admit it.”

Now Sven lifted his gaze from the floor.

Now Grens punched the wall with his other fist.

“You, Mariana?”

“Yes, it’s me. I’m Wilson’s secret relationship.”

It was so quiet.

Still.

Despite three people breathing in so little space.

“Now I’m getting a little . . . Wilson?”

“Yes.”

“So you and he . . . ?”

“Yes.”

There was a small stool next to the bunk, just like in all the other cells. Grens sank down onto it, sank into himself.

“So . . . so . . . that was what your small lies and canceled meetings and strange walks were all about?”

“Yes.”

It was no longer just his hands and knuckles . . . it was as if he’d run his whole body straight into that cell wall. He’d been going in the wrong direction and someone had stopped him.

Dizzy.

That’s how he felt.