down on some moss and blueberries and hug, as much to warm themselves as to comfort each other.
“We can’t keep this up,” Penelope says through chattering teeth, her face pressed into his chest.
“We’ll help each other.”
Eventually they get back up, steadying each other, and walk again on stiff legs in silence as they make their way east. Twenty minutes later, they emerge on the other side of the island. The sun is high in the sky now; the air is getting warmer. Penelope stops short when she sees a tennis ball lying in the high grass of a meadow. Its greenish-yellow color is completely foreign to her. She glances up and sees the tiny red house. It’s almost completely hidden behind a tight hedge of lilac bushes. The curtains in all its windows are closed and there’s a hammock without pillows in the arbor; the lawn is overgrown and a broken branch from the old apple tree lies across the path of gray paving stones.
“Nobody’s home,” Penelope whispers.
They sneak closer, prepared to hear a dog bark or someone yell. They spy through the gaps between the curtains and continue around to the front and try the door. It’s locked.
“I’ll break a window,” Bjorn says. “We have to rest.”
Next to the wall, there’s a clay pot holding a tiny bush with narrow pale green leaves. Penelope smells the sweet scent of lavender. She bends down to pick up one of the stones from the pot. This stone is plastic and underneath it, there’s a little lid. She opens it and takes out the key before she puts the fake stone back.
Inside, the hall floor is made of pine. Penelope feels her legs shake. They’re about to give way. The wallpaper is a plush medallion pattern. Penelope is so tired and hungry that the house appears unreal-a gingerbread house from a fairy tale. Covering the walls are framed photos. Bjorn and Penelope recognize many faces from popular Swedish television programs: Siewert Oholm, Bengt Bedrup, Kjell Lonna, Arne Hegerfors, Magnus Harenstam, Malena Ivarsson, Jacob Dahlin.
They walk through the house, past the living room and into the kitchen. They cast a look around with worried eyes.
“We can’t stay here,” Penelope whispers.
Bjorn goes to the refrigerator and opens the door. The shelves are filled with fresh food. The house is not abandoned after all. Bjorn grabs some cheese, a log of salami, a quart of milk. Penelope finds a baguette and a box of breakfast cereal in the pantry. They rip the bread apart and pass the cheese back and forth between them as they eagerly bite off chunks. Bjorn gulps milk straight from the carton. It runs from the corners of his mouth down his throat. Penelope gnaws the salami and follows that with handfuls of breakfast cereal. Taking the milk carton from Bjorn, she swigs so much she chokes, then drinks some more. They grin nervously at each other, moving away from the window as they devour the food before finally slowing down.
“Let’s find some warm clothes before we have to leave again,” Penelope says.
As they search the house, they feel the warmth of the food expanding inside. Their blood seems to flow more freely, even as their stomachs ache.
There’s a wall-size wardrobe with mirrored doors in the master bedroom. Penelope rushes forward and pushes half of the door to one side.
“What’s this?”
There are gold jackets, black glittering cummerbunds, a golden tuxedo, and a medium-length fluffy fur coat. Penelope’s eyebrows lift as she rummages through banana hammocks of all kinds: see-through, tiger-striped, camouflage, and stretch-fabric G-strings.
She slides open the other wardrobe door and finds simpler clothes: sweaters, jackets, pants. She searches quickly and pulls out some items. Unsteadily, she takes off her soaked clothes.
She catches sight of her naked self in the mirror. She’s black and blue all over and her hair dangles in black strings. Her face is marked with scratches and bruises across her cheekbones. Blood still seeps from one of the gashes on her thigh and her hip is scraped from the fall down the cliff.
She pulls on a pair of pin-striped trousers and a T-shirt with the saying “Eat more oatmeal!” and a hoodie over that. The hoodie is so long, it hangs to her knees. She warms up enough so that her entire body wants to relax. She suddenly bursts into tears, but stops them, smudging away the tears from her cheeks. She goes into the hall to look for shoes. There she finds a pair of blue sailor boots that fit. Back in the bedroom, Bjorn, even though he is wet and muddy, has pulled on a pair of lilac velour pants. His feet look horrible. They are covered with dirt and wounds; he leaves bloodstains wherever he walks. He pulls on a blue T-shirt and a narrow-cut blue leather jacket with wide lapels. Penelope begins to cry again, her tears now streaming out in waves. She can no longer hold them back. It’s as if all the anguish and terror are now making their way out.
“What’s going on?” she sobs.
“I have no idea,” Bjorn whispers.
“We haven’t even seen his face. What does he want from us? What the hell does he want? Why is he after us? Why does he want to hurt us?”
She jerks the sleeve of her sweater across her face.
“I think,” she says, “I mean… what if… what if Viola has done something bad, something stupid? You know her boyfriend, Sergei, the guy she broke up with, he must be connected to something criminal… maybe… all I know is that he worked as a bouncer.”
“Penny-”
“I’m just saying, Viola, she’s so… maybe she’s done something wrong.”
“No, it’s not her,” Bjorn whispers.
“What do you mean? We don’t know anything! You don’t have to comfort me.”
“There’s something I have to-”
“He… the man who was after us… maybe he just had something to tell us. No, I know, that’s ridiculous… I mean, I don’t know what I mean.”
“Penny,” Bjorn says seriously. “Everything that’s happened is my fault.”
He looks at her. His eyes are bloodshot, and his cheeks burn red against his pale skin.
“What are you saying now?” she asks in a deadly quiet voice.
He swallows awkwardly before he explains.
“I’ve done something incredibly stupid, Penny.”
“What? What have you done?”
“That photograph,” he answers. “It’s all because of that photograph.”
“Which photograph? The one of Palmcrona and Guidi?”
“That’s the one. I got in touch with Palmcrona,” Bjorn answers honestly. “I told him I wanted money for the picture, but-”
“You didn’t,” she whispers.
Penelope stares at him and instinctively steps backward, managing to knock over the bedside table with its water glass and clock radio.
“Penny-”
“No! No! No! Just shut the hell up!” she’s screaming. “I don’t get it! What the fuck are you trying to tell me? You can’t mean it… you couldn’t have… have you lost your mind? You tried to blackmail Palmcrona? Where was your mind?”
“Listen to me! I regretted it at once. I know it was wrong! He got the picture. I mailed him the picture.”
The room falls silent. Penelope tries to comprehend what Bjorn has told her. Confused thoughts circle through her mind, and she fights to understand Bjorn’s confession.
“That picture belonged to me,” she says slowly. She’s still trying to control her thoughts. “It might be extremely important. Maybe an incredibly important photograph. I was given it in confidence. Someone may be able to explain-”
“I needed money. I didn’t want to have to sell my boat,” Bjorn whispers. He looks like he’s about to cry.
“I still don’t get it-you mailed the picture to Palmcrona?”
“But I had to, Penny. I know it was yours and that it was wrong to send it, but I had to give him the picture.”
“But I’ve got to get it back!” she says desperately. “Don’t you understand? What if the person who sent it to me wants it back? This is big. It’s dealing with Swedish arms exports. This isn’t about your money or lack of it… this has nothing to do with you or me… this is way beyond just us, Bjorn.”
