My cell phone rings as I'm walking back into my office. It's my oldest sister calling to remind me about my nephew's birthday. She sounds happy and tells me about her new job and an upcoming vacation, but when she finds out I'm still at work, I can hear in her voice that she's worried.

"But it's eight o'clock. How late are you going to be there?"

I laugh, dismissing her concern. "Not a minute past nine, but unfortunately the patient files don't write themselves."

"I thought you had a.s.sistants for stuff like that."

I laugh again, louder this time. The thought of elf-like-presumably female-a.s.sistants flitting around the office with patient files ready for signature makes me laugh. Of course we do have Elin, but she can hardly keep track of the appointments. I don't even want to think about what would happen if she tried to transcribe my notes. Words like malpractice and disciplinary board pop into my head.

"Yes, please, one male a.s.sistant, maybe in his twenties. You know, before they get bitter and start refusing to go buy lattes and pick up my dry cleaning."

I can tell she has a big smile on her face, even though I can't see her.

Naturally I stay until after nine. I scurry down the stairs. I don't like to spend any more time in dark stairwells than necessary, and I'm in a hurry to get home.

The wind that greets me when I open the door is, if possible, even icier than before. The constant hum of traffic on Gotgatan is like a blanket of noise on the cobblestones, always in the background but never really disruptive. I can make out the silhouettes of people moving aimlessly across Medborgarplatsen in the dense darkness, leaning into the cold wind.

To my right I see the Thai restaurant. Its purple neon sign flickers in the darkness, a lone bright spot in the night. A group of alcoholics are sitting on the steps in front of the Forsgrenska pool building, sharing a bottle.

I slowly walk toward the ATM, wrapping my gray scarf around my neck one more time in an attempt to stop the harsh autumn air from sneaking in under my thin coat.

I notice him almost immediately. His gait is unsteady and he's not wearing a jacket; he must be really cold. His hands are jammed down into the pockets of his worn jeans and he has a red knit hat on.

Discreetly, I try to steer clear of this guy-who is obviously high-and head toward the Thai restaurant. I stare down at the wet pavement as if transfixed by it, clutching my purse.

But it seems like he wants something from me. He stumbles over toward me, stands in my way before I can escape him in the dark.

In the end, I'm forced to look at him. His eyes are just as vacant as the black sky above us. He sways slowly back and forth and suddenly I'm worried he's going to keel over.

"C'you spare ten kronor for a hamburger?"

Suddenly I feel depressed. Junkies are getting younger and younger. I'm guessing this boy in the T-shirt isn't any older than fifteen. But however much it upsets me to see a kid on drugs, I'm equally scared of the dark, and of everything I know an addict in need of money is capable of, even if he's just a teenager.

I quickly dig around in my coat pockets. The left one is ripped. There's a hole in the cheap, flimsy material, in the bottom. No spare change. I start fumbling with the zipper on my purse. My fingers feel stiff and don't want to obey.

"Is this guy bothering you?"

I glance up, looking away from the skinny, shivering boy. At first I see only his silhouette in front of the lights on the front of Soderhallarna Shopping Center, then he gradually emerges from the background. He's tall and strong with a shaved head, a black down jacket, jeans, a tattoo that is visible through his shirt, some sort of gym bag in his hand. He must be some kind of mechanic or gym teacher or security guard. Despite his size and his appearance, he seems nice, sympathetic.

"No . . . He just wants a little money for a hamburger."

"For a hamburger?" The man chuckles softly, as if he's heard the hamburger story several times before. He stuffs his hand into his jacket and pulls out a worn leather wallet. Takes out a wrinkly fifty-kronor note and hands it to the astonished kid, who looks like he can't believe his eyes. He s.n.a.t.c.hes the bill, glances up at the man, and mumbles thanks. Something lights up in the kid's eyes-a feeling, a thought-but then his face becomes blank and expressionless again. I get the impression that they must know each other somehow. There's something about the quick look they exchange, something about the way the boy s.n.a.t.c.hes the bill.

He stumbles off toward Bjorn's Tradgrd Park. The wind grabs at his T-shirt and blows it up over his stomach, but he doesn't react.

"Wait," I call after him. "Wait! Aren't you cold? Here, do you want my scarf?"

He turns around to look at me. Our eyes meet; a smile flashes over his pale lips.

"Thanks, but no way. It's b.u.t.t-ugly."

The man laughs, throws up his hands in a gesture of resignation, and then turns toward me.

"Are you Siri?" he asks.

I'm so surprised that I just nod. How could he know who I am?

"I'm Henrik." He holds his hand out to me and I take it automatically. I note that his hand is warm and feels strong. I still don't understand who he is; his name doesn't ring any bells; I don't recognize him. He's a stranger.

"You don't know who I am, I a.s.sume?" he says.

I still can't talk. I shake my head and shiver as a cold gust of wind blows through my thin coat.

"I think my ex-girlfriend is in some kind of group with you, a group for women who have been the victims of domestic violence."

Suddenly I feel very alone in the big, dark square. Nothing Vijay said about the group or leading it prepared me for this.

"I can't comment on that, you'll have to understand. Confidentiality, you know."

I try to look resolute. Project some sort of authority that I actually lack. The truth is I'm so scared, my legs can hardly hold me upright. The man who abused Kattis, the man she calls a psychopath, is standing in front of me in the dark at Medborgarplatsen.

"Sorry, I understand," Henrik says. "Obviously I understand. But if it should happen that Kattis, purely hypothetically, should be in some sort of treatment with you, then . . . I would want to talk to you." He looks down at the ground, looks almost embarra.s.sed. "And I get it that you can't respond to that either. And that you can't talk to me, am I right?"

"You're right."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to ambush you like this, but I figured you wouldn't talk to me if I called. I just wanted to . . ." He hesitates, looking for the right words. "I think I want to explain. I want you to understand. Things aren't as straightforward as they may seem. I want you to hear my side too. Couldn't you just listen to me?"

"I . . . That's not possible. I can't talk to you, you have to understand," I reply.

He laughs quietly, as if he thinks what I'm saying is funny, and looks out across the deserted square.

"I should have known," he mumbles.

"What?"

He sighs deeply, sc.r.a.pes his shoe in the brownish-black mud on the ground. "Forget it, I won't bother you anymore." Then he slowly turns his ma.s.sive back to me.

"Wait, how do you know who I am? How do you know where I work?" I ask.

He looks at me over his shoulder, seems surprised. As if he doesn't understand why I'm asking the question, doesn't think it's important. He slowly turns around to face me again.

"I checked your website after I talked to Kattis. There's a picture of you there. And your address is there. It was that easy. It's not that hard to find someone."

He shrugs and takes a couple of steps toward me. He looks tired. His eyes are glossy and red around the edges.

"Did I upset you? I didn't mean to scare you. I just want to talk."

His face is right up against mine now. He has a sunburn-probably spent too long in a tanning bed-and his skin is a little wrinkled. He squeezes my arm, a little too hard, for a little too long, but then seems to decide that it might be best to let me go.

"I just want you to know that everything isn't the way Kattis says. She has an active imagination."

"Okay, I understand." My voice is delicate and feeble.

Without saying anything else he bends down, picks up his gym bag, runs his hand over his shaved head, turns around, and walks quickly away into the darkness as if he has an important meeting to get to.

I take a step back, lean against the wall of the building, and throw up onto the black cobblestones.

Excerpt from the Student Health Records, alvangen Elementary and Middle School

Laila Molin, the homeroom teacher for cla.s.s 2B, describes having difficulties with a boy in her cla.s.s. He can't read and is having a lot of trouble learning his letters. He can write his own name. Laila wonders if the boy might be dyslexic and suggests that he meet special education instructor Gunvor Blomkvist, which everyone at the meeting thinks is a good idea. Laila also says that the boy can have real tantrums if something doesn't go the way he wants it to. This rarely happens while Laila is teaching but seems to be a major problem during his PE and art cla.s.ses, which he has with other teachers. The PE teacher thinks the other kids tease the boy since he is a little clumsy and overweight. None of the other teachers have observed these trends. We decide that the boy should practice his reading with Gunvor Blomkvist.

Siv Hallin, school counselor

Sat.u.r.day morning.

The bedroom is bright and rays of sunlight find their way in the window and blind me when I try to open my eyes. The rain has stopped. It was pounding so hard on the windowpane last night that for a second I thought it was hailing, but now everything is quiet. I'm alone in the double bed. Markus is working, or at least he says he is. I don't know why, but in a way I'm glad he isn't here.

I wrap the blanket around myself and walk across the cold hardwood floor to the window. The bay outside is as smooth as a mirror. The maples on the far side of the water are just losing the last of their leaves. Some brave red and orange leaves still cling to the skeletal forms. Soon they too will fall. I open the window and inhale the clear air, let the cautious rays of autumn sun touch my face. I close my eyes, and breathe.

The world is beautiful right now.

It's even colder in the kitchen, if that's possible. I stuff some logs and crumpled newspaper into the old woodstove.

Coffee and toast. Friday's edition of the paper Dagens Naringsliv lies unread on the table. I shiver and feel the nausea coming in waves. Maybe I'm sick. Do I have a stomach flu? Or maybe I'm just tired.

My experience from last night comes back to me. I picture Henrik. The look in those red-rimmed eyes fixed on me, refusing to look away, that shaved head, his stance. There was something military about him. It suddenly hits me that he looked like a cop, one of the tired, disillusioned ones you read about in local newspaper articles or see in movies, one who rides around in a police van and hits people with his baton in places that won't leave any visible bruises.

Not a cop like Markus.

Markus is hard to pigeonhole as a specific type. So hard that it doesn't even really work to call him a "cop." Policeman, sure, but cop, no. He does not resemble any of the scarred veterans you see in TV shows. Nor does he look like that young, earnest policeman who has a minor role in most TV dramas, the enthusiastic one who you can tell right away is going to get into trouble about halfway through the show.

Markus is young, sometimes almost puppylike. His incessant video game playing, text messaging, Facebooking, and Skyping sometimes get on my nerves, make me feel old, like his mother. His naivete and youthful optimism irritate me. His innocent belief that everything will work out for the best. But at the same time he has an authority and a calm that I envy. I reevaluate him again and again and realize that he isn't just some young pipsqueak; he's a wise, serious human being who wants to do good. When Markus listens to you, you feel heard. When Markus talks, other people listen. And he rarely flares up; the man can keep his feelings in check.

I can understand why the admissions department at the police academy thought he would make a good policeman, why he ended up on the crime-fighting side of things instead of traffic enforcement or something. Markus is a.n.a.lytical, has a knack for seeing patterns and connections. Now, when he's not here, I'm aware of how much I miss him, his body and his warmth, of course, but also his companionship.

What am I supposed to do?

I think about what Aina said the other night, that maybe I'm chicken, too chicken to give him a chance. Maybe it's true, I don't know. I just know that I'm always comparing him to Stefan, even though I shouldn't, that it's the worst thing I could do. I compare his body, his intellect, his soul. I compare, and Stefan always comes out of this contest the victor. But what if I'm letting Stefan win just because he isn't here anymore? So that I don't have to make a decision? Because I don't want to let go of him?

Stefan is dead and Markus is alive. I know that I'm going to be forced to come to terms with this, sooner or later, just not now.

Instead I start thinking about Henrik again and last night's strange encounter. Even though he confronted me in a public place with people around, even though he spoke in a friendly, soft voice, the threat was obvious. Thinking about how he hurt Kattis makes me shiver.

I think of all the women in our group.

They're all so different from each other.

There really isn't a common denominator aside from this: they have suffered violence at the hands of someone whom they should have been able to trust-a friend, a husband, a boyfriend, a stepfather.

I wonder why Henrik sought me out. Was it to demonstrate his power? To make sure Kattis understood that he always knew where she was? Is he going to hurt her? Could she be in danger? Maybe I'm overreacting. It's hard to be neutral when you've experienced threats and violence firsthand. I let my thoughts run freely, weigh the pros and cons, and then get up and walk over to my filing cabinet. I feel that I ought to tell Kattis about this.

She has a right to know.

It rings for a while and then she answers. Her voice is hoa.r.s.e and it sounds like she just woke up. I realize that I don't even know what time it is and quickly glance at the little magnetic clock that's stuck on the fridge. Eight fifteen. Early for a Sat.u.r.day morning, maybe too early.

"This is Siri Bergman calling. Did I wake you?"

I'm embarra.s.sed because I called without thinking, but at the same time I feel that this can't wait.

"Siri?" Kattis's voice is curious, hesitant.

"Yes, Siri, from the group. I'm so sorry if I woke you up by calling this early, but I really need to talk to you about something."

"Did something happen?"

I hear Kattis's anxiety, the fear that runs through her short sentences.

"Sorry, now I've alarmed you," I say. "Ah, well, something did happen, but it's nothing . . . dangerous. Not for now. I just want to talk to you about this. And maybe not over the phone."

"You know, actually I can easily meet you today."

Kattis sounds anxious and I'm guessing she wants to know what I'm calling about. And I understand her. I glance at the time again, wonder how long it will take me to get into the city and where we should meet. As usual for a Sat.u.r.day, I have tons of work I need to finish. We could meet at the office. No one else will be there.

"I can meet you at the office later this afternoon, around four. Does that work for you?"

"Totally! I'll be there." Then silence, a silence filled with doubt. "Are you sure it's nothing serious?"

"Yes, absolutely," I rea.s.sure her.