“Ida was at Robin Stenberg’s on Friday evening, and she said that she saw a woman and a man outside the apartment when she was leaving. But why are you asking? Are you thinking of taking over the investigation now? Should I be nervous?”

“I think you should be more worried about who’s going to go with you to the hockey game.”

“So you haven’t changed your mind? The popcorn at Himmelstadslunds Arena is fantastic.”

“Goodbye, Per.”

She ended the conversation, went into her office, put the knife on the desk and woke up her computer. Her fingers danced quickly across the keyboard, a little too quickly—she kept mistyping and had to go back and delete, and she realized she was letting her mind race from one thought to the next.

Moving her fingers more slowly, she typed Flashback and hit Enter.

She was met by a sketch of a black-and-white cat with a cigarette hanging from the corner of its mouth. She flipped through various subjects like Computers and IT, Crime and Criminal Cases, and Celebrity Gossip. She used the search field to find Robin Stenberg’s posts.

But the search returned zero results; there were no posts by Robin Stenberg.

She began to search by every keyword she could think of that could be connected to her and Danilo. No results found.

She started over again, finding a thread about a woman who had been assaulted by two men in Stockholm. The post had received sixty-three replies, and many of them knew who the perpetrators were.

She clicked on the search field, wrote assault and battery in Norrköping and got a number of hits. Finally, she saw the hit she’d been looking for.

She sat for a long time, reading the thread about the so-called assault in Knäppingsborg.

Under the name Eternal_sunshine, Robin had written everything online. It was all there. Laid out for the whole world to read. About her, about Danilo.

But she exhaled, because no one had seen anything, no one knew anything. The only witness was Robin Stenberg, and he was dead.

She picked up the knife and replaced it in her purse.

* * *

Anneli Lindgren stood on the threshold to the kitchen in Axel Lundin’s apartment. The appliances were new, countertop polished to a mirror shine. The whole place looked high-end, like it was lifted from the pages of an interior decorating magazine.