Slowly We Die. Emelie Schepp

She tried imagining she was in some warm country like Spain, on the way to a club or bar without having to freeze her ass off.

      Another five minutes and she had finally arrived.

      There was a throng of people outside Harry’s. She estimated maybe thirty people were waiting in line. Men and women with low shoes and high heels, tight shirts and plunging necklines, torn jeans and sparkly dresses.

      A good night, in other words.

      Mia pushed her way forward, and the bouncer waved her in. A few people whistled and muttered when she went past. She was a single woman moving slowly forward through a crowd, and in that moment, she was relishing the attention.

      Men noticed her.

      The music was deafening when she entered the bar. She worked her way in and studied a small group of about ten people, mostly men.

      She kept her distance, watching them silently but with a wide smile on her face. She let her gaze rest on each of them for a few seconds, and prepared for the questions she could ask. It wasn’t a problem if a guy had a ring on his finger or mentioned children—quite the opposite, really. It could lead to more questions, like: What are your kids’ names? Are they twins? How old are they? Do they go to day care? What’s your wife’s name? How long have you been married?

      And she knew that she would hear that the man in question was heavily dependent on his wife, who was a gifted graphic designer, or that he worshipped his twin sons, or that he had had two surgeries on his leg and liked model airplanes.

      That was okay. Most just wanted to talk—about themselves. And those who did were the easiest prey.

      The worst were the guys who showed off their muscles at every opportunity. She always avoided that type.

      She also avoided talking about herself. But she did answer questions asked of her. It was important to be polite and pleasant.

      And to smile.

      It would be an exaggeration to claim that Mia Bolander was looking for steady companionship. She didn’t want it to seem that way, at least. There was a certain level of turnover, and the men that she couldn’t stand after the first night were sifted out. And those who got to go home with her more than once usually fell into the category of “ugly and horny.”

      Maybe tonight would be different?

      She straightened her back, stuck her chest out and smiled even more broadly.

      She was exhilarated and ready.

      She prepared herself for the most important question of the night—and her answer.

      Do you want to fuck?

      Hell yes!

      * * *

      Her robe had opened so that her bra was showing. But Jana Berzelius didn’t move. She didn’t dare take her eyes off Danilo.

      His beard had grown out, and his hair was an inch or so longer. It covered the letters carved into his neck, similar to her own. He was wearing scrubs and white sneakers. A bag sat on the floor in front of him.

      “What are you doing here?” she asked.

      He just stood up and walked toward her, his jaw clenched. She saw that he had the carving knife in his hand, and she gripped her own knife more firmly. She took a few steps backward, trying to maintain the distance between them, staying prepared.

      “You deserted me at the boathouse,” he said, referring to the last time they’d encountered each other in a manhunt.

      She didn’t answer. She didn’t want to fan the hatred she knew he already felt for her. Before the police had arrived to the boathouse in Arkösund, she had gotten into a fight with him. She had sought him out at that cold place just to put him away for good. But when he’d told her he was working with her father, she had to restrain herself. And she had left him, wounded, yet alive in the snow.

      The expression on Danilo’s face changed. His eyes darkened.

      “I just want to show you how I feel about that,” he said, approaching her, the knife held threateningly in his hand.

      The attack came quickly.

      She raised her left arm to block. It burned as the sharp knife sliced her upper arm.

      She dropped her knife but kept her eyes locked on him, saw him advancing again. Then all of her senses awoke at once. With a yell, she kicked the coffee table over and pushed it forward until Danilo was on the floor with the white tabletop over him, surrounded by overturned candles and a broken vase.

      She attacked, hitting him in the face with brutal force.

      He answered by forcing her and the tabletop off him, coming to his feet. She shook off her robe, grabbed her knife and jabbed toward his neck. But he had executed the exact same movement, and they froze with their arms parallel.

      They stood eye to eye.

      Her knife was against his neck. His was against hers.

      “We have a problem,” he said. “You want to see me dead. I want to see you dead. So what do we do?”

      She was breathing heavily, yet noticed the beads of sweat that had formed at his temples.

      They were standing far too close to each other, which made it difficult to anticipate his next movement.

      “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t see any good reason not to kill you.”

      “I can give you one,” he said.

      She looked at him. She felt the urge to make her final attack, but something was stopping her.

      The blood ran in rivulets from the wound on her arm, dripping from her elbow to the floor.

      “The boxes,” he said. “Your journals, your notes, your identity.”

      She looked at him. His facial expression changed, and he lowered his knife toward the floor and looked at her calmly.

      She attempted to process the situation. She hadn’t been prepared for him to retreat, so she waited a few seconds before taking two steps back and lowering her knife, as well.

      “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

      “Yes, you do. And I know you want them back.”

      “You don’t know anything,” she said, picking her robe up from the floor without taking her eyes off him. The wound on her arm stung as she pulled the fabric over it.

      “It just so happens that I do,” he said.

      She tied the belt as tightly as she could around her waist and gripped the knife again.

      “What exactly do you want?”

      “I thought we could exchange services.”

      “Exchange what?”

      “Your boxes—the ones that hold your secrets—for you letting me stay here.”

      “What?”

      “I’ll give you your boxes back, safe and secure, and you’ll let me stay here.”

      “Are you serious?”

      “Yes.”

      “That’s not possible.”

      “Why not?”

      “You’re a wanted man, Danilo. The police are searching all over for you.”

      “I’m aware of that, and that’s why this is the best place to hide.”

      She felt her irritation growing and was having a hard time standing still.

      “No,” she said, shaking her head.

      “I’ll stay here until things have calmed down a little,” he said. “You’re a prosecutor. No one will suspect you.”