She projected all of her rage onto herself, no longer thinking of him. She hit the wall before giving up and sinking down with her back against it, but she quickly stood up again. Her shirt had gotten hooked on something sticking out of the wall. She heard the cloth tear, and she turned to see a plank with a sharp edge. That’s when she saw the dried blood that had run down the wall.

She took a step back, looking down at the floor, and saw the spots of blood that had fallen like raindrops. They had created tiny puddles, tiny dark red puddles.

Her eyes searched around the boathouse again. One of the planks stuck up from the floor. She shone her flashlight on it, crouched over it and pulled. She suddenly thought that the contents of her boxes might be in there. But it was only a plastic bag.

Its contents astonished her. A shirt, some cash and a dozen passports.

The passports showed different Asian women. The names told her nothing, and she flipped through them quickly. She was about to put them back in the bag when she suddenly saw a face she recognized—Pim was staring back at her from one of the photos.

But the passport didn’t say Pimnapat Pandith.

It said Hataya Tingnapan.

Just then, she heard a sound from the upper floor. She stuffed the passport and a few bills in her pocket, turned off her flashlight and made herself as small as possible. She held her breath, listening.

It was someone crying.

She felt her way to the stairs, putting her foot on the first step, which creaked a warning. She forced herself to slowly climb the stairs.

A new sob.

She crept forward as soundlessly as she could. She stopped, listened, but didn’t hear any movement on the next floor. She turned the flashlight on again. The light roved across the walls, passed over the floor, was reflected in a chain and then caught a face.

A girl.

She sat very still. Her eyes were closed and her face was as pale as frosted glass.

“Isra?” Jana said quietly.

* * *

Thick snow blew over the road and Anneli Lindgren felt the car slipping slowly toward the curb. She braked, released the clutch and grabbed the steering wheel firmly to maintain control over the four wheels sliding on the icy street.

She turned into a parking spot, hid her face in her hands and let the tears fall into her palms.

She felt completely exhausted. Everything had gone to hell. Completely to hell.

She got out of the car and stood in front of it with her arms wrapped around herself, taking deep breaths.

A few yards away, in the light of the headlights, she saw a playground. A single swing hung on a metal frame and moved slowly in the wind over tall snowdrifts. The cold iron gave off a shrill sound. Sorrowful and irritating.