Maybe deep down he had still been hoping that he was wrong. That he could knock on the door one last time, shout through the letterbox that this conversation could wait for tomorrow, then wish her a good night and leave. That was no longer possible. So he sent a text message to Hermansson and Sundkvist.

SANDHAMNS STREET 25.

IMMEDIATE REINFORCEMENTS.

WATCH MY SIGNAL.

He’d just finished when the lock was turned again, and now Amelia’s face, though more than an eye and half a mouth, was still obscured by an only partially open door. They observed each other silently, just as they had when they’d sat on the sofa at the Hoffmann family’s hideout. And just like earlier, it started to feel awkward.

“Can I come in?”

And didn’t get any better when she wouldn’t open the door wide enough for him.

“Amelia? I have to come inside. We need to talk. About things that aren’t appropriate for a stairwell chat.”

Another moment of hesitation.

Then it was as if she suddenly made up her mind, no longer stared at him, and allowed the door to swing wide. Ewert Grens stepped into a young person’s apartment, brighter colors than at his home, furniture that didn’t take as much energy as his own. A living space that seemed easy and simple to enjoy. In one corner there was a small workplace with a computer connected to three huge screens. Was it from there that she had observed Piet Hoffmann’s home, his office, and the apartment where one of his employees was killed?

“So, Ameila . . . you’re still awake?”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

He pointed to an armchair with a dozen colorful cushions on it; his leg and hip hurt, like always, and she gestured for him to sit.

“You shot two people. Saved the lives of twice as many. It’s natural not to be able to relax, let alone sleep.”

“Is that why I’m receiving this visit—in the middle of the night? Debriefing? If so, Superintendent, you can leave here with a clear conscience. They offered someone for me to talk to a couple of hours ago. A psychologist. But I told them no thanks.”

After their first few meetings, she’d reminded him of a modern version of Anni. Or a younger Hermansson. Someone who was a little smarter and braver than everyone else. And what she just said should have added to that impression.

“No. That’s not why I’m here. And I’m pretty sure you know that.”

But now he saw someone else. So much younger.

“Please sit down, Amelia.”

With stains on her dress and a cake with five candles waiting for her, singing Happy Birthday as if it were the most important task in the whole world.

“Opposite me, please.”

She shook her head.

“I’d rather stand.”