IV


8.12 pm

BEYOND the sequences of numbers on the computer screen, she sees her reflection in contrasts and despairs about the shadows under her eyes. The station is growing quiet but for Stefan's typing, still typing despite the hour, in front of her.

She's read those numbers a thousand times over and they're spotless.

She'd like to know what she's investigating, though. Because it's all been mechanic and methodical, but however far away in time this morning seems, she can only account for the time that passed since she woke up.

Because before she woke up, she was sitting on the couch in her living room, all doors locked and windows shut, her fingers on a trigger, and dying by her own hand. If she thinks about it, it seems like crazy, and each passing minute brings her further and further away from a reality that seems, now, like a bad joke.

Or is this moment, now, and the sound of Stefan's fingertips hitting the keys, the bad joke?

The splitting headache has been there the whole day, but now, in the quiet, she becomes more aware of it.

8.25 pm

"Hey, Stefan…" she begins.

He mmms. His typing makes for a pleasant rhythm, like raindrops against the wooden roof of a cottage.

"Can you run me over the facts again? Quickly?"

The typing stops because he's looking at her quizzically. "Sure," he says, tentatively, trying to discern the ulterior motive he will never, ever guess. "Come over here. Picture speaks a thousand words, or something."

She shrugs to try to make it look casual; failing, all she can manage is appearing tense and underslept. At least, both are true.

In the time he takes to find the file with the pictures and open it the silence grows heavy and expectant.

8.29 pm

waffnet,jpg

The murder weapon is an ordinary pistol. It's on one of Nyberg's slates, numbered, cleaned.

offret,jpg

The victim sits on a black leather sofa. Dark hair, pale skin, handsome features.

She doesn't need to be told anything because she just remembers. Her knuckles turn white from clutching the backrest of Stefan's computer chair, her breath hitches, her knees might just give way.

"It was made to look like a suicide, but the angle of the shot was wrong," if he was explaining it so near her, why did his voice ring so far?

He's expecting her to say something. "Was it murder?"

"Of course it was," a sardonic little laugh escapes his lips, "Unless you've a better theory…"

She's not, because a scene like a film is flashing before her eyes- his living room, so quiet, the noises, all so wrong, his hand on the coffee table so still and unnatural, and his face, God, his face-

"Linda…?"

8.40 pm

"God, Linda-!"

8.45 pm

"What on Earth…? Are you alright…?"

The horror on her face makes it look all the paler.

"I'm…" she can live with him looking so worried at her sweaty face after she almost faints. She's run out of cold blood.

"I'm fine. I'm a bit sick. I think I caught a cold…" she tries to smile. Tries. "…or something…"

1.23 am

SHE wakes up. She's on her bed, dressed, worn out after a dream or a vivid memory too many. She gets the car keys and drives over to her father's, hoping the nightmares won't follow her there.