So how was he planning to introduce me, I wondered. How did he want me to introduce myself? Alex shrugged at my queries, didn't think it mattered because we weren't likely to run into anyone. At least no one he knew. But I insisted.

"But what if someone asks?" I said. "What if? I want to know who I am. Who I'm supposed to be."

That caught his attention. He stared at me for a long time, an unreadable look in his eyes.

"You're my woman," he finally said firmly. "If anyone asks, that's what you should tell them."

So that's what I did. The man in the brown house, the police, the kids-that's what I let all of them believe. That I was the one Alex was married to. But it was different with Smilla. n.o.body had urged me to call her my daughter, yet I'd allowed her to become part of the charade. It had happened so naturally. It was almost alarmingly easy. Little Smilla, who had the same princess dreams I'd once had, and the same father figure-playful and fun as a dad, worthless and unscrupulous as a spouse. Smilla, who was connected to me through the child I now carried inside.

"Your sister or brother," I whisper with a shiver as I stand in front of the grocery store cooler.

For a long time, I stare at the containers of milk, b.u.t.ter, yogurt, and eggs. Then I glance down at the red basket I'm holding. It's still empty.

In the back of my mind, I know that getting in the car and driving here to shop for groceries is just a pretext. What I'm looking for is something else entirely. But what? The two old ladies are approaching. Quickly, I take two cartons of yogurt from the shelf and place them in my basket. I hope now I look like any other ordinary customer. Normal. At least outwardly.

I move to the back of the store, trying to keep it together. I put some fruit in a plastic bag, which I place in the basket along with a loaf of light rye bread. Suddenly I find myself in front of a shelf of diapers and baby food. And I'm staring straight into the memory of how Alex reacted when he heard I was pregnant. Have you made an appointment? I remember that afterward he took his time finishing his dinner, that he seemed to be chewing very calmly and carefully. Yet there was something alarming about the way his jaws kept grinding back and forth. Something that indicated suppressed rage. Or is that just my interpretation in hindsight?

After he'd cleaned his plate, he pushed it aside and left the room to get something. He came back holding a black silk tie. Then he took off his jacket and handed both items to me.

"Put these on over your panties. Nothing else. Wait for me in the bedroom."

One more try, just one last time. Maybe that's what I was thinking. Maybe that's why I repressed the memory of the pain in my thighs, the pain that had eventually faded and yet had etched silent, indelible traces inside my body. In any case, I did as Alex wanted. I got undressed, slipped the tie around my neck, and waited. Then he came into the bedroom. And closed the door to the world.

It took a long time for me to fall asleep that night, and when I finally did, it was a restless and fitful slumber. A short time later I woke up, either from pain or because of sounds outside. The rumbling car engine, the loud screams. I lay there, listening to Alex carry Smilla inside, noting how he turned on lights and put her to bed in the room next to ours. Through the wall, I heard him talking to her, his words quiet and rea.s.suring.

I didn't get out of bed, but I was definitely wide awake. And it was at that moment I made up my mind. Actually, it was more of a realization than a decision. This has to stop.

There was a clarity in those words, a feeling that I'd been missing for a long time. I had to do what must be done. It made me feel both heavy and light. There was no doubt in my mind whatsoever.

I reach out and touch a baby bottle, then a sippy cup with a Winnie-the-Pooh decal. Is this what I'm looking for? Is this why I'm here? No. I lower my hands. My body moves away. I'm almost at the checkout counter, but I haven't found what I'm looking for. Something is buried in my consciousness, mocking me, hidden. I put a bag of cat food in my basket, and then I'm in the section for home and garden supplies. My eyes land on a medium-sized ax on one of the lower shelves, and something clicks.

I set down the basket and squat in front of the tools on display. My ears are ringing as I reach out and grab the handle. I pick up the ax, weigh it in my hand. It's substantial for its size.

I've never held an ax before. Yet the feel of the grooved plastic handle seems so familiar, completely natural. How can that be? I lean forward and read what it says on a sign fastened to the shelf. "Multifunctional. Case-Hardened Steel. Lifetime Guarantee." I close my eyes a second.

Then I carefully touch the blade with my fingertips. The feeling prompts a ba.s.s note to resonate through my whole body. After it fades, a familiar echo starts up. In the worst-case scenario, that sort of state of mind could have very unfortunate consequences. For you, or for those close to you. I practically fling the ax away. What the blond psychologist warned me about-is that what's happening now? Have I reached a point where I can no longer predict my actions or control what I do? Have I reached that point-or have I already pa.s.sed it? Oh, Smilla!

I cover my eyes and rock desperately back and forth as I crouch there on the floor of the grocery store. We hadn't planned to bring her with us to Marhem. Unforeseen circ.u.mstances prompted her nighttime arrival. The one who stayed and the one who left. And now . . . What is it I'm trying to tell myself now? That unforeseen circ.u.mstances are also behind her disappearance? I take my hands away from my eyes and again fix my gaze on the object in front of me. I need to be realistic. Once again, I reach out for the ax.

I'm approaching the highway exit for Marhem when my phone starts ringing. Katinka, I think. I didn't answer her text, so now she's calling to see if I'm okay. I remember what Mama said the first day after they went missing, when I was still taking her calls. Katinka is worried about you. Feeling tense, I pull out my phone. But it's not Katinka's number on the display.

My other hand jerks the steering wheel so hard that the car swerves across the lane. I shriek before regaining control. Up ahead, I see a turnout, a waiting area for the buses that travel the highway back and forth to town. I cast a frantic glance in the rearview mirror, but there's no bus in sight on the stretch of road behind me. Clutching the wheel with both hands, I pull into the bus stop and brake, a little too hard.

My phone is still ringing, and I stare at it wild eyed. No, it's not Katinka's number. There are no digits on the display. Only a name. A very familiar one.

"Alex," I whisper.

My hand picks up the phone. The skin on my palm twinges-it's the wound from the other day, the wound from my own earring. Just before I press the "Answer" b.u.t.ton, my eyes shift to the plastic bags on the floor in front of the pa.s.senger seat. The bags containing the groceries I bought. Yogurt, fruit, bread. And the ax. The multifunctional tool, with a blade of tempered steel and a lifetime guarantee.

I take a deep breath and answer, trying unsuccessfully to make my voice sound normal.

"h.e.l.lo? Alex? Where are you? What happened?"

I hear a sc.r.a.ping sound on the other end.

"h.e.l.lo?" I shout again, a little more firmly this time. "Can you hear me?"

Still no answer. All I hear is a rushing sound. Then total silence. I take the phone away from my ear and stare at it. I try again, shouting Alex's name louder and louder. But the connection is dead. There's no one there.

26.

It's gotten so dark. The last bit of strength has seeped out of me; there's nothing left. Nothing to hold me up. I can't get up, can't do anything. All I can do is lie here in the dark and look around. It's all so familiar, yet it seems different now. Changed. Ruined.

I hear your voice. And if I make a slight effort, I can see you in my mind, picture your face and your body. But I can't penetrate into your consciousness, get hold of who you are. What thoughts are racing through your mind right now? Are you confused? Lonely? Resigned? Or is there some solace, hope? Do you believe things will get better? That everything will work out in the end? Do you ever think of me? Answer me!

How do I go on? What can I do? Without me, you are nothing. Words that exposed and humiliated me, made me shrink and cower. But now . . . now I feel something in my body, feel it growing and getting closer. Preparing to claw its way out. Soon I will get up. I'll stand determined and erect. I will leave what has been, put it all behind me. The future is waiting. She is waiting.

Soon it will grow light. Soon I will go to meet her.

And you'll be left alone in the shadows. May they swallow you up.

27.

The key. Where is the d.a.m.n key? I dig through my purse, have to put down my grocery bags to search properly. The top of one of the bags falls open, and I see the black handle of the ax I just bought. Then I remember. The key isn't in my purse. I just thought it was, out of habit from back in town. Here in Marhem the routines are different.

When I'm again standing at the bottom of the steps, I reach my hand underneath to get the key from its hiding place and then feel a burning sensation on my back. An intense feeling that I'm being watched spreads through me. Am I just imagining things, or is that the sound of twigs snapping somewhere beyond the tall arborvitae in front of the cabin? Is someone there? I start to shake and almost drop the key.

Without turning around-I refuse to give in to fear-I walk back up the steps. I stick the key in the lock, give it a turn, and press down on the door handle. But the door doesn't open. Two more times, I grab the handle and pull the door toward me, but nothing happens. It's still locked, even though I just unlocked it. Or did I? With trembling hands, I try again. Put the key in the lock, give it a turn, and then press down on the handle. Now the door opens easily.

Quickly, I pull it shut behind me and stand in the entryway for a moment, leaning against the wall, panting. Was the door even locked to begin with? Did I forget to lock it? Surely I remembered to lock up when I drove to the grocery store, although I have no clear memory of doing so. But how often does anyone recall those kinds of things that they do more or less automatically?

Was someone out there? If so, who could it be? Jorma? Again I feel the knife jabbing under my chin. Jorma probably wouldn't have settled for spying on me from the bushes. But maybe it was some of his followers. Maybe they found out which cabin is mine. Maybe they have nothing better to do than to prowl around outside, both nonchalant and eager, waiting for something to happen. I stare at the closed front door. In that case, I think, their wish will soon be granted. Something is about to happen.

My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth as I head for the kitchen with my bags. I stow everything in the fridge and cupboards, all except for the ax, which I leave in the bag so I can pretend not to see it. The other option is to pretend it's intended for yard work. Deep inside, I want to hold on to the belief that I'm the same person I was before we came to Marhem. A person who would never even think of buying an ax, let alone consider it a weapon.

It's already afternoon, and my stomach is growling. I should eat something, but I have no appet.i.te, nor can I settle down to eat in peace. So I make do with a couple of gla.s.ses of juice. I'm standing at the kitchen counter, drinking the juice, when I again have that p.r.i.c.kling sensation on my back. I turn around slowly, and that's when I notice her. The doll. Five of the six kitchen chairs are neatly pushed under the table, but the sixth one has been pulled out. And on the chair sits Smilla's big baby doll with the eyes that open and close. Her chubby arms are raised over her head, and her cornflower-blue eyes are staring at me. I clutch the gla.s.s in my hand. My pulse, which had just begun to ease, quickens again. Was she sitting there this morning? Or yesterday? My phone rings.

On trembling legs, I run to the entryway, where I left my purse. My stomach is knotting as I stand there with the phone in my hand, staring at the display. The same name as before. The phone is slick with sweat as I press it to my ear.

"Alex? Is that you?"

But there's no one on the phone this time either, at least no one who responds. After shouting Alex's name several times and hearing only the echo of my own hoa.r.s.e voice, I end the call.

Shaken, I stare at myself again in the hall mirror. My mind is flying in all directions, trying to contain what refuses to be captured, trying not to slip or lose hold. I think about the screeching tires and the loud screams outside the cabin on our first night here. I think about how, on returning to the cabin after Alex and Smilla disappeared, I couldn't find my phone and how it finally showed up, neatly covered on Alex's side of the bed. I think about the trouble I had opening the front door, and the possibility that it was unlocked all day. And then I think about Smilla's doll in the kitchen, about its wide-open, staring eyes, its little mouth shaped in a silent scream, and its arms reaching up in a plea for help.

I stagger toward the bedroom, realizing I need to lie down. When I reach the doorway, my eyes fall on the lacy red bra still draped over a chair, and I pause. I bought the bra when Alex suggested-or rather, told me-that we would be driving to Marhem for a few days. We would go together, just the two of us. It was short notice, but I managed to get a few days off. At lunchtime, I ran out to buy new underwear. Not because I really wanted to, or because I needed anything new, but because I felt like it was expected of me. I also bought a tie for Alex, a black silk tie. I gave it to him when he came over later that night. He stared at it for a long time, letting it tenderly slide through his fingers.

"I'll bring it to the cabin," he said at last.

We ate dinner, and afterward he stroked me languidly, provocatively. He made me hope, made me relax. This time, we would make love without pain, without any unpleasant surprises. Alex was good at what he was doing, and I gasped as I arched toward the ceiling. But just as I was about to reach o.r.g.a.s.m, he moved his hand, grabbed the flesh on the inside of my thigh, and pinched as hard as he could. I screamed. Then he did the same thing on my other leg. And this time, he didn't just pinch. He twisted my skin and the underlying fat and muscles until they burned. The pain was so extreme that everything went black, and I lost all sense of time and place. My body was lifted up and turned over. For a moment, my face was pressed against the mattress as he mounted me. I remember thinking: Who are you really? Then it was over.

Afterward, Alex's breath was hot in my ear when he whispered about the thin line between pain and pleasure. He said he wanted us to explore that more. A few days later, I was sitting in the clinic, wearing long pants, talking about how inexplicably tired I felt. And then I heard the news that changed everything. Your ninth week. Did you really have no idea? My world was turned upside down. I didn't know what to do, so I did nothing. Made no decisions. Took no action. And suddenly, the day arrived, the day of our departure for Marhem.

I can't get myself to go into the bedroom. The lacy red bra mercilessly leads my thoughts to the black silk tie, and my aversion is so strong that I feel faint. Where is it now? I haven't seen it since our first night here, but it must be somewhere, neatly rolled or hung up. Probably in the bedroom, in Alex's wardrobe.

I stumble back and turn instead to Smilla's room. Toys are scattered everywhere, reminding me of the girl who slept and played in this room so recently. But when I lie down on her bed and again bury my face in the pillow, I no longer smell the warm, sweet scent of her hair. She's far away from here now, far away.

"I'm sorry," I murmur into the pillowcase. "I'm sorry it turned out like this."

The image of pale legs underneath a bush flashes through my mind, but I push it away and manage to replace it with a different picture. Now Smilla floats into view, flying into the kitchen in Alex's strong arms. Then he sets her down on the chair across from me, and she looks at him lovingly as he fixes breakfast. It's our first morning together, hers and mine. And our last. If I'd known that beforehand, would I have acted differently, made other choices?

What did Smilla think about my presence there at the breakfast table? Did she see the mark that was beginning to appear on my throat and wonder what it was? Or was she too young to understand such things, too young to come to any conclusions about her father and this strange woman wearing a nightgown? I turn over in bed and stare at the one remaining eye of Smilla's teddy bear, which is lying against the wall. The truth is, I'm not even sure she saw me. I mean, she was aware I was sitting there. But she didn't see me, not really. She was too wrapped up in something else. Every time she opened her mouth that morning, it was about herself and Alex. Smilla and Papa. Papa and Smilla. Her love for him was palpable.

As I sat on the other side of the table and saw her watching him with adoration in her eyes, I felt the jealousy growing stronger inside me. I felt left out. I wanted what they had. And the decision I'd made during the night solidified. As soon as we were done eating, I took Alex aside and told him. I had made up my mind. I was planning to leave him. He patted my cheek, but not hard or angrily. More distracted.

"No," he said. "No, you won't."

Then he left me there, my body heavy as lead. Because I understood what his words meant. I thought the hard part was deciding to leave Alex, that once I'd made the decision, the rest would be easy. Only then did I realize how tightly Alex had spun his web around me. I was entangled in so many ingenious threads that there was no way out. What I planned was impossible.

I couldn't leave Alex. He would never allow that, simply because he was the one who controlled our relationship. On the day he tired of me, we would part, but not a second before. And if I did try to leave . . . He would come after me, bring me back. He knew where I worked, where I lived. He knew everything about my life. He was my life. I had to find some other means, another way out. But how? What?

I get up and straighten the duvet on Smilla's bed. As if someone might sleep here tonight. As if I actually think she's coming back. When I look up, my eyes are drawn to the window. I glimpse something move on the other side of the pane. My throat closes up as I take the few steps over to the window and pull down the blind. A deer, I tell myself. This time it must have been a deer.

28.

It's dark when the shrill ringing of my phone yanks me out of the fog of sleep. Who would call me in the middle of the night? I wonder blearily. The next second I'm wide awake and reaching for my cell. Again, it's Alex's name on the display. Again there's only silence on the other end. I shout h.e.l.lo several times, but no one answers.

Either the person on the phone is unable to speak, or the call isn't intended to convey a message in words. Maybe it means something else. A cry for help. Or a threat. How am I supposed to know which? A disconsolate feeling surges inside of me. Along with another feeling, strong and insistent.

"Go to h.e.l.l!" I bellow into the phone, before I abruptly end the call.

I'm surprised at the force of my anger and frustration. But then it ebbs away, replaced by guilt. Again I picture those pale legs sticking out from under a bush and imagine the lifeless body of the girl beneath the foliage. This time it's not as easy to shake off the image. Smilla!

Automatically, I reach out my hand and run it over the duvet, looking for Tirith's soft body. I need him close to me; I need the solace that only another living creature can offer. But there's no cat lying on the bed. My disappointment soon gives way to something else, something darker. When did I last see him? My memory takes me back to the moment I came inside after the failed visit to the police station.

I picture Tirith licking the wound on the palm of my hand. And then . . . then I threw him out. It was an impulsive act, based on a sudden aversion to his name. I haven't seen him since. Busy with other things, I hardly gave Tirith a thought, and he's been wandering around outside, cast out and alone. Defenseless in the face of the dangers hovering over Marhem.

I jump out of bed, and nausea a.s.sails me like an enraged animal. I make it to the bathroom just in time. Leaning over the toilet bowl, I expel what little is left inside my stomach. I've hardly eaten anything over the past few days, just a little yogurt and toast. The heartburn is worse than ever, as is the throbbing in the small of my back. I place my hand over my stomach and press down lightly.

"We need to go and look for your sister's cat," I murmur. I need to find Tirith, even if it's the last thing I do.

I put on a sweater and a pair of loose pants. The night air is chilly. And who knows how long I might have to be outside? I don't intend to give up until I've found my black-and-white pal. I'm not coming back until I have him safely in my arms.

In the hall wardrobe, I find an old, thin anorak. It's gray with pink trim. I pull it over my head, trying not to think about who it might belong to, the fact that it's probably hers. I stand there in the dim light, staring at my own reflection in the mirror. Pale, with no makeup, wearing practical but far from attractive clothing. A completely different woman from the one who arrived here a couple of days ago.

Layer after layer of polish and external trappings and ingrained patterns have been sc.r.a.ped off me. This is what is left. This is the person I've become.

There's a continuous line running through time, from that night when Papa fell out the window on the ninth floor until the moment when Alex and Smilla disappeared on the island. It's not a straight line. It keeps twisting and turning until it takes the shape of a circle. And it's at the spot where the ends meet that I am now standing. The person I've always been. The one who came out of the shadows, the one who has returned to the shadows.

I'm halfway out the door when I realize I'm missing something. Without taking off my shoes, I go into the kitchen and find the plastic bag on the floor. The ax is sticking out of the bag. I grab the black handle in both hands and lift it up, holding it out in front of my body. As I pa.s.s through the entryway again, I cast another glance in the mirror, prepared to see myself looking clumsy and awkward. But I have a steady, firm grip on the ax. I'm holding it with great determination. It looks like I've done this before.

I go outside, not knowing where I'm headed. I walk without thinking about where I set my feet or what's around me. Only when I feel branches brushing against my cheeks do I realize I'm in the woods. Not near the lake, not on the forest road, but deep among the trees. It's still dark here even though the sky is tinged with yellow and pink. I hear a twig snap somewhere behind me, and I spin around.

"Tirith?"

But I don't hear any meowing, and there's no lithe black-and-white figure coming toward me between the trees. On one level, I'm aware that it's wrong for me to be here, that I'll never find a cat in the middle of the woods. At the same time, all I can think about is the guilt I feel toward Smilla. About what I've subjected her to, how she became an innocent victim because of me. Nausea is churning in my intestines like a clenched fist, but I refuse to give up. Looking for Tirith is the least I can do.

"Here, kitty, kitty. Tirith!"

I go one way, then the other, first forward, then back, keeping my eyes fixed on the ground. Where could he be? Where does a cat go? I shake my head. What if Alex had voluntarily allowed me to leave? Would everything have turned out differently? That's something I'll never know. A big branch suddenly snaps back and slaps me right in the face.

The pain sends white flashes through my mind, burning everything away. When my vision clears, the ax is lying on the ground. I bend down and pick it up. My cheek is stinging, and I wipe off something sticky that turns my palm red. The same hand that I stabbed with my earring a little while ago.

A little while ago? I stare in surprise at the delicate bright-pink skin on the spot where I stuck myself. No puncture. No blood. Is it healed already? How long ago was it that I actually got cut? It feels like it just happened, but was it yesterday? Or even the day before? Was it before or after the well? I frown. The well? Yes, the well out on the island. There's no well on the island. Then what was it I pictured when I stared down at Lake Malice's dark water? No, he never leaned over any well. But did I cut myself on the earring before or after my hands shoved his shoulder blades?

Every time a clear thought is about to take shape in my head, it evaporates. Somewhere inside me a voice is shouting, as if in protest, but it's so far away I can't tell if it's real or imaginary. I'm fumbling blindly, both here among the trees and in my own consciousness. The only thing left is the sense that I'm searching for something. There's something I need to find. Something or someone.

I run through the woods, pushing my body to its limit. I hold out the ax in front of me like a shield, an invocation against evil. The only sound is the rustling of the anorak and my own ragged breathing. I don't know how long I've been out here or what direction I'm heading in. Maybe I'm going in circles. Finally, I see light among the tree trunks, and the crazed beast spinning inside my head gradually calms down.

I stop to catch my breath. The world is again clear, at least with regard to the more tangible details. There's no sign of Tirith. Or of Alex and Smilla. Of course not. My skin is p.r.i.c.kling; my head is spinning. The truth is right there in front of me, hidden under the ax. Now and then, light glints off the blade, like fish scales underwater. But each time I reach out my hands, it slips out of my grasp, as slippery as a fish.

I don't allow myself to rest for long before resuming my aimless wandering. Find Tirith. Find Smilla. Find Alex. As soon as I find Alex it will be over. If only I can find him, it will finally be over. Sweat trickles down my face and my back. But the feeling of being the one searching is increasingly replaced by the feeling of being hunted. Silent footsteps creeping behind me. Something that slips behind a tree trunk when I turn around. Maybe it's Alex coming back for revenge. Revenge? For what? Again thoughts whirl haphazardly through my mind. Without meaning, direction, or goal, they break loose. All reason flees. I see what's happening, but I'm helpless to act.

A faint vibration against my thigh brings me to a halt. Even though I hear no sound, I dig the phone out of my pants pocket, but without letting go of the ax. My cell phone. My only link to reality, to the outside world. The thought makes me feel both relieved and uneasy. There's a new text from Katinka. She writes that she's on her way home from some after-party, and she's wondering why I haven't answered her last text. The disjointed phrases and messy syntax indicate she must be drunk.

The phone beeps again, and then again. Katinka sends more texts, one after another. I halfheartedly skim over her reports of cute guys and aching feet. I'm just about to stuff the phone back in my pocket when I suddenly get a text about my mother. Apparently, Mama tried to get hold of me at work again, even though she knows I'm not there.

Upset. Wanted to know where you were. Tried to get me to tell her. Thought I knew.

Is Katinka mad that I didn't tell her where Alex and I were going for vacation? Or is she just stating the facts, that Mama asked her where I was but she couldn't tell her because she doesn't know? I have no idea. I lost the ability to decipher those sorts of normal but unspoken signals between friends long ago. Maybe I never had it. You should see someone. Maybe you should see a doctor at the clinic.