WHEN MIA BOLANDER opened the car door, she noticed a dog tied next to a fence. It held up alternating paws in an attempt to escape the cold ground under its feet. Its cropped tail wagged and it looked at her with desperation in its eyes, then it began to whimper as if to get her to untie the leash. She thought how in a certain way she felt similarly. She felt just as bound up because of an exclusive fucking wristwatch. But she coveted it, the watch. She would wear it 24/7; she just had to come up with a way to get Martin to give it to her before Christmas.

She cast a glance at the wrapped package on the passenger seat and thought that she would have to get Christmas presents for her mom and brother, too. But with what money? She didn’t know. Had no idea, actually. What would she be able to spend? Thirty? A hundred, maybe? A hundred wasn’t that much, really. The problem was that she didn’t have that kind of cash.

She saw her face reflected in the rearview mirror, inspected it and hated the swollen features and the reason she looked that way. She hated the shame that was written on her forehead, her cheeks, in her eyes, the shame over never being able to afford anything.

Irritated, she got out of the car, slammed the door and walked along the shoveled walkway that led to the white house.

A gust of wind made a hammock sway in the yard and she drew the cold air deep into her lungs while waiting for the front door to open.

“Welcome,” Stig Ottling said.

Mia looked at the plastic entry rug on the floor and the white walls with light green trim.

“Do you live alone?” she asked.

“Now I do.”

Stig gestured with his hand.

“Come in,” he said. “Keep your shoes on if you’d like.”

“If you say so,” Mia said.

“Thirsty?” he asked, going into the kitchen.

“A glass of water would be great,” she said, following him.

Stig opened the refrigerator and took out a pitcher with water.

“Cold and refreshing,” he said, placing a glass on the table.

Mia sat down and took a sip, noticing that it had absorbed some other taste. Possibly onion.

“This is about your property at Garvaregatan 6,” she said.

“Yes, you said that. I prefer to use the old name for the building.”

“Which is?”

“Nyborg’s Wool Factory.”

“Okay. Now, it so happened that two junkies—men, I mean—claim that they were attacked by a woman in your wool factory. According to them she was on her way up the stairs. So I’m wondering first of all what this building is used for.”