We wrap up the call and I stay seated. I feel like a liar. How can I promise that there isn't any danger? I mean, I don't know that for sure.

The office is deserted. Just as I expected. No one else works on a Sat.u.r.day afternoon. Aina is probably lounging around, making out with Carl-Johan, her latest fling, which has actually lasted longer than I expected. Sven is surely working on his summer cabin in Roslagen. He escapes there every weekend since he separated from Birgitta. I have no idea what Elin spends her Sat.u.r.day afternoons doing. I know almost nothing about her and realize that I'm not actually very interested in finding out, which frightens me a little.

I miss our old receptionist, Marianne, who's in a rehabilitation clinic in Dalarna, recovering from a car accident. I know she's going to be there for a long time, and that she'll probably never return to the office. It feels sad and unfair.

The doorbell rings and I open the door. Kattis is standing there with her long brown hair in a ponytail as usual. She's wearing skinny jeans, lace-up boots that almost reach her knees, and a knit poncho. Despite the drawn look on her face, I once again notice that she's beautiful.

I ask her to come in and she fidgets anxiously in the foyer. She puts blue plastic shoe covers on to protect the floor from the wintry Swedish weather and leaves her poncho on. Since the office is empty, we sit down in the big conference room, which doubles as a lunchroom. I go to the kitchen and fill two mugs with coffee from the machine, check the cupboard for some cookies or biscuits, and finally find a red plastic container full of vanilla dream cookies. When I return, Kattis is sitting with her head down, twirling her ponytail. She glances up at me.

"It's Henrik, right? I know it's Henrik. He just keeps getting worse. Ever since he got ahold of my number, he calls nonstop."

She pauses and looks at me, beseechingly. As if she wants me to stop him. As if I were the one who could make everything all right again.

"It's Henrik, right?" she repeats. "What did he do?"

I nod apologetically to confirm, as if everything is my fault.

"He came to see me last night, here, outside in the square. He just showed up out of nowhere."

I gesture vaguely in the direction of Medborgarplatsen.

"He wasn't actually threatening me. He just said he wanted to talk about you, but at the same time . . . It's hard to explain, but it felt like he was, I don't know, anxious, a little too anxious. I got scared."

Kattis is watching me. Her expression is neutral, aside from a small, almost imperceptible furrowing of her eyebrows.

"I'm sorry, Siri. I'm so sorry. This is all my fault. I mentioned to him that I was coming here." She sighs deeply. "If I'd known what all of this was going to set in motion, I would never have joined the group. It's like knowing I'm here p.i.s.ses him off even more. And then there's the police report too."

"The police report?"

I'm surprised. I haven't heard anything about a police report.

"I reported Henrik to the police for domestic violence several months ago; that's how I found out about the group. I know it's been almost a year and that there's no evidence, but . . ."

"Good! Or . . . That's a good thing, right?" I seek out Kattis's eyes, trying to gauge her feelings.

"Absolutely. Although awful too, you know. I mean, who knows what he's going to do? And now, well, the trial is coming up . . ." She's struggling to hold back the tears.

I tell her, "You should call the police who are handling the case. Tell them what happened. They can help you. You can get different types of alarms installed in your house, a direct line to the police."

"You think so?" Kattis says. "They might just think I'm . . . hysterical or something. They haven't exactly been moved by my story so far."

"I absolutely think that's the best thing you could do." Thoughts are crowding in my head.

This conversation with Kattis brings up painful memories of my own past, of my stubborn resistance to being protected and how much it almost cost me. I wonder if I should tell Kattis, talk to her about what I went through, explain to her why she needs more help. After all, the reason I'm meeting with her today, telling her about Henrik, is to protect her, right?

"I don't know how much you know about me, Kattis, but I've also been a victim of hara.s.sment."

She nods and looks down at her hands, seems almost embarra.s.sed for a second. "Yeah, people have mentioned that. How that crazy guy almost killed you out at your cottage. It was in the papers too, back when it happened."

"I was living alone, just like you. My husband, Stefan, died in an accident a few years ago, so it was just me and the cat out there. In a way it felt like the house was all I had left of Stefan, and even though it would have been better for me to move into town, I stayed put. I just couldn't leave my little seaside home, because it would have been like leaving him. So when strange things started happening, I chose not to really believe it. It took a long time before I accepted that I was actually being stalked and that this was serious, not just some kind of joke. Still I rejected any kind of protection as long as possible. I guess in a way I felt that it violated my integrity. I hadn't done anything wrong, so why should I have to change? That att.i.tude almost cost me my life. I should have followed the advice from the police and moved right away, said yes to all the protection they offered me. Do you understand? I want you to know, because . . . I don't want the same thing to happen to you."

She stares at me. Her eyes reveal what she's feeling: sympathy, compa.s.sion, fear, sadness, solidarity. This ties us together. We're not just patient and therapist now. We are connected by our experiences. Kattis cautiously rests her hand on mine. It feels good, comforting. I let it stay there.

"Am I interrupting?" Aina asks.

She is standing in the doorway to the conference room. Her cheeks are red and her long blond hair is hanging freely over her old leather jacket. I see surprise in her eyes and something else, something unidentifiable, maybe anger. I pull back my hand, hide it under the table. My cheeks flush and shame spreads through me.

"We're just finishing up. Something happened, that's all," I say.

"Okay, so . . . what happened?" Aina asks, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed in front of her chest.

"Uh, I think I'll just be . . . going now," Kattis says, grabs her purse, and stands up to go. She squeezes past Aina and continues toward the front door, where she pulls off the blue shoe covers and tosses them into the basket reserved for used ones. She grabs the door handle but then turns around and looks at me, knowing that Aina can't see her face. She rolls her eyes and then smiles, almost conspiratorially. I can't help but return her smile. A second later she's gone.

"What was all that about?" Aina says, still in the doorway, looking both irritated and curious. "I mean, holding hands with a patient in an empty office? Are you looking to replace Markus with her, or what?"

She smiles faintly, but she doesn't look happy at all. Just angry, and there's another emotion that I can't quite put my finger on.

"It's not what you think," I say. My voice is unexpectedly shrill. It's the voice I use when I argue with Markus, and for a brief moment I have an out-of-body experience. I don't seem to get along with anyone anymore.

"Okay, so what is it?" Aina prods, in an almost mocking tone, as if we were in some kind of prescripted drama.

"Why don't you just tell me what's going on? Seriously, Siri, I find you holding hands with Kattis, here in the office on a Sat.u.r.day. That's a little weird. Last week you stayed late to comfort her after our meeting. What's going on between the two of you, really?"

And suddenly it hits me, the emotion that Aina is having, the one I couldn't put my finger on, that hint of a feeling not quite visible on the surface, lurking beneath her words.

Aina is jealous.

GUSTAVSBERG.

THE EVENING OF OCTOBER 22.

Marek jogs down the stairs of the dilapidated apartment building with his iPod on. Sinewy and indefatigable, his skinny teenage legs drum along as he runs-soccer legs, shoplifting legs, legs that can chase flocks of seagulls by the water for hours.

On each floor he sets his little bike basket down by the stairwell, grabs a stack of flyers, and runs to the end of the hall and back, delivering them. Today the flyers are from the grocery store ICA, which is having a sale on Falukorv sausage and diapers, and from a real estate agency, as if anyone would actually want to buy a place in this decrepit building. He's also handing out postcards from H-I-A Allservice, which offers cleaning, carpentry, and painting services. That one he delivers for free as a favor to his second cousin, Bogdan, who occasionally gives him some work. Bogdan usually pays him well, so he doesn't mind helping out.

He reads the names on the apartment doors as he works his way down the hall: Svensson, Holopainen, Skogsjo.

Marek is going to buy himself a computer with the money he earns, and use it to play World of Warcraft with his buddies. He has been using a computer at the school library, and you're not allowed to play any video games or surf any pages with chicks on them there.

He started on the top floor and now he's down to the third. The pistachio green walls are sprinkled with tiny black and white dots.

Uzgur, Johansson, Rashid . . .

A little sign on the Johanssons' door says No Flyers, Please. Marek brushes his sweaty bangs aside, selects a copy of each flyer, rolls them up, and stuffs them through the mail slot. It snaps shut again with a bang. No flyers. Some people think they're so d.a.m.n special. He decides to give them some extra flyers. Take that.

Second floor.

The bulb in the overhead light is burned out. Faint light is coming in from the stairwell, and from a green flickering liquor store sign just outside the window.

The names on the apartment doors are hard to read.

Lanto, Tarek, Olsson . . .

But wait . . .

Olsson's door isn't closed. Light is peeking out.

Marek checks the door. The chain isn't on.

His first thought: Maybe there's money in the apartment, or jewelry, electronics, or something else that could be stolen quickly. Then: Shoplifting at the grocery store is one thing, breaking into an apartment is something totally different. He realizes that he shouldn't do it. Not alone at any rate, maybe if Kevin and Muhammed were with him, but not alone.

He squeezes the flyers in his hand. Where should he leave them? In the mailbox? Or should he just nudge the door open and leave them on the floor inside the apartment?

He decides on the latter. If he puts them in the mailbox, the door might click shut and lock, and for some reason he doesn't want that to happen. After all, someone seems to have left it open on purpose. Maybe someone is just running an errand and doesn't want to get locked out.

At eleven o'clock at night?

He slowly pushes the door open, smells the faint scent of cigarette smoke and something else, something sweet, organic, hard to place.

He peers into the dark s.p.a.ce. Way off to the left, light streams from another room. The kitchen? Marek can just make out something next to the floral doormat: a purse. There's a wallet in it, sitting right on top. It's open, like a book, and it looks fat, as if it's stuffed full of bills.

It's more of a whim than something he plans. He quietly bends down and takes it, like picking an apple from a branch.

s.h.i.t, so heavy. How much is in here? Enough to buy a little weed from Nico? Enough for a computer? More?

His stomach flutters with excitement.

Just as he's stuffing the fat wallet into the pocket of his hoodie, he sees the feet.

The flyers sail like origami birds, landing silently on the linoleum, and he watches the white H-I-A Allservice flyer slowly turn red.

He jumps back, yanks the earphones out of his ears, and that's when he hears it. A faint scratching sound, like fingernails on wood. It's coming from inside the lit room and he knows he shouldn't follow it, his whole body knows the only thing to do is run away from here on the strong legs he was blessed with.

Because deep down he already knows something awful happened here, that the woman lying like a shapeless sack in front of him didn't just faint or have an epileptic fit. Still he doesn't hesitate, just looks down at his new chalk-white sneakers, carefully steps over the body, over the big pool, avoids the red, sticky stuff. Goes toward the kitchen. Hears the music from his iPod like a distant buzz as the scratching gets louder.

She's sitting under the table, partially covered in blood. Crayons are strewn around her and she's drawing carefully with a blue one. He notices that every inch of the paper is colored and he wonders how long she's been sitting like this.

How old can she be?

Judging from her size, maybe four or five years old. She's about the same size as his younger brother Tomek, who's four.

Carefully, he reaches for her, strokes her shoulder, and she looks at him, her blue eyes locked on him.

"Hey, pal," he says, "You have to come with me now."

MEDBORGARPLATSEN.

OCTOBER.

She is not a victim. That's all I can think when Hillevi starts talking.

She's sitting straight, wearing a plain black dress, opaque tights, and brown men's boots. There are drops of water in her short, black hair, and she's wearing wine-red lipstick.

So beautiful, so perfect, like a doll.

And yet he hit her. His name is Jakob and he's her husband. She says she loves and misses him. She says she respects him.

The next time we meet at the office, it's a gray, overcast fall day. As usual we sit in a small circle looking at each other curiously, the vibe in the room almost upbeat. Aina and I have set out coffee and mineral water, and we sliced up a loaf of braided cinnamon bread from the bakery.

One chair is alarmingly empty.

Kattis's.