“Don’t call,” she said again, clearer this time.

He didn’t hear her as he typed in the emergency number. Just as he was about to hit the green call button, his phone disappeared from his hand.

“What the...”

It took a few seconds before he understood what had happened.

She had gotten up and now stood before him with his cell in her hand. Blood was dripping down from her head over her left ear.

“I said you shouldn’t call.”

For a moment, he thought it was a joke. But when he saw her threatening look, he understood that she was serious. He saw how she was examining him and despite being fully dressed, he felt almost naked.

Her eyes swept quickly over him, noting his black hat, heavily lined eyes, tattoo of eight small stars on his temple, pierced lower lip, lined denim jacket and worn-out military boots.

“What’s your name?” she asked, more a command than a question.

“R-Robin Stenberg,” he stammered.

“Okay, Robin,” she said. “Just so we understand each other, I fell and hit my head. Nothing more.”

In shock, he nodded slowly.

“Okay.”

“Good. Take this now and go.”

The woman tossed his cell to him. He caught it clumsily, stumbling backward a few steps and began to run.

It wasn’t until he was inside his apartment on Spelmansgatan and had locked the door behind him that the magnitude of what he had just witnessed sunk in.

Chapter Four

CHAPTER FOUR

THE INTERNATIONAL TERMINAL at Suvarnabhumi Airport in Bangkok was swarming with people. Long lines wound around from every desk, and from time to time the clerks yelled out names of people who were requested to contact the information desk. The sound of suitcases arriving on the conveyor belt at baggage claim thundered through the hall.

Large groups were chattering noisily, babies were crying and couples were arguing about their travel plans.

“Passport, please.”

The woman behind the check-in desk put her hand out.

Pim held her passport with both hands to hide the fact that they were trembling. She had been told not to panic, to relax, to try to look happy. But as the line in front of her got shorter, her anxiety grew.

She had fiddled so continuously with her ticket that it was now missing a bit of the paper in the corner.

Her stomach hurt.

The nausea came in waves, and she wished she could just stick her finger down her throat. She wanted to spit—the amount of saliva in her mouth increased with every wave of nausea—but she knew she couldn’t. So she swallowed, again and again.

Two lines away, Noi stood obsessively flicking her backpack strap. They avoided looking at each other, pretended they were strangers.

For now, it was as if they had never met.

Those were the rules.