She had felt like this before. Often, when they played, her little sister, Mai, had sat on her, held her hands tightly and yelled, Try to escape, Pim. Try to escape, if you can!

Then she had to fight to get free, to cast the weight off her chest. Mai had almost choked with laughter. It was just a game. But it wasn’t now.

No part of this was a game.

The room had no windows. It was small, with a wooden floor and ceiling. It was cold and damp.

She thought about Noi and began to cry. She should have stayed with her, shouldn’t have left her alone on the train.

She slowly pulled one leg up, shifted her weight onto her knees and sat up. Her eyes darted around the room, looking for a way out.

Where was she?

She had no idea.

And no one else had any idea that she was sitting there with her hands bound, her mouth taped shut, in a strange country.

Her legs shaking, she stumbled forward toward the wall, stood with her back to it and began feeling for something sharp.

Finally she found an uneven spot in the planks and immediately began to rub the rope against it. She pushed her back against the wall, up and down, to the sides, fighting and tearing to get the rope to break.

* * *

Jana Berzelius placed her notepad in her briefcase and left the conference room.

Outside the window, she saw snow falling heavily in the light gray darkness. She placed her hand on the shiny handrail and walked down the stairs from the third floor to the garage. The stairwell smelled like dust and Pine Sol. She stepped slowly, listening to the echo of her high heels and thinking about the investigation they had just begun. She was back to doing what gave her purpose—that meant something: a job, punctuality, achievement. She felt energetic and strong again. She wanted to focus on what lay ahead, on her future.

At that moment, her cell phone rang. She stopped, pulling it out of her pocket, but when she saw it was her colleague Per Åström she silenced it and put it away.

She had reached the first floor and was about to continue down the next flight when she stopped suddenly.

Through the glass door that led to the main entrance and reception area of the police station sat the thin, black-clad kid she had met the other evening at the entrance to Knäppingsborg.

Robin...Stenberg.

What was he doing here?

He sat with his elbows on his knees, one leg bobbing up and down with nervous energy.

She took a step forward, wanting to go into the reception area and talk to him, but a stronger impulse convinced her to instead leave the station.

Then Robin got up from the chair and was soon out of her field of vision.