Okay, so here is another chapter. I finally got the chance to sit down yesterday and write out exactly how this is going to end (just thought I'd let you know, so all of you reading don't think I'm just… making things up as I go along. I'm really not.) Anyway. This chapter is really here to thicken the plot a bit. There will be more character interaction in the next chapter, I swear. I just needed to set up the mystery element a bit more here. Thank you all for reading and thank you for the favorites and reviews! I'm thinking of trying to post another chapter later this week, if possible. I know it took me a while to get this one posted, but I don't really want to fall into the habit of waiting so long between posts so… I suppose we'll see.

Thanks again.

~TruthIsOutThere

Mikael Blomkvist found it incredibly difficult to get out of bed the next morning. He awoke to the sound of rain, only to remember he was in for another day of insufficient public transportation and bad weather in Hedestad.

On the other hand, he also awoke to find himself pleasantly entangled with Lisbeth Salander, who lay fast asleep beside him. She looked uncharacteristically peaceful, he thought, and for a moment he toyed with the idea of simply staying here until she woke. It was an appealing notion.

Blomkvist would have liked nothing more than to sit down for bagels and coffee with Lisbeth and possibly attempt to persuade her to disclose the circumstances surrounding her plunge into the lake the night before. Unfortunately, though, he had made other commitments, and it was too late to back out now.

Blomkvist reluctantly got out of bed, careful not to wake Lisbeth in the process. He took a quick shower, made a pot of coffee, and left the guest quarters at eight A.M. sharp.

On his way downstairs, Blomkvist ran into Anna for the second time in two days. He wondered if the poor woman did anything besides running frantically around the house all day long, cleaning up innumerable messes. She looked alarmed, as always, a tall stack of clean linen in her arms. Blomkvist reached out to steady the pile as it threatened to topple.

"Herr Blomkvist. You startled me," she said, breathlessly. He could tell she was trying to pass off her usual nervousness as surprise.

Blomkvist raised his eyebrows. "Sorry," he said, quickly. Then noticing the way she struggled under the weight of the linen, he asked if he could help.

"Oh, no thank you, and no need to apologize." Anna gave a weak smile. Then she nodded in the direction of the foyer. "Will you be eating breakfast the others?"

Blomkvist gave her a blank look. "The… others?" he asked, craning his neck to see around her.

"Oh, yes. Harriet is having breakfast here this morning with Nadia and the two other gentlemen who came to see her… Ah, Lord. Their names never fail to escape me."

"Julien and Nordhamm?" Blomkvist asked.

"Yes, yes. Julien and Nordhamm," Anna confirmed. "They're all downstairs now." She raised her eyebrows. "Are you planning to join them?"

"No, I'm afraid I can't. I was just on my way out to meet a colleague." Blomkvist nodded, feeling slightly uncomfortable. The act of making small talk with Anna felt painfully contrived, especially given their run-in the day before.

Anna had asked Blomkvist to look into Henrik's final days, and Blomkvist had agreed. But now, standing here, it felt as if that conversation had never happened. Clearly Anna was no businesswoman. She seemed to struggle with the social aspect, as if delegating these interactions was almost painful for her. She couldn't look Blomkvist in the eye, and he was forced to assume this sudden bout of timidness was the result of their agreement.

Maybe she was afraid he would mention something to Harriet.

Blomkvist made a mental note to speak to Anna about confidentiality later that evening, when he returned form lunch with Tish.

"Well," Anna said, finally, breaking the silence. "Be sure to stop by and say hello to Harriet. I'm sure she'll be happy to see you."

"I'll do that."

Blomkvist gave a tight-lipped smile, and continued downstairs. He caught Harriet's eye as he crossed the foyer, and he gave her a tiny nod of acknowledgement, not wanting to disrupt her breakfast.

He had almost made it out the door when he heard a voice calling after him.

"Herr Blomkvist!"

Blomkvist turned around to see a blonde man in a heavy coat racing towards him from the dining room.

"Nordhamm," Blmokvist said, pleasantly. "Good morning. How are you?"

Nordhamm gave an uncomfortable smile, and Blomkvist remembered him mentioning something about his Swedish being a little rusty, the night before.

"Can I help you with something…?" Blomkvist asked, slowly. He hoped Nordhamm could grasp that much, as Blomkvist hardly understood a word of Norwegian.

"I found this when I went for a walk this morning," Nordhamm said. His accent was almost unintelligibly thick. Blomkvist had to strain to understand him.

Nordhamm reached into his pocket and retrieved a small, black glove.

"Does this belong to your—" Nordhamm frowned, as if he couldn't conjure up the right word. "—Your friend?" he stuttered.

"Who, Lisbeth?" Blomkvist asked. He looked down at the glove, and then back at Nordhamm. "Where did you say you found this?" he asked, eyes narrowing.

"By the lake," Nordhamm said, pointing at the lakeside, barely visible from the ground floor windows of the Vanger Estate. "Julien and I went for a walk before sunrise," he explained. "It was resting kind of… in the shrubs, beside the bridge."

Blomkvist turned the glove over in his hands. It looked like something that might belong to Lisbeth. Then again, there were quite a few people living in Hedeby. It seemed strange that Nordhamm would come to him, first.

"It probably is her's," Blomkvist said. "Thanks." He tucked the glove in his pocket, and gave Nordhamm a curt nod. "I'll see you around."

"See you," Nordhamm said.

Blomkvist left the Vanger Estate feeling slightly confused, and suspicious regarding Nordhamm. On his way to the train station, he made a point to stop beside the lake and take a look around. There were at least four sets of footprints running along the bank that lead to the bridge, two of which he now knew belonged to Julien and Nordhamm. A third very well could have come from Lisbeth. But the fourth was still a mystery.

On one hand, this was public property, Blomkvist reminded himself. Any resident of Hedestad could take a stroll by the lake any time they wished. On the other hand, Blomkvist couldn't get over his weariness. Maybe it was just this place, but he found it increasingly difficult to shake his suspicions.

He wondered if Lisbeth had been chased. That certainly would explain how she ended up in the lake.

Blomkvist gazed out at the dark water, and hoped, for her sake, that this theory was untrue. After everything she'd endured in the past few years alone, the last thing Lisbeth Salander needed was another run-in with trouble, or hostile men who hated women.

Still, the idea that someone like Salander would go the rest of her life without raising hell one way or another was enough to make Blomkvist laugh aloud.

It was a preposterous thought.

When Blomkvist finally boarded the train to Litenstad an hour later, he ran through his usual routine. He walked to the concession car, bought a pack of cigarettes, and went to smoke a bit beside an open window. Then he walked back to concession purchased a coffee, and a bagel, and returned to his seat to check his email.

Three new emails awaited him in his Millennium inbox. The first was from Erika— a friendly reminder to finish up his piece if he wanted it included in the next issue.

Blomkvist let out a long sigh and stared out the window at the Swedish countryside. Everything seemed so strange all of a sudden. Here he was again, playing detective with Lisbeth Salander. Only this time his responsibilities were not on hold. People at home still depended on him. He had segments to complete, writer's block be damned. And yet still, all he really wanted was return to Hedestad and run through evidence again with Lisbeth.

Much had changed in the three days since he had arrived in this barren place.

The second email was junk mail, which Blomkvist quickly discarded. The third message was from Malin Eriksson, who was trying to find a time when Blomkvist could meet up with a potential investor the magazine had taken under serious consideration.

Blomkvist replied quickly, letting Erika know that he would try and finish his article by the next night, and telling Malin he wouldn't be home until the end of the week.

He wondered if that were true.

Blomkvist felt a sudden pang of conflict. Of course he would have to return to Stockholm. Relatively soon, at that. He couldn't stay here forever, and Henrik's funeral was only two days away. Still, oddly enough, he just couldn't keep himself from dreading his departure. Or wondering what would happen from that point on. His thoughts always wandered back to Lisbeth.

Mikael Blomkvist was not in love with Lisbeth Salander. But in a way, she was a friend unlike any other he had ever had. She had saved his life— a debt he could never fully repay, though he suspected he would spend the rest of his life trying. Helping to clear her name the year before was one of the most redeeming things he had ever done. In the process, he had seen a glimpse of Lisbeth's private hell, and while he would never be so presumptuous as to claim that he understood her, he often got the sense that he knew her as well as any person could. And when it came to Lisbeth Salander, that had to be good enough.

Blomkvist considered the way he felt when she left, following her trial and her declaration of competence. For weeks, he doted over her reasoning, still pitifully convinced that if he worked hard enough, he might be able to make sense of her motivation. It was this doting that would eventually push Monica Figuerola away. When he asked her for her opinion, she would always reply with a nod, or a shrug of indifference. Monica was done with Lisbeth the moment her ruling was final. It was understandable, in a sense. The case wasn't personal to her, as it was to Blomkvist.

It wasn't until one morning in early summer that she shared her true thoughts with him, as they ate breakfast together in Blomkvist's cabin in Sandhamm.

"Have you ever considered that she might be in love with you?" Monica suggested.

Blomkvist looked up at her then. "Who?" he asked.

"Lisbeth Salander," Monica said plainly. "I saw you online last night. You're leaving her messages, aren't you?" She didn't seem bitter, just resigned.

Blomkvist laughed around a bite of his bagel. "You are a spy…" he teased. Then, sobering up, slightly he added, "There's no way Lisbeth is in love with me."

"Why not?" Monica asked, sipping her drink and looking contemplative in a way that always struck Blomkvist as mercilessly attractive.

"She's not like that." Blomkvist shook his head. "She's not the kind to fall in love."

Monica raised her eyebrows and looked back down at the book she was reading. "So you're saying she can kill, she can hide, she can save your life, she can catch her own rapist, and she can escape triple murder charges, but she's incapable of falling in love with someone?"

Blomkvist froze. The statement suddenly struck him as so absurd, he ran to the phone and called up his sister, who was the only person he knew still in regular correspondence with Lisbeth.

"I'm sorry," Annika had said, when Blomkvist told her about Monica's suggestion. "I'm not even supposed to speak to you about Lisbeth without her consent. It's part of the confidentiality agreement."

"But do you think it's true?" Blomkvist asked. "Do you think it's realistic? Annika, please. Off the record, just tell me straight: do you think it's really possible she was in love with me?"

Annika sighed. "Mikael, you really have no clue the effect you have on women, do you?"

"So, you think that's what it is then? Is that why she's been avoiding me?" Blomkvist tried to suppress the note of excitement in his voice. If he could get to the root of the problem, then maybe he had a chance at fixing it.

"Mikael, I don't know why Lisbeth won't answer your emails. I don't know why she won't return your calls. I have a hard enough time getting through to her, myself. Have you ever stopped to consider that she might just be… busy? She's been a ward of the state since she was twelve years old. Now is her chance to make up for lost time. You know, do whatever she wants."

"Yes, but Annika, that's all she does. That's the thing about Lisbeth. You know it, and I know it. She's obstinate. She's stubborn. She's moody. She has no tolerance for other peoples rules… their plans… their agendas…" He shook his head. "She never once let the law hinder her freedom. Even when she was living under that bastard Bjurman she still managed to do what she wanted, when she wanted to. It's not as if she's finally been set free. Maybe legally, but speaking realistically, Lisbeth has never let anyone hold her back." He paused. "There has to be some other explanation."

"Listen," Annika breathed. "What you're saying is all true. I understand you're frustrated. But I told Lisbeth before, and now I'm telling you; I absolutely refuse to play go-between here. If you somehow manage to contact her, that's great. But aside from that, your relationship— or lack thereof— really cannot be any of my business. It's just not professional."

Blomkvist sighed in frustration. "That's not particularly helpful, you know," he said. "But I suppose I understand."

Sitting alone, listening to the train rattle over the tracks, Blomkvist wondered if there was any validity to what Monica said, so many months before. It certainly had the potential to explain a lot. Yet, if Monica's theory proved to be true, it painted a rather grim picture for the future.

No matter what, Blomkvist told himself, he was not going to let things return to the way they were before coming to Hedestad.

No more silences. No more absences. He didn't want to return to life without Lisbeth Salander.

She was, indeed, a friend like no other.

When the train arrived in Litenstad, Blomkvist got directions to the café where he was meeting Tish. He walked briskly to the tiny establishment and ordered a drink before taking a seat in the corner and waiting.

Tish arrived a few moments later, her coat covered in snow.

"I nearly wrecked my car trying to get over here," she said, sliding into the booth, across from him. "The roads are treacherous. Did you drive?"

Blomkvist looked up at her and almost laughed. On the outside, the poor girl looked almost shell-shocked, but there was a resilient expression on her face, as if the snowy highways were her most despicable enemies.

"I took the train," he said.

The waiter came around and took Tish's order while Blomkvist lit a cigarette. Tish pulled one of her own from her bag.

"Do you have a light?" she asked.

Blomkvist nodded and lit her cigarette.

"This is a nasty habit, you know," he said, taking a drag. He glanced out the window. It truly was snowing hard now. "But I've found that this particular nasty habit is quite common amongst writers."

"A common vice," Tish amused. "Doesn't surprise me. We're all a bit high strung at times."

Blomkvist nodded. "That we are."

The waiter put Tish's drink down on the table.

"So how is Henrik Vanger's funeral?" Tish asked, crossing her arms. "It's getting quite a bit of press, you know."

"Is it?" Blomkvist asked, looking up. "That's news to me."

Tish nodded. "There are rumors, you know," she said. "About the… attendants." She paused. "I just thought I'd tip you off, so you can let her know. People will show up for the funeral. When they see her, she'll be the center of attention."

Blomkvist froze, a little taken aback. "Who do you mean?" he asked, slowly.

Tish raised her eyebrows and leaned in close. "Well, Lisbeth Salander, of course," she whispered.

"Shit."

Blomkvist looked away, rubbing his brow in exhaustion.

"Do you know who knows?"

Tish looked up, like she was thinking. "She, Svenska-Morgen Press, EuroIdag…" She ticked the names off on her fingers, then looked back at Blomkvist. "There has been a lot of talk on private forums."

"Fantastic," Blomkvist grumbled. "She'll love that."

Tish shrugged.

Blomkvist gave her a scrutinizing look. "So, is that why you're here, then?" he asked. "Because, if you're looking to speak to her, then I'm afraid that's highly unlike—"

"That's not why I'm here," TIsh said, cutting him off. "I was telling the truth in my emails. I really am here visiting my grandparents, and I really do just want to talk."

Blomkvist felt a sudden flush of embarrassment. "Wow. Sorry. I guess I've gotten a bit paranoid…" He ran a hand through his hair.

Tish laughed. "I think I'd be paranoid too, if I were you. What with all the hell you've been through recently." She rested her chin on her closed fist, her demeanor changing quickly to one of intrigue. "How is Millennium?"

"Millennium?" Blomkvist asked, strangely shocked by the change of subject. "Fine. It's fine." He waved her off. "The new issue should be out soon. Everything's running right on track." He felt as if he was simply echoing Erika's words instead of his own thoughts. In reality, he realized he had no idea how Millennium was doing. He was suddenly overcome by a paralyzing sense of guilt. He had abandoned his post. And yet, they went on.

"Should I expect any new material from you?" Tish asked, curiously.

Blomkvist bit his lip. "Let's hope so," he grumbled. "To be perfectly honest, I've been struggling with a bit of writer's block."

"Really?" Tish asked, curiously. "I thought I read something about Millennium covering some kind of scandal in the construction industry. Sounded fascinating to me."

Blomkvist frowned. "Who on Earth told you that?"

Tish shrugged and sat back in her seat. "Like I said," she muttered. "There is a lot of talk in private forums."

Blomkvist made a mental note to mention this conversation to Erika. She would certainly be interested to know that someone within the magazine was talking about their ideas pre-publication.

Blomkvist straightened up and turned his attention back to Tish.

"You said in your email that you wanted to talk about writing," he reminded her.

Tish sat up quickly. "Right, right," she breathed, rummaging around in her large, messenger back. "Actually, I was hoping you would take a look at something I wrote. Maybe you could give me a few pointers?" She handed Blomkvist a thin stack of papers. "I was hired to do a small, freelance project for local a magazine inUmeå. I'd love to hear your opinion."

Blomkvist looked down at the article in his hands. He nodded. "That sounds doable," he said. "Should I email you my thoughts?"

Tish beamed. "Absolutely," she said. "You know, your daughter was right; you truly are a fantastic writer," she said.

Blomkvist had almost forgotten Tish had any association with his daughter, whatsoever. There was an air of maturity about her that made her seem almost like a colleague, or someone who had been in the business for longer than she was letting on.

Blomkvist sat forward in his seat.

"Tell me," he began, hoping to direct the conversation away from his own writing, and compliments he didn't feel he deserved. "Where is your accent from? It's killing me."

Tish smiled. "St. Petersburg," she said. "I've lived here for several years. Never lost my accent, though."

"Well, it's very charming," Blomkvist said. "I wouldn't hurry to lose it. Do you visit St. Petersburg often?"

Tish looked down at the table and shook her head. "I moved here to live with my grandparents during my parent's divorce," she explained. "I was sixteen. I haven't been back since."

Blomkvist nodded. "I can't remember the last time I visited the place where I was born."

Tish gave a weak smile. "I guess sometimes that's just how it works out."

Blomkvist nodded again, and Tish immediately changed the subject, launching into a story about how she and Pernilla ended up lost on the way to submit her application for Umeå University. There was a charismatic quality about her, and Blomkvist found he could easily invasion her finding great success as a journalist. She seemed to have a keen interest in her surroundings, and she was a charmer in every sense. He hadn't read anything she had written, but Blomkvist got the sense that the article in his hands was going to be a treat. There was just something about her…

When they had finished their drinks, Blomkvist collected his things and prepared to leave.

"It was nice seeing you," he said. "Of course, tell Nilla I said hi."

"Of course," Tish laughed. She collected the garbage from the tabletop and walked to the trash while Blomkvist handled the bill. He had offered to pay. The coffee had been nice, and it was inexpensive enough.

When he turned to say goodbye, Blomkvist found Tish crouched over, picking something up off the ground. She frowned, squinting at something in her hands.

"Is this yours?" she asked, surprised. She held up the black glove Nordhamm had given him at the Vanger Estate that morning.

"Oh," Blomkvist said. "Yes. It is. Must have dropped it." He gave her a faint smile.

Tish laughed, looking at the glove in her hand. She examined it in fascination. "You've been to Litenstad Ryska Högstadieskola?" she asked. Then she looked up at him. "That's my alma-mater, you know."

Blomkvist frowned and looked down at the glove. Sure enough, there was a faint, gray, school crest visible on the outside that he hadn't noticed before.

So it certainly didn't belong to Lisbeth.

"Actually, I've never been…" Blomkvist muttered. "I was… given this. By an acquaintance. He must have picked it up by mistake…"

Tish frowned. "Where did you say you found this?" she asked.

"Umm…" Blomkvist shook his head, trying to organize his thoughts. "Down by the lake, near the bridge in Hedestad."

"Hedestad?" Tish asked, taken aback. "Kind of a long walk for a student, don't you think?"

"So this belonged to a student?" Blomkvist asked.

Tish shrugged. "Or a teacher, I suppose." She looked at the glove a little more closely. "As students, we always wore these things around campus. It was freezing, and the central heating only worked half the time…" She laughed then. "I'll tell you this; whoever lost one glove is in for a long, cold, and uncomfortable day." She shook her head.

Blomkvist laughed in response and turned the glove over in his hand.

"Tish," he said, motioning for her to come closer. "What does this mean?" he pointed to a bit of white stitching near the seam of the glove. Tish took the glove from his hand and squinted at it, thoughtfully.

"It's Russian," she said. That must Blomkvist could tell. Then she shrugged. "I'm not sure what to tell you. It's just a series of letter." She handed the glove back to Blomkvist. "C-F-D. Could be someone's initials."

Blomkvist's heart pounded. C-F-D. Those were the letters from Nadia's playing card. And now here they were again, stitched into some student's glove, abandoned down by the river.

Damn it, Lisbeth. What have you found?

"Mikael," Tish said, catching Blomkvist's attention. "Is something wrong?" she asked. "You look a little… pale, or something." She gave him a concerned look.

"Me?" Blomkvist asked, a little taken aback. "Yes, yes. I'm fine." He tucked the glove in his pocket. "Sorry, I'm just… a bit confused."

Tish gave him a wry smile. "Not running around trying to solve mysteries again, are you?" she asked, teasingly.

Blomkvist raised his eyebrows, as they made their out the café and out into the snowy street. "I would tell you," he said, with a laugh. "But I don't want to read about what I'm up to in any local paper." He motioned at her article in his hand.

Tish's eyes lit up. "So you are trying to piece something together, then?" She grinned at him. "Kalle Blomkvist," she added, teasingly.

Blomkvist gave her a pained look.

They stopped in front of Tish's car.

"We should do this again," Tish said, crossing her arms, as if this was all some elaborate— alight charming— business exchange. "I much prefer receiving feedback in person." She nodded at her article.

"Of course. How long are you in town?" Blomkvist asked.

"Until the end of the month, actually," Tish said. "I'm on… extended leave." She smiled and looked down at her feet before meeting his eyes again.

"Have fun dealing with the Vangers," she said, sarcastically. "I've heard they're sort of a brutish bunch."

"Brutish is a kind word…" Blomkvist said. He looked down at his watch.

"Right, I forgot. You've got a train to catch." Tish shook her head. "Email me when you finish the article. We'll need to meet again."

"Of course. It was nice seeing you," Blomkvist said.

"Nice seeing you, too."

Tish climbed into her car, and Blomkvist turned around, walking across the street towards the train station. He made it less than five steps away when Tish's car slowed down beside him. She rolled down the window.

"Tell Lisbeth Salander I said hi," Tish said, with a laugh. "And good luck with your mystery."

Lisbeth Salander never minded waking up alone. In fact, she almost always felt that solitude was a preferable state of being. The morning of her third day in Hedestad was no exception.

Salander awoke at eleven-thirty and proceeded to follow her usual routine. She rolled out of bed, took a quick shower, made herself some coffee and a sandwich, and checked her email to find three new, rather intriguing messages from Plague. It was only when she sat down with her computer that the events of the night before finally struck her.

Salander decided rather quickly that she would have to walk down to the lake later that day. There was no avoiding it, and besides, she didn't want to. She had to work out exactly what happened and see if that kid was stupid enough to leave anything behind.

And then, of course, there was the situation with Blomkvist.

Salander chewed her thumbnail, contemplatively, as she gazed out the large window at the expansive view below.

Nothing had changed. Salander knew that for sure. She had made her decision. No compromises. If she wanted him, she wanted him. No sense in complicating it further.

Salander lit a cigarette and decided not to question her sudden sense of contentment. The task felt too tedious and daunting when all she really wanted to do at the moment was get back to solving the puzzle at hand.

The first email from Plague contained the background check on Julien Ivansson.

Julien Bjørn Ivansson was born in West Kristiansand, Norway in 1991. He was the first born, and only son of Bjørn and Sofia Ivansson. Nadia was his only sibling.

For the most part, Julien's record was clean. Plague had been thorough; uncovering everything from his first job as a pizza delivery boy in Kristiansand, to the police report detailing his brief arrest for the unlicensed distribution of MDMA at a gay club in Alesand in 2007. Salander made sure to keep this in mind, but she ruled it out as anythingimmediately incriminating. After all, she, herself, had undergone several stints with the law as a teenager, all of which dealt with either narcotics or public drunkenness. It wasn't a big deal, as far as she was concerned.

In 2008 Julien Ivarsson had enrolled in University of Agder where he was studied contemporary art under a Professor Ingmar Bjørlo. Julien was supposedly bisexual, and had maintained a long-distance relationship with a woman named Larissa Mikhailovich who frequently traveled back and fourth between Norway and Sweden to see family and attend school. Julien and Mikhailovich ended their relationship in Spring of 2008. Shortly thereafter, Julien became involved with his classmate, Ingmar Nodhamm. They moved in together two months before Julien's parents were killed in a shooting at a West Kristiansand supermarket. After the funeral, Julien and Nordhamm applied for custody of Nadia, but due to their low-income, and Julien's arrest record, their request was denied.

Salander lit a cigarette. She was impressed. Plague had certainly dug up a lot of dirt. He was a good researcher. Not as good as she was, though…

Lisbeth squinted at the screen and reminded herself to due her own background check later on.

Ingmar Nodhamm's story painted a very different picture. Born and raised in Alesand, he had left home at sixteen when he father rejected his sexuality. He maintained a good relationship with his mother, who he met with once or twice a month over coffee.

Nordhamm worked as a bartender at a gay club in North Kristiansand while he studied art at University of Agder. He had a history of clinical depression, and was admitted to a hospital a hospital in 2009 after attempting suicide. This all occurred only shortly after he met Julien.

Since leaving the hospital, Nordhamm had resumed his job as bartender, as well as his studies at University of Agder. He currently lived with Julien Ivarsson in West Kristiansand, Norway, where he saw a shrink twice a week to help with his recovery. All signs indicated that he was now stable, with the help of a lot of prescription medication.

Nadia Ivansson did not have much of a record, as she was so young. She had studied at a high school in West Kristiansand up until her parent's death. Her grades were high. Her test scores were average. She took art classes outside of school, and had once shown a couple of sculptures at a gallery in Floro. When asked who she wanted to live with, following her parent's death, Nadia had asked to stay with her brother and Nordhamm. Her request was also denied.

Salander logged onto Hacker Republic and transferred 10000 kroner into Plague's account. Then she closed her laptop and carried it out into the hallway. She hoped Henrik Vanger's office was open. She wanted to have another look at those cards.

Sure enough, Salander found Henrik's office unlocked. However, when she pushed the door aside, she discovered she was not alone.

Nadia Ivansson jumped when she saw the door swing aside. Salander froze in the response. They stared at each other, wide-eyed.

"Harriet asked if I would bring her a copy of Henrik's will," Nadia blurted out. These were the first words she had spoken to Salander. Her voice wavered in fear. "She said I would find it up here."

Why the hell was she so afraid?

Salander tried to look as casual as possible.

"I need to use the printer," she lied, pointing at the slightly-outdated Epson in the corner of Henrik's office. She toted her laptop over to the old machine and started to hook it up. Business as usual.

At first there was a silence. Then, surprisingly, Nadia spoke up.

"You're here with Herr Blomkvist, aren't you?"

Salander's spine went rigid.

"Actually, we're here separately," she said, thrown off by the insinuation of Nadia's words.

"But you know each other?" Nadia asked, timidly.

Salander nodded, yes.

Nadia bit her lip, and looked away, seemingly torn. Finally, she turned her gaze back to Salander.

"Are you the one Henrik used to watch on the news?" she asked.

Salander looked up at her and frowned.

"Here…" Nadia breathed. She crossed the study and pointed to a tiny television on the opposite wall. "Sometimes, when I would come to visit he would leave the news on. I didn't know any Swedish back then, but I swear I recognize you."

Salander shook her head, and looked away. Typical fucking Vanger behavior. Snooping around her business. Watching her on fucking daytime television to get the slanderous details. She repressed a scowl for Nadia's sake, though she wasn't entirely convinced any of these newcomers were exempt from the Vanger family charm.

Nadia looked conflicted. She opened her mouth to say something, but was immediately distracted by the door clattering open once again.

"Nadia?" Harriet Vanger called, softly. "Are you—?"

Harriet froze, staring straight at Lisbeth Salander, a confused expression on her face. "Oh," she said, sounding surprised. Salander watched her survey the room, an almost cautious air about her as she did so. She made brief eye contact with her cousin, from which she was able to quickly deduce that there was no trouble afoot. Once that much was established, Harriet gave a pleasant smile.

"Good morning Froken Salander," Harriet said. "I just sent Nadia up here to grab a copy of my uncle's will."

Nadia cleared her throat. "She came to use the printer," she grumbled, under her breath. Her gaze quickly flickered over to Lisbeth, and then back at Harriet again. "I let her in," she said.

Salander frowned slightly. Why was this girl lying for her?

Harriet gave them both a tight-lipped smile. "That's fine," she said, still seemingly surprised, but not at all hostile. "Did you invite Froken Salander to come have breakfast with the rest of us?" Harriet placed a hand on Nadia's shoulder, and gave it a reassuring squeeze. Then she turned to Lisbeth. "We have food downstairs, if you're hungry."

Salander looked away, immediately uncomfortable.

"I have to leave," she said. She forced herself to add a grumbled, "Sorry."

"That's fine," Harriet said again. She crossed the room and pulled back the curtains, pausing for a moment to admire Henrik's telescope. She looked back and Salander and bit her lip, seemingly conflicted.

"Mikael said you were good with math…" she began, slowly.

Salander's looked away, unresponsive.

"Do these numbers have any significance?" Harriet held out a sheet of paper. "Are they part of any… algorithm or… mathematic equation? I mean, that you know of."

Salander took the paper and studied it closely. She frowned. This was the same set of numbers Blomkvist told her about the day before.

"They're coordinates," Salander said, pointing out the window. "Longitude and latitude."

Harriet frowned and squinted at the string of numbers.

"Where could they be pointing?" she wondered aloud.

"Isabella's porch," Salander said.

Harriet and Nadia both turned to look at her, equally curious expressions on their faces.

"How on Earth did you know that?" Harriet asked, intrigued.

Salander shrugged. "I'm good with numbers," she said. Then— seeing a small window of opportunity— she turned and slunk out of the room as quickly as she could. As she headed down the hall, she found herself thinking; for an estate so vast, it certainly felt like there were far too many uncomfortable run-ins between houseguests.

Salander dropped her laptop off in the guest quarters and decided it was time to get out of the house for a while. She fumbled around for a bit, searching for her coat. Then, having found it, she left for the lake.

Once outside, Salander lit a cigarette and stood on the front steps of the Vanger Estate for several minutes, trying to work out exactly which path she had taken to the shore the night before. At some point, she had veered off into the woods, but in the dark, the roadside looked the same everywhere. After a few moments of pondering, Salander ventured off the porch and walked along the edge of the woods for several minutes, searching for footprints to no avail. Five minutes into her exploration, she heard the sound of footsteps coming up behind her and froze, half-expecting to turn around and see the kid, or the bastard who tried to drown her the night before.

Instead, Salander found Nadia Ivarsson stood in the middle of the road, looking particularly pitiful. Her large blue eyes blinked rapidly. Her teeth chattered. She was completely underdressed, as if she had chased Salander out here, without a second thought. Salander frowned. She had little time, and even less sympathy to spare. There was work to be done here, and no time for games.

She was about to turn away, when Nadia finally spoke up.

"You're Lisbeth Salander, aren't you? You're the one who found Harriet. With Herr Blomkvist."

Nadia looked more terrified than ever. Salander glanced away. She didn't respond.

"It was you, wasn't it?"

Salander gave the tiniest of nods, unsure of where this was going, and greatly opposed to uncertainty of any kind.

"You solve mysteries?" Nadia asked. Her voice was full of cloying expectation. Salander wanted nothing more than to get away as quickly as possible.

"I know you know about the cards."

Salander's eyes lit up.

Nadia gave a faint smile.

"I knew it," she breathed. "I knew you would piece it together."

"I haven't pieced anything together," Salander said, coolly. "I can't."

Nadia's face fell. "What do you mean?" she demanded.

"Whatever code you've written in is useless. It's unintelligible. It's impossible to read, even for me. If I haven't figured it out by now…" Salander trailed off, shrugging. This was untrue, of course. Salander knew with a certain degree of certainty, that if she worked hard enough, she could crack the code herself. Still, it was much easier to simply skip that step and acquire the necessary information here and now.

Nadia's eyes burned. "I can't possibly be any more forward with you," she said. "The code isn't hard. Once you work it out, you'll know."

"Know what?" Salander asked, her eyes narrowing.

Nadia looked around herself and backpedaled a few steps.

"Larissa Mikhailovich," she hissed, backing away further. "Look her up. You'll figure it out. It's not hard. I promise."

"This isn't a game," Salander said, suddenly. Someone had almost killed her the night before. She was in no mood to waste time following dead-end leads provided by indecisive little girls.

"I'm not playing," Nadia said, her voice eerily calm. "Please," she said. "This is important."

"Then why not explain it to me?" Salander asked.

"I can't," Nadia said, looked away in shame. "I can't. It's too dangerous." She backed away further. "Larissa Mikhailovich," she said. "That's all I can say right now." She turned, then, and ran back to the house.

Frustrated, Salander pulled out her mobile and sent a quick email to Plague.

Need quick info on "Larissa Mikhailovich," ex-girlfriend of Julien Ivarsson. Will pay ASAP.

-Wasp

She stood stalk-still then and wondered when the hell Blomkvist was getting back, and if she should mention any of this right away, or follow up on her own first. It had been so long since she had worked with anyone else on anything. It felt so strange.

Salander's mobile rang a moment later, letting her know she had a new instant message. Plague had been quick this time. That was good.

She opened the message and skimmed it quickly.

Larissa Mikhailovich. Born June twelfth 1991 in Stockholm, Sweden. Alumni of Litenstad Ryska Högstadieskola. Not much info available online. She was a professional poker player for three years. Recently quit.

-Plague

Salander paused.

Professional poker? she typed, hoping she could prompt him to elaborate further.

Mikhailovich was part of a poker league in high school. She made a living playing. Apparently, she was something of a Goddess when it came to the game. She killed her competition. That's how she got her nickname, 'Den Drapsmann.' That's Norwegian for 'The Killer.' Looks like she traveled back and fourth quite a bit for competitions in high school and college. She played a lot of contests in West Kristiansand. That's probably where she met your guy, Ivarsson.

— Plague

Probably, Salander replied. Then she frowning, thinking. Did she have any help?

What? Do you mean cheating? – Plague

No, Salander typed. I mean did she have friends who played with her? Was she part of a team?

There was a short delay before Plague finally sent her a response.

Litenstad Ryska Högstadieskola is tiny. They only have about 100 students enrolled every year. From the looks of their activity register, everyone must have played at one point or another. Mikhailovich wasn't particularly unique, just particularly good. – Plague

So there were no other good players? Salander asked.

According to the school webpage. The year Mikhailovich graduated, the top players where herself, and three others. Abezgauz, Iavlenskaia, and Solovyov. – Plague

Salander froze, recalling the name of Blomkvist's daughter's roommate.

Who is Solovyov? she asked. First name?

Tish Solovyov. Born in St. Petersburg 1991. Enrolled in Umeå University now. Living outside of Stockholm. – Plague.

Salander shook her head in disbelief, and typed up a quick thank you. She quick the instant messaging application on her mobile, and went to call Blomkvist.