He walked through the door and into the kitchen, set down the bagels and opened the top of the espresso machine. "Go on, finish your bath. I know what I'm doing," he said pouring the beans into the grinder.

She didn't say a word. She just stood there staring at him, as he made himself busy with knobs and settings on the machine. She had never actually paid attention to the machine before—she knew it was there, but the thought of using it had never crossed her mind.

Her bath was over. She walked into her bedroom and picked a pair of jeans up off the floor and slipped them on. She rummaged through her dresser, then pulled on a black T-shirt that said "Han shot first." She walked to the mirror rubbing the towel on her head, then ran her fingers through her short black hair.

The haircut was two weeks ago. The left side of her head, the side that was shaved for surgery had eventually grown a few inches long. The rest of her hair was in an odd assortment of layers. She found the salon online. It was within walking distance of her building. If she'd had to pick up the phone to make an appointment, it would not have happened. She would have cut her hair herself. But the site let her schedule online, as long as she prepaid with a credit card. So she did.

The stylist in the black shirt and tight orange parachute pants gasped when he saw her, then began flapping his hands in an excited fashion and calling for things. Salander turned to walk out, but bumped into two girls following behind her, offering soda, coffee, and cookies as they ushered her to the shampooing area. She made a decision. These people weren't malicious and would not harm her, but she wasn't too keen on staying around them long. "I don't have much time," she said.

"Uh huh," the short blond girl nodded. She realized that while the trio were talking to her, they weren't waiting for her to answer or necessarily listening for any answers.

The words "pixie," "Audrey Hepburn," and "rocker" were thrown around as she sat looking at the mirror, her hair smeared with a thick blue conditioning treatment. Some more questions were asked of her, and she responded by staring into the mirror without saying a word. That wasn't a problem though, as the stylist equated her silence with certainty of her total agreement with his vision and proceeded. He turned the chair away from the mirror and began cutting. As he cut, he discussed his burgeoning career, in particular his emergence on the scene preparing hair on movie sets and for large theatre productions. The tall blond girl began applying make-up to her face. After the cutting, products, blow dry, flat iron and more styling, the team turned her around.

The stylist proclaimed her a "manic pixie dream girl." Salander looked in the mirror and leaned forward. The first thing she noticed was the bright make-up and a lot of it, but no Irene Nessler pink lipstick. On top of the base, powder and blush, she was wearing bright red lipstick and lots of eye make-up but in shades of brown, much softer than the thick black liner she normally wore. It looked pretty—not her at all, but pretty. Almost TV news anchor pretty. Yes, she could definitely now host a talk show or the evening news. She would rather have another bullet in her head, but this was proof that she was physically qualified. She looked closer at her hair, short with various layers going in all directions. She grinned because aside from the shininess and amount of product in her hair, it was the same cut she had given herself for years, more or less. The group registered her smile as a success. She tipped them and left the store while the stylist was still explaining her hair care plan.

Now, in her bedroom with Kalle Blomkvist in her kitchen, she looked at her freshly scrubbed face as her fingers worked through her short, but now officially proclaimed stylish, hair. When she walked out, Blomkvist handed her a cup of cappuccino and they moved into the living room. He sat on the couch and she sat across from him in a chair, making sure there was no violation of personal space.

"I like your place," he said.

"I noticed," she said with a grin.

"My apartment wasn't safe. And I knew you would appreciate me staying here to keep an eye on things. And after I stayed awhile...I didn't want to leave. Love the balcony. You have a great view."

"That's why I bought it," she said. They sipped their coffee.

"Your wasp is gone," he said. He realized he hadn't been this close to her with her conscious for over a year now. He was acting casual, nonchalant, but he had been studying her intently since he walked into the room. How different she seemed from the girl he first met and yet, how very much the same.

The last time they were together, he had no idea how quickly she would disappear from his life. Other girlfriends had come and gone without him noticing, but not Lisbeth. Even now, part of him couldn't believe he came to her apartment. How many times had he left her invitations to get in touch with him-and she ignored them all? How many times had he said, I won't contact you again unless you—fill in the blank—call me, write me, contact me, only to turn around and contact her? Why was it that he couldn't get her out of his head? Why did he make so much effort to keep some part of her in his life?

She touched the side of her neck. "Too identifying. Wasn't a good idea."

"I liked it," he said.

"Than you can get one," she said. She sipped her coffee, smiled and said, "Mikael Blomkvist with a neck tat."

"I'll pass." He finished his bagel.

"So," he said, "tell me about your day."

Silence. "I'd rather not talk about today," she said. He shrugged.

"What about yesterday?" he said.

"Ah, yesterday," she said walking back into the kitchen and picking up a small rectangular device. "I got this." She tossed it to him.

"What is it?" he said as he looked at the screen.

"It's a GPS," she said.

"What?"

"Global positioning system. You'll be amazed," she said then moved over to the couch to show him how it worked. "Type in an address." After spending several minutes sitting close to him, explaining how to use it, she looked in his eyes. She was hit by how much she missed him. "Why don't you keep it?"

"You sure?" he said. "You just got it…and you really like it."

"I can get another. Keep this one."

He sat there is silence looking at her. She looked down at her hands and continued, "Keep it…as a present from a friend."

He wanted to tell her then that he was sorry for whatever it was he did that made her leave, but he knew better than to bring it up. He thanked her, stayed to finish his coffee, then left, knowing better than to press his luck. It wasn't until he was home that night and playing with the GPS that he saw it. Under recent locations, an address in Norrtalje. He smiled. Lisbeth wasn't an amateur. She didn't make rookie mistakes. She didn't want to talk about it, but she wanted him to know.