For some reason, probably because of the slight hesitation before he spoke those last words, I had the impression that he'd actually intended to say something else. I wanted to look into his eyes, but they were hidden behind dark sungla.s.ses.

He ran two fingers lightly over my palm, and a thrill of pleasure raced up my forearm and through my body.

Alex let me go and gestured toward the backseat. I turned to see two shiny shopping bags with fancy labels. I could see tissue paper sticking out of both of them. It took a moment before I regained control of my voice.

"What's that?"

"Lingerie. For you."

Did I laugh? Did I think he was joking? Or did I realize at once that he was totally serious? In any case, it took a few seconds before I murmured that I wasn't accustomed to such things. Meaning, to receiving gifts. I wasn't used to this sort of situation at all.

Alex finally took off his sungla.s.ses and looked right at me.

"Let me do this. Let me take care of you."

There they were again. Those words that caressed my skin and left a warm feeling in their wake. Take care of you. Something opened inside of me. I imagined allowing myself to be cared for, lowering the walls. Not having to rely solely on myself. Letting someone past my meticulously polished facade. Was that really possible? Did I dare?

"How do you know what size I wear?"

My voice was barely more than a whisper. Alex looked me in the eye, his gaze unwavering.

"Because I see you. I mean, I really see you. I truly do. And I want you to know that."

It wasn't merely what he said, but how he said it. With emphasis. It silenced me. I couldn't utter a single word. I just sat there and stared at him while he stared back. It felt like he could see into me, into the depths of my soul. As if, somehow, this stranger understood who I was and what I'd been through. I took a deep breath, and my body moved of its own accord. My hand went around Alex's neck, my lips pressed against his. He went up to my apartment with me, and we drew all the curtains. There, in the shadows, our story began. And in the shadows it would continue.

I'm shivering. The sun can't penetrate the thick foliage. The light here on the island isn't warm and golden like up at the cabin. Instead, it's a hazy gray. One leg has fallen asleep, and I shift position, placing my feet back on the muddy ground.

Through the soles of my shoes, I feel some sort of current. At first, I ascribe it to the increased blood flow in my legs. But then I make a slight movement, and a powerful whirl of energy rises up from the earth, circles my ankles and calves, takes hold of me. I shout and jump up, yanking my feet away. A hissing sound issues from somewhere, followed by a long, drawn-out smacking sound when the mud lets go of me.

I set off, heading as far away from the middle of the island as I can go, trying to take deep breaths to calm down. But it's not easy. My body is shivering in spite of the heat. To be pulled down into the dunes. Could that happen here? Has it already happened? Are Alex and Smilla-helpless, their screams m.u.f.fled-somewhere beneath my feet? Fragments of the horror stories about Lake Malice that Alex told echo again through my mind. No! I do my best to push aside the ghastly scenes that are creeping into my consciousness. No, no, no.

All of a sudden, I'm at the water's edge. This side of the island is rimmed with rocks, both big and small. Some are sticking up from the surface, others lurking underwater, covered with swaying algae. It looks both enticing and dangerous. I squint to look across the lake, measuring with my eyes how far it might be from here to the mainland. Too far, I quickly conclude. Smilla can't swim. She hasn't yet learned how to swim. But she does love to play in the water, like a reckless little daredevil.

I look back down at the silent rocks. Did Smilla decide to go wading and venture too far out? Did Alex take off his shoes and wade in after her, but slip and hit his head on a rock? I close my eyes to ward off such disastrous thoughts. But they only get worse.

Did some force-the same force I seemed to encounter last night when I stared over the side of the boat into the lake as I waited for Alex and Smilla to come back-lure them out into the water, blinding them and leading them straight into a death by drowning? I gasp. I slap my face to drive out all such terrible thoughts. But this time it takes quite a while before my pulse slows and my shoulders sink back into place.

Now that I've searched nearly the whole island, I'm more convinced than ever that they're no longer here.

Slowly, I start walking along the sh.o.r.eline. I shouldn't let myself get so upset. The mud grabbing my foot was just my imagination, another phantom in my jittery mind. The lake does not possess evil forces. Nor does the island. The idea that two people-a grown man and a four-year-old girl-could be sucked down into the dunes or drawn into the water by evil forces is the stuff of movies and books. And lousy ones, at that. So why do I feel so anxious?

I realize why. I stop next to an area that looks like a campsite, and the answer comes to me. If nothing supernatural is going on, there has to be some rational explanation for Alex and Smilla's disappearance. And that is far more frightening.

I stare at the ground. Between a green tarp and a dirty old mattress, I see a pile of charred wood. Scattered around this primitive fire pit are cigarette b.u.t.ts and empty beer cans. And a knife. A knife with a stained blade. I move closer, bend down, and carefully study the area around the mattress. I don't really know what I'm looking for. Something that could lead me to Alex and Smilla. On one side of the mattress, I see a shriveled condom. Memories of what Alex did to me the other night flood over me. I flinch and step back, disgusted.

My foot lands on something squishy, and I look down, expecting more mud. Instead, I find myself staring straight into a pair of gla.s.sy eyes the size of peppercorns. Tiny legs stick out from under my shoe. I jerk my foot away but can't stop staring at the brownish-red jumble of intestines and guts lying on the ground. When I finally realize what I'm looking at, the merciless nausea returns. It's a squirrel. A disemboweled squirrel. I spin around and vomit into a juniper bush. Then I flee.

8.

In the middle of the lake, I reduce speed and finally cut the motor completely. I take off my shoes and lean over the side of the boat to rinse them. I tell myself that another animal could have attacked that squirrel. Maybe a fox or a cat. I don't want to think about the knife lying nearby or what it might have been used for. I throw up again, this time into the lake. The vomit claws at my throat. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and then have to rinse that off too.

With an effort, I force myself to focus on what I should do next. My search was fruitless, but I can't give up. I refuse to give up. Again, I picture Smilla's smiling face, her dimples and chubby cheeks. Feeling a pang in my heart, I straighten my spine to summon more strength. Then I survey the area around me. Lake Malice is big, much too big for me to take in its whole expanse from this position. But what I do see can only be described as a summer paradise. Glinting sunlight, gentle ripples on the water, numerous docks where skiffs and small motorboats bob at their moorings, and two separate swimming areas, one of them with a diving tower. All around the lake are cottages and cabins of various sizes. Some of them are set so close to the sh.o.r.e that I can see the red-painted gables and flagpoles. Others, like the cabin that belongs to Alex's family, are cl.u.s.tered farther from the water.

I twist around to look first in one direction, then the other. I let my gaze sweep along the sh.o.r.e, moving from house to house. No sign of life anywhere. The summer's over, and Marhem's sun-worshippers are gone. For most people, fall means a return to daily routines, to school and their jobs. That's one of the reasons why we came now. For some peace and quiet. To be alone.

The breeze picks up, spraying cold drops onto my arms. I shiver, noticing the clenching in my stomach. Something is moving in there, something that is me, and yet is not me. Maybe it's not just the summer that's over. Maybe life as I know it is coming to an end. How can I go on? Will I be able to handle all this? Or will it defeat me?

Suddenly, I'm sitting very close to the side of the boat, leaning over and staring into the dark water. Something is drawing me down, down. I can't look away, can't even blink. Then I hear something. It gets louder, rising from a muted humming to a whirring, then to a whispering, a hissing. Like a distant voice, the sound rises up from the water, becoming more frightening, more ominous. I shudder, realizing that I should get out of here. I should clap my hands over my ears and close my eyes. But I seem to have lost all ability to blink or to turn away. And my hands are clamped on the gunwale of the boat. Out of the corner of my eye I see my knuckles, hard and white.

Then I lift up, raising my body until I'm no longer sitting down but leaning forward over the side. I am physically doing the moving, but I'm not the one in charge, not the one deciding. Someone-or something-else has taken command of my body. I feel a rocking under my feet. My weight tips the side of the boat, taking me closer to Lake Malice's dark, mysterious eddies. As if the lake is opening for me, wanting to make the decision easier. A slight movement would be enough, a step forward, a leap into the air. That would be sufficient. I would slice through the surface of the water and then continue down into the deep. That's all I would need to do. Nothing more, never anything more. I would simply fall. Fall freely, out of time, through eternity. Like Papa. Exactly like Papa.

9.

The last night. The night Papa disappeared, when he fell out of our lives. Considering how much it affected me, you'd think the images that play in my mind would be detailed and clear. Razor sharp. But they're not. The more crucial the detail from that night, the closer I get to the truth about what happened, the more impenetrable the fog becomes surrounding the events.

What I do remember is what happened before, the little things. For instance, there was a change in the weather a couple of days earlier, and it got colder. From where I was hiding in the dark outside Mama and Papa's bedroom, I could feel a cool breeze seeping into the apartment. The parts of my body not covered by my nightgown, my calves and feet, quickly grew cold. The fresh air was mixed with the smell of smoke. I didn't need to peek into the room to know what that meant. Papa had opened the tall bay window and was perched on the windowsill with a cigarette hanging from his lips. And he was probably holding a drink in his hand. I could tell by the way his voice sounded. It was loud and scornful. Mama's was low and bitter. They were repeating the usual accusations, the same old complaints.

Why do you have to . . . ?

Don't you understand how humiliating it is for me when . . . ?

c.u.n.t.

I clutched my old teddy bear under my arm. A couple of months earlier, I had turned eight. I was a big girl now. That's what all the grown-ups said. But I still slept with Mulle every night. I hugged his body, once so woolly but now matted and worn, as I lay in bed and dreamed of a time that must have existed, though I could no longer really remember. A time when Mama and Papa were happy together. A time before Papa began coming home late at night with strange smells on his skin and clothes. Before I could hear Mama crying through the thin walls of the apartment and Papa swearing loudly in reply.

A c.u.n.t. That's what you are.

I flinched and pressed Mulle against my face, squeezing my eyes shut. There it was again. The word Papa used whenever he ran out of arguments. c.u.n.t. For some reason, that particular word got under Mama's skin, deflated her, demolished her. But Papa kept right on hurling it whenever they argued. Even though he knew how much it hurt her. Or maybe because of it.

The choice of swear words wasn't the only thing that was repeated. My parents' fights also followed the same pattern, based on the same building blocks. When that particular curse was uttered, it meant the end was near. And a resounding silence would soon set in. At first, Mama and Papa's argument on that particular night seemed to unfold predictably. There was nothing to indicate that this argument would be the fateful exception to the rule. Mama had gone on the attack, this time because of a stain on his shirt collar, and Papa had responded with a scornful remark. She demanded an explanation and an apology, but he refused. When she pressed him, he pulled out his sharpest weapon. And once again, the air rushed out of Mama.

It was right then, after I'd already turned around to tiptoe back to my own room, that the fight rapidly and unexpectedly changed character. They kept going, even though it should have been all over. Their voices sounded distorted and hateful in a whole new way.

I know what you did to Greta. Hitting your own child . . . How could you?

The words reverberated like gunshots. Then it was quiet in there. I froze. There was a rushing in my ears, and I saw it again: the raised hand whistling through the air and slapping me across the face. An image, an event, I'd pushed out of my mind. Now it came back, overwhelming me, striking me full force.

I let go of Mulle, dropping him on the floor. My hand flew up of its own accord and pressed protectively to my cheek. But it was too late. The sting of the slap had already set in. It felt like a thousand sharp and burning-hot needles p.r.i.c.king my skin. Greta, sweetie, I didn't mean to do it. I just turned around and saw . . . You know I didn't mean to, right? I think it would be best if we don't tell anyone about this.

And I knew at once who anyone was. There was no need to say it out loud. There was only one person from whom it was important to hide what happened. My eyes filled with tears of shock and humiliation as I promised to keep quiet, knowing it was for the best. But now. Now that anyone had found out.

I know that I turned around, and, instead of going back to my room or continuing to hide in the shadows, I stepped into the light and stood in the doorway to Mama and Papa's bedroom. I know that it took a moment before they noticed me, and before that happened, the silence ended and their voices started up again. I think I heard questions about how and who and why hurled around, but it's at this point my memory starts to resist. What happened next, the commotion that must have ensued . . . escapes me. Yes. That's exactly how I usually describe it.

Of course that wasn't what I said at the time, right afterward. When curious friends and their equally inquisitive but more discreet parents asked me what happened, I told them nothing. Not a single word. Because I had no words. None were adequate. It was only much later, as the years pa.s.sed and I grew up, that I began to understand that what happened would never sink into oblivion. Even though Mama and I moved, changed jobs, changed schools, people kept asking and wondering and staring in horror. Finally, I came up with a phrase, one sentence that silences or at least deflects further interest. I have no close friends, but I use the phrase with coworkers and in social settings. I've used it on the psychologists I've seen, and when I told the story to Alex.

It escapes me.

An excellent turn of phrase, if I do say so myself.

10.

When I get back to the dock, the sun has slipped behind the clouds. I tie up the boat as best I can. While I'm fumbling with the mooring line, I picture Alex's hands, so dexterous they are as they loop and knot. Something gleams between his fingers. A black silk tie. I jump up, trembling, and wrap my thin cardigan tighter around me. My hand flutters automatically to my throat, and I take several deep breaths.

Instead of taking the narrow path up to the cabin, I choose to detour along the gravel road that snakes around the lake. I need to widen my search area. On one side, I pa.s.s several red-painted cabins. I walk up to the houses and shout h.e.l.lo, but no one answers. The windows and doors are closed, the rooms visible behind the lace curtains dark and empty. Yet I can still see patio furniture and flowerpots outside. On the weekend, these cabins will once again be filled with lively activity. Cars will pull into the yards, and doors will open. Tired but happy grown-ups will carry in suitcases while eager children run around, restless after sitting still for so long. Bright voices and infectious laughter will echo between the buildings. But right now it's quiet and desolate. Or is it?

Like a trespa.s.ser, I sneak even closer. I can't stop myself. I peer through the dirty windowpanes, try the door handle on an outbuilding. But nowhere do I see any sign that Alex and Smilla have been here, much less that they're here now. Of course not. I continue along the road, pausing now and then at a cabin that is more isolated or looks especially dilapidated. My imagination runs wild. I picture Alex and Smilla, bound and gagged in some cramped and windowless s.p.a.ce. My shouts grow more frantic, my footsteps more rushed. Once again, I'm struck by a feeling of phoniness, like there's something fake and affected about my thoughts and actions. As if my search is nothing but a chimera. As if I do have access to the truth, but I choose not to see it. In front of a timbered cabin with gingerbread trim, a solitary yellow plastic swing hangs from a big willow tree, swaying gently in the wind. Smilla loved to swing. My throat tightens. Loves. Not loved.

The nausea is back, and I have to slow down. I try to throw up, but nothing comes out. My body feels both listless and agitated. As if my whole being is the object of an internal battle, a tug-of-war between cool logic and irrational emotion. And it's not just because Alex and Smilla have disappeared. The fact is that it's been like this ever since the day I staggered out of the clinic, shaken and dumbstruck, with the doctor's words ringing in my ears. Even though it's impossible to see the lake from here, I automatically turn in that direction. I picture myself out in the boat a short while ago and recall how the thought of joining Papa had briefly occurred to me. To be or not to be, that is the question. And now it demands an answer.

I walk with my eyes on the ground, not wanting to see any more swings hanging from trees or abandoned toys on lawns. Instead, I concentrate on placing one foot in front of the other. My pink sneakers keep moving forward. I left my new sandals with the ankle straps and heels back at the cabin. This hasn't turned out to be the sort of vacation I was expecting. My feet work their way forward, one step at a time. I walk and walk. Past more cabins and gardens, and then, as the gravel road curves, I keep going into the woods.

Papa would have liked my sandals. He appreciated pretty things, had an eye for beauty. Every time I dressed up as a princess-and that was frequently-he would clap his hands and shower me with praise about how lovely I looked. Mama, on the other hand, merely shook her head and pressed her lips together. Papa would sometimes come home and hand me a package containing a glittery tiara, stick-on earrings in garish colors, or even lipstick. Mama would take away the lipstick and remark sharply that there were more important things for little girls to focus on than how they looked.

On those rare occasions when my parents would fight in the daytime, Papa might come find me afterward and ask me to put on one of the tulle dresses he'd given me and then offer to pretend we were going to a royal ball together. Mama never came to find me. Not even once. In the aftermath of a heated argument, she would instead withdraw somewhere to be alone, to the bathroom or bedroom, though what she preferred most was to go out for a long walk.

If I showed her my high-heeled sandals, she would call them impractical and wonder how I could walk in them. Didn't they hurt my feet? That's how Mama is. Her disappointment in me has always been disguised as concern. Even though she's never actually said so, I know that she thinks I could've done much better for myself. Sometimes I think she's ashamed of me and the choices I've made. Her job involves dealing with human relationships and conflicts, people's lives. And that sort of thing has real value. Yet she has a daughter whose professional life is devoted to facades, to outward appearances. A daughter who is following in her father's dubious footsteps. Even-perhaps most importantly-when it comes to her personal life. Alex. Thinking about him and Mama in the same breath heightens my discomfort. At the very beginning of our relationship, I'd told Mama about him. I couldn't help it. But of course she displayed no joy; she had no sympathy or understanding to offer me. How could you, Greta? was all she said. How on earth could you?

A movement by the side of the road pulls me out of my brooding. I stop abruptly, looking at a black shape huddled in the ditch before it slowly rises. Before my eyes, the figure takes on human form. I see arms and legs and long, straggly hair, but no eyes. No face at all. I feel my whole body freeze in terror. My fingers instinctively curl into fists. Then the creature turns and something pale, almost ghostly, becomes visible under the mane of hair. The face of a girl.

11.

At this distance she seems no older than ten or twelve. Forcing myself to move forward, I see as I get closer that the girl at the side of the road must be in her early teens. But she has a slender body, as thin as a much younger child's. And she's very pale, even though we're at the end of a long and unusually sunny summer. She's wearing a loose-fitting shirt and long pants. Both garments are black, without any pattern or trim. Her hair hangs down her back, and I can't help thinking that it would have been beautiful if only she hadn't dyed it a lifeless black. She looks anxious and keeps glancing over her shoulder.

I stare at her as if bewitched. I realize that she's the first living creature, other than Tirith, that I've met since Alex and Smilla disappeared. I'm very close to her now, and I'm just about to say h.e.l.lo when I see a group of people a few yards away in the woods, near the sh.o.r.eline. A couple of them are moving back and forth, looking down at the water and then out across the lake, as if searching for something. The others are facing each other, speaking in low voices. The cloud cover lifts, and the sun appears in the sky. The rays strike the shiny, sharp object one person is holding. A flash of light. I flinch and step back.

I must have made a sound, a gasp, or maybe even a stifled shriek, because at that precise moment they all turn around. Pale, angular faces swivel toward me, five or six pairs of eyes stare in my direction. Teenage boys. That's what I manage to think before, as if on cue, they start coming toward me through the trees. Something inside of me, some basic instinct, tells me to flee, to run away as fast as I can. But my legs feel suddenly heavy and wobbly, and my feet seem glued to the ground. The boys are not in a hurry. They move slowly but deliberately. Finally they reach the gravel road and spread out around me. One of them circles halfway around and stops behind my back.

The last one to reach the road is the boy holding the knife. He moves with obvious self-confidence, ignoring me pointedly. He stops next to the girl.

"You were supposed to keep watch."

His hair is the same dull black as hers, but close cropped, with some sort of shaved pattern on the sides.

"Sorry."

The girl leans forward and rests her head on his shoulder in a gesture that looks more submissive than affectionate. He wraps his hand around her head. He moves his other hand across the back of her neck, the whole time keeping a tight grip on the knife. Maybe it was meant to be a tender caress, but it looks like something else entirely.

He turns around and takes a few steps forward so we end up facing each other. He's older than the others. That much is clear. His face is rougher, broader. Instead of a few spa.r.s.e whiskers around his mouth, he sports a scraggly dark goatee. He has braided the strands and fastened the ends with a row of tiny white rubber bands. But what stands out the most about him are his eyes. It occurs to me that those eyes of his have seen terrible things. And yet he can't be more than twentysomething.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?"

His tone of voice indicates that he's used to being obeyed. I shift my gaze to the girl. She's standing behind him, her shoulders hunched. Maybe it's his voice, or maybe it's the way she is stooped forward. But something gets into me, making me stand up straight.

"And who are you?"

Without hesitation, he raises his hand, pointing the knife at me. I automatically step back, but b.u.mp into a gaunt, hard body. I turn and see cold, narrowed eyes. I turn my head the other way and find a jutting chin and lips pulled into a scornful sneer. My gaze flits away. Downy chins and bright-red zits. T-shirts with stretched-out necklines, worn jeans with rips in the knees. Kids, I think. They're just kids. Bored kids in a place where nothing much ever happens. They're just trying to scare me. That's all. But I'm not really convinced. Nor does the thought calm me down.

"What are you so f.u.c.king scared of? I just need a little manicure."

The young man with the goatee has lowered the knife and is using the point to clean the dirt from under his fingernails. He's rewarded with scattered jeers from the boys standing around me. Then his expression changes again.

"Let's try one more time. Who are you, and what are you doing here?"

He raises his head to look at me. His dark eyes are now impa.s.sive. As if he's not seeing another human being in front of him. As if I'm an inanimate object.

"I asked you a question. So answer me."

A sharp jab to my shoulder makes me stagger. The boys move closer. Suddenly, I hear my mother's voice in my head. Dehumanization, she says in that annoying professional tone of hers. There's a profound connection between dehumanization and violent crime. It's easier to harm someone when you don't perceive them as human, when you can't empathize with the person. So I decide that the opposite argument must also hold true.

I start telling them who I am. I explain that I'm here on vacation. But I don't stop there. I also describe the approximate location of the cabin. And I tell them about Alex and Smilla, that the three of us came here together. I say that they're waiting for me now. That they're going to be worried if I'm not back soon. Then the words stick in my throat and I stop talking. And wait.

Goatee Guy doesn't look concerned. He scratches his arm and glances at his watch. Has he even heard a word I said?

"You haven't taken something that belongs to us, have you?"

At first I think I must have misheard him. What does he mean? I frown and shake my head. Hoping, believing, that he'll see I'm genuinely puzzled. Goatee Guy gives me a long look. Then he takes a step closer.

"Are you sure?"

Before I have time to answer, the girl slips next to him, stands on tiptoe, and whispers something in his ear. He listens impatiently, then pushes her away. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice how the other boys are rocking back and forth, casting inquiring glances at Goatee Guy. What's going on? The seconds fly by. The only sound is birds chirping. My mouth is dry, and my body is tensed like a taut bowstring.

At last, Goatee Guy makes a nearly imperceptible motion with his hand and turns his back on me. He moves a short distance away. Time stops for a few moments. Then, slowly, I feel the iron ring surrounding me begin to loosen. I'd like to think there's a certain relief in the boys' retreat. But maybe it's mostly disappointment that emanates from their frustrated bodies. Disappointment at having to release their captive. Apparently Goatee Guy notices it too and understands the group's need for one last show of force. I've hardly relaxed my tensed shoulders when he spins around and strides over to me again. In one swift movement, he raises the knife and places the tip under my chin. He doesn't press hard, but the blade is sharp, and terror sinks its claws into me.

"If I find out you're lying . . ."