But they didn’t stop. Apparently, they don’t need to see them to know they are there. They can probably smell them. Like sharks, who can pick up on the smell of a single drop of blood at a distance of several miles. Finn saw that once in a documentary.
There’s also another reason why Henrik and his mother-in-law took great care to seal off every window in the house. They didn’t say it, but Finn knows it’s because they don’t want him to see—
“Finn?”
Henrik’s voice pulls him back once again.
“How’re you feeling? Have the pills started working?”
“The pills?” Finn repeats.
“I gave you a couple of Trine’s sedatives, remember?”
“Oh, right,” Finn mutters. “Yeah, I—I think they’re doing the job.”
“That’s good. I still think you should get some food, though.”
Finn picks up the fork and looks at it like it’s some sort of advanced piece of equipment he never operated before. He scoops up some lasagna and transports it to his mouth, chews it, swallows.
Henrik smiles at him. Then he goes on eating.
It’s warm and stuffy in the living room, since they can’t air out and because the evening sun is still baking away outside. He should have been sitting at the terrace right now, a cold beer in his hand and Lone by his side while she did her crosswords.
Finn forces down another bite and looks at Trine. She is the only one present who looks like Finn feels. Her eyes are red and distant, her lasagna untouched. She prods it with her fork now and then, only to put it down again.
“You too, honey,” Henrik says. “Try to—”
“Mind your own business,” Trine sneers, not looking up.
Henrik sighs. “I know it’s a terrible situation, but … I’m sure Dan is fine, and he’ll come home.”
Trine shakes her head slowly. “He’s not. You told him yourself to stay away.”
“Only because it’s not safe around here right now. You can hear them outside, can’t you?” Henrik gestures towards the window. “Would you really want Dan to come home while they’re still out there?”
Trine lets out a long, trembling breath, and Finn can see her eyes turn moist. “I’ve lost my daughter,” she whispers, “and now you’ve sent off my son to die …”
“Honey, please,” Henrik says, reaching for her hand.
She draws it away hissing: “Don’t touch me.”
Henrik looks to his mother-in-law. “Kirsten, would you …?”
Kirsten nods, puts down her knife and fork and dabs her mouth with the napkin. “Listen to me,” she says, turning to her daughter. “Henrik did the right thing. I’m sure Dan is safe.”
“How would you know?” Trine asks as she begins stabbing the lasagna with her fork. “You don’t know the people he’s with.”
“As soon as the police get this under control, we’ll go and get Dan,” Kirsten goes on.
“We can’t,” Trine says, raising her voice. “’Cause we don’t know where he is! And he’s not answering his phone … do you think that’s a good sign, huh, Mom? Or do you think he might be dead somewhere, just like Jennie, just like my girl … my girl … my little girl … oh God …” Trine bursts into tears, and Henrik and Kirsten get up in unison.
“Let me take her,” Kirsten says, glancing at Finn. “Maybe he could use some sleep.”
Henrik nods and turns to Finn, while Kirsten helps her daughter to the couch.
“Would you like a nap, Finn?” Henrik asks.
Finn agrees without really thinking. Henrik helps him to his feet. They leave the living room and the sound of Trine’s sobbing cries, and they go down the hallway to a room slightly cooler, even though the window here is also blocked by a blanket.
“Is this … is this Jennie’s room?” Finn asks absentmindedly, looking at the posters of singers.
“It was,” Henrik murmurs. “Until yesterday.”
“Until yesterday?” Finn parrots, not understanding.
“Jennie’s dead, Finn.”
“Oh, right.”
“Come on, lie down.”
Finn lies down on the neatly made bed, folding his hands on his stomach. He stares up to the ceiling, where Jennie did a collage of photos of her and her friends having fun.
Henrik glances up at the pictures and swallows audibly. “Try to get some rest,” he says. “You just call me if you need anything, okay?”
“Okay. Thank you, Henrik.”
Henrik leaves the room, closing the door almost all the way.
Finn just lies there for a while, studying the photos without really seeing them. His eyelids are growing heavy when someone suddenly scrapes on the window.
Finn sits up and looks at the blanket. He can make out a low figure on the other side, hands groping the glass and the person uttering a low, almost pained moaning.
Could that be her?
Finn’s breathing automatically speeds up a notch. The silhouette could very well be Lone—but then again, what would the odds be? Henrik said earlier there must already be hundreds of them out there, so it could be anyone outside the window. Perhaps another one of the residents of the street. Perhaps a total stranger.
Perhaps … Lone.
Finn gets up and steps carefully closer. The tuneless groans from the figure grow slightly louder, the hands start fumbling more eagerly, as though the person feels him approaching.
The blanket is attached all the way around with tacks. Finn picks one of them out and gently moves the blanket a little aside, allowing him to peek out.
A strong dropping sensation in his lower belly almost makes him stagger.
Lone’s face is staring at him through the glass. Her mouth is open, and there’s dried blood on her chin and down her throat. Her glasses are gone,
