Bar

Fender

But you guys killed her already, 364 days ago.

The words make me feel like my throat’s squeezing shut.

The pattern on the wallpaper ripples, like the road surface on a hot day.

I run to the window, which I can hardly manage to get open. As the breeze hits my face, I suck in the fresh air.

Who wrote that?

And why?

Do they want to punish us for what happened last year?

The questions jostle around inside my head like a crowd at a concert.

It has to be someone who knew her. Whoever it was, they sent the letter to my address.

And that someone is in this hotel.

Marius?

I try to picture her brother, but he was always a bit slow. Her complete opposite.

Her parents, then?

No. Tom would turn up on my doorstep and tell me how disgusted he was with me.

But I can’t see him sneaking about like this.

I take another look at the neat handwriting. What kind of person writes like that? Could it be a friend from where she lives now? Maybe a new boyfriend?

The idea that there might have been another guy after me makes me nauseous.

I should never have let her go.

I hear voices out in the hallway—and they’re coming closer. It takes a second, but then I recognize them. It’s Kate and Lucas. They’re back!

I slam the window and stuff the newspaper clipping into my jeans pocket. I hear the sound of the key in the door as I run to the bed and drop onto the mattress. Just in time.

Kate and Lucas come in, closely followed by Linnea.

“What happened here?” Lucas gapes as he looks around the room.

I suddenly see the room through his eyes. The curtain is bundled up on the windowsill, the champagne glasses have fallen over, and the silver dome is lying on the floor, upside down, with the empty plate beside it.

“Did you order room service?” Kate asks, surprised.

I shake my head, barely able to speak. “Delivered to the wrong room.”

“But you ate it anyway?”

I nod. My throat is locked. The gold envelope is just sticking out under the heater. I try with all my might not to look at it.

“We came to fetch you to go to the bar. We want a drink.” Lucas looks at me. “Can you handle a drink with that toe of yours?”

I know he’s mad at me for leaving him alone with the girls. Lucas often grumbles when I cycle away after school on Fridays. I say it’s for the band, but of course I’m off to the harbor.

“I’ll cope,” I say in a strained voice.