Then she continued to search the floor, as far as the ropes allowed her, and finally found a hatch. She tried to pull it, but it was stuck. Her fingers slipped before she could get a grip on it.

Then she heard the sound of a car, and the footsteps, the determined footsteps, outside the door.

She crept back to the corner, sank down and tried to make herself as small as possible. She felt her body trembling.

The door flew open a moment later, revealing the man, who came in and walked straight toward her. He grabbed her arm.

“Did you eat?” he asked in English, looking at her plate.

She began kicking and screaming, yelling that it hurt, that he should let her go, leave her alone. But he didn’t listen, instead pulling her to the bucket and counting aloud. He tightened his grip on her arm, and she knew why.

There were only twenty-three capsules in the bucket.

“Please,” she said. “Let me go.”

“Go?” he said with a sneer. “Where would you go? You’re not going anywhere.”

“I want to go home...”

He laughed loudly in her face.

“Home?”

“Please, please, let me go.”

“You know what? You’re not going home. You’re stuck here with me until you’ve delivered the goods.”

“But I have to go home, I have a little sister who...”

“Sorry,” he said. “To disappoint you, I mean.”

She noticed the door was open and saw the cold, frozen ground outside.

She started hitting in an attempt to get away. She pulled his hair, tried to scratch his face. But the ropes around her wrists made it impossible.

She threw herself backward with the weight of her whole body to free her arm from his grip. She screamed as loud as she could, kicking again and again. He let go. She saw her chance and began running—but she’d forgotten about the ropes and violently jerked to a halt when the ropes became taut.

She crumpled in front of him, silent.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he said.

Picking up the empty plate, he said something she couldn’t understand before disappearing through the door.

She watched as he closed it. The only way out.

* * *

Henrik Levin ended the conversation with a sigh. Yet another murder.

He sensed he was being watched and looked up. His daughter, Vilma, stood next to his bed, looking sad. Her hair was disheveled and her cheeks red.

“Daddy,” she whispered. “I think I have a fever.”

“Come here,” he said, letting her crawl in under the covers. She lay snuggled up against him and he felt her warm skin next to his.

He laid his hand on her forehead.

“You don’t feel like you have a fever.”

“Can’t you check with the thee-mometer?”

He smiled at her pronunciation, climbing carefully out of the bed. He opened the bathroom cabinet and took the digital thermometer from its case.