The End, page 18
“Yuck,” she says. “It still feels wrong not to recycle.”
I nod. A few weeks ago, I threw away a pair of batteries for the first time in my life. I always used to be careful about things like that. I used to think I had to do what was necessary to save the earth.
I look at Stina. See how relieved she is by what she’s just found out. Was she worried in her heart of hearts that I’d done it?
She’s a priest, did you know that?
There’s so much in Tilda’s letter I haven’t taken in yet.
“Why didn’t you tell me you spoke to Tilda?”
Stina stiffens. Pulls out the trash bag and ties it.
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. This summer.”
Stina’s still standing with the trash bag in her hand. It’s dripping, but she doesn’t seem to notice.
“Tilda wanted to meet me as a priest, not as your mother,” she says. “You know I can’t—”
“Why the hell does confidentiality matter now?”
“It mattered to Tilda,” Stina says, and something firm comes into her voice. “How do you know we spoke?”
“Did she say anything that could explain what happened?”
“No.”
“Can you think about it for more than a second before answering me?”
Stina’s cheeks flush red. Garbage juice keeps dripping from the bag, forming small puddles on the floor.
“Did you talk about me?” I continue.
Stina’s eyes narrow. She’s almost purple now.
“The world is ending, Simon. Tilda had other things on her mind. And maybe it’s about time you did, too.”
“It might be easier to think about something else if everyone didn’t think I murdered her. But you care more about confidentiality than me.”
“Don’t you think I’d help you if I could?” Stina shouts. “Do you think I enjoy being worried about you?”
Boomer shuffles into the kitchen, watching us with large eyes. He sniffs the air.
“Why do you think I’m staying home tonight?” Stina asks, her voice shaking slightly.
“You said it’s your night off.”
“Yes, it is! Because one of the discussion groups asked for another priest! They said they didn’t want pastoral care from someone who’d raised a murderer!”
I literally lose my breath. Boomer’s eyes travel between us; he whines anxiously.
“So this doesn’t just affect you!” Stina continues. “But I’d gladly stay home from work if you’d at least talk to me once without fucking sighing or acting like it’s a massive sacrifice, or like I’m a complete moron! But that’s too much to ask, isn’t it?”
She waves her arms around, making the juice from the bottom of the bag splash across the floor.
“What are you doing out here?” asks Judette as she comes out of the bedroom.
Stina shakes her head. “Did you get ahold of Maria?” she says with strained patience.
“She’s going to call Lucinda now.”
“And then what? What is Maria going to do to make the people of this fucking town understand that our son is innocent?”
“I don’t know,” Judette says. “One thing at a time.”
“I don’t want to take one thing at a time! I want to know that someone is doing something!”
Boomer carefully sniffs at the pools on the floor. It’s only when he starts licking them that Stina notices what’s happened, and she shouts again, wordlessly this time.
I get up, take the trash bag from her hand, and place it on the floor. Stina sucks in a deep breath, then slowly exhales through her mouth.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I just feel so goddamn powerless.”
“I know,” I say, and put my arms around her.
NAME: LUCINDA
TELLUS #0392811002
POST 0027
The police officer sounded friendly and attentive. I could tell that she believed me. It must have been a relief for her as well, since she knows Judette. She promised me she’d think about the best way to use my information to exonerate Simon publicly. She said it’s hard to know what the best course of action would be. Most people outside the inner circle have already forgotten about Tilda. Reminding everyone of Simon could make things worse for him.
I don’t think the police know what to do about anything anymore. None of the old rules apply, and too much is going on. Earlier tonight, a few girls around Miranda’s age let out all the horses from a stable, wanting them to run free before the world ends. At this moment, panicked horses are galloping through the streets in the heart of town, and there have been car accidents up and down the highway.
Finding the person responsible for Tilda’s death is up to Simon and me now. And the comments on my post only confirm that this is the only way to clear his name.
I can’t write any more tonight. I’m exhausted.
2 WEEKS, 3 DAYS LEFT
SIMON
Iwake up before the alarm goes off and immediately feel like something’s changed. My body’s light in a way I’d almost forgotten it could be. I pick up my phone from the floor. In about an hour, I’m meeting Lucinda by the glass factory. She sent me a message during the night.
GOT A REPLY FROM CAROLINE. SHE DOESN’T THINK YOU DID IT ANYMORE.
I smile, and write back that I’ll see her soon. Thank her again.
Johannes replied to the message I sent him yesterday.
SHIT, THAT’S AMAZING! COME TO STOCKHOLM AND CELEBRATE!!!
I write back that I wish I could. Then I get out of bed and pull on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt hanging over the desk chair. That’s when I realize what’s so different.
I have more energy than I’ve had all summer. And not that nervous energy that just messes with your body. This energy can be directed at something. This is what it feels like to have a goal again. And it’s all thanks to Lucinda.
When I step into the kitchen, Emma is at the table, stirring a cup of tea.
“Shit, I’ve slept for forever,” I say. “I passed out at eleven.”
“Maybe you needed it.”
“I think I did.”
My sister lifts her spoon. It’s covered in cheese that’s melted into the hot tea. She sticks it into her mouth. She doesn’t even swallow before cutting herself another slice of cheese, folding it into a square and pressing it into the cup. I lean over the table. The milky tea smells flowery and sweet. Greasy pools have spread across the surface.
“That looks disgusting.”
“Try it.”
“No, thanks.”
“It’s melted cheese,” Emma says, like that’s the only argument she needs.
I make a cup of tea and some sandwiches, and settle down at the table.
“I heard you and Stina cleared the air yesterday,” Emma says.
“Are they at home?” I ask, nodding at the bedroom door.
“Mom’s just left for work. I think Judette’s gone back to sleep.” Emma leans forward in the chair. “You missed the Third World War this morning.”
I blow into my cup to cool the tea.
“What were they fighting about this time?”
Emma sticks her cheesy spoon into her mouth, then taps it against her front teeth. “Have you seen what Maria posted about you on the police department’s official Facebook page this morning?”
“No,” I say, and haul out my phone.
“Stina thinks Maria should have done more,” Emma says in a low voice while I search for the post.
The police would like to remind the public that in the case regarding the seventeen-year-old girl found dead in North Gate, there are at present no suspects, and no circumstantial evidence has been corroborated. Rumors can cause serious harm to the victim’s family and the innocent person(s) accused of the crime, as well as impede the investigation.
I study the impersonal words. The post has received more than forty comments.
“Are you okay, Simon? Have you got anyone to talk to about all this?”
The tea burns my tongue when I try to drink it, and I curse under my breath.
“You know you can always talk to me, right?” Emma presses on.
“Absolutely.”
“You’ll go insane if you don’t talk to someone.”
I blow into my tea again. My sister, who has somehow managed to repress the fact that the end of the world will affect the baby in her belly, is worried I’ll go insane.
I take a gulp of tea and start reading the comments. Some of them are actually on my side.
“It isn’t easy for Mom, being so dependent on Maria,” Emma whispers. “I think she still feels betrayed.”
I’m about to ask her what she’s talking about when my eye goes to one of the latest comments.
Of course that’s what the police say. Must be nice having your mother’s lesbian girlfriend on the force.
There’s a comment under that one, too.
Wouldn’t mind if those two cuffed me 😊
I look up from the phone.
“I’m not saying Judette did anything wrong,” Emma hisses, glancing at the bedroom door. “They were divorced. But . . .”
“Judette and Maria were dating?”
Emma puts her head in her hands, rubbing her eyes. “Fuuuuck. I thought you knew.”
“Now the whole town knows about it,” I say, placing my phone on the table in front of her.
Emma lowers her hands. Her eyes have gone bloodshot.
While she’s reading the comments, I remember small, seemingly inconsequential things I noticed last spring. The weeks I stayed at Judette’s place were full of signs.
Shampoo for a white person’s hair. A tube of pale concealer. Traces of an unknown perfume in the room when I returned after a week at Stina’s. When I asked, Judette said a friend of hers had stayed over. There were other signs, too. Like Judette always checking her phone, smiling at all the wrong moments when we were watching movies together. And she’d been listening to music again.
It’s so obvious now that I honestly can’t believe I missed it.
Emma pushes the phone away with a look of deep disgust.
“When did it end?” I ask, and think of Judette’s secret smiles again.
She must have had feelings for Maria. They must have been good together.
“In June,” Emma says quietly. “It was Mom’s condition for letting Judette move back in.”
So Judette had broken up with her girlfriend to be able to live with me full-time again.
And I did everything but stay at home.
My guilt makes my throat close up.
“How could Stina do something like that?” I say.
“Like what?” Emma asks.
We look at each other. Sometimes, I forget that Judette is just an extra mom to my sister. Laughing at Stina together is one thing, but when our moms are fighting, she almost always takes Stina’s side. Which means I have to defend Judette.
“Mom is at least trying to make it work,” Emma says.
“Blackmail is so romantic.”
“It’s not blackmail! She just couldn’t live with Judette while Judette was dating someone else. How is that weird?”
We could end up arguing like we used to. When Stina and Judette had issues, they didn’t just bring out the worst in each other, but in us, too.
I don’t want to fight. I don’t know what I might let slip. So I get to my feet, put my teacup in the sink, and leave the sandwiches, untouched, on the kitchen table.
NAME: LUCINDA
TELLUS #0392811002
POST 0028
Ididn’t have time to check all the messages on Tilda’s laptop. I focused on the people who’d been in touch with her during the last month.
Elin and Amanda, of course, and the rest of their loose friend group. Reading their messages felt wrong. Tons of tiny dramas, but nothing that had anything to do with Tilda’s death. And they had all been at the after-party. They couldn’t have done it.
I saw messages from Molly, who mostly sent emojis. Tilda’s grandmother seemed to use an ancient phone, since she only wrote in capital letters. There were goodbye-before-the-comet-comes messages sent from other relatives around the country.
Reading Caroline’s texts was almost unbearable, especially during the final days when she desperately begged Tilda to call her back and tell her where she was. And the person pretending to be Tilda—the person who knew she was rotting behind an abandoned factory—kept answering that she was coming home. I love you, too. You’re the best mom in the world.
Tilda wasn’t exaggerating when she wrote that Klas was trying to convert her. On an almost daily basis, he sent her links to signs of the Second Coming. Lists of events said to be predicted by the Bible (three super moons in a row, the Zika virus, the Second World War). I shiver when I read them. I’m almost swept away by the feeling that our doom was predestined. Klas sent quotes from the Bible, too. I recognize some of them from his breakdown (or explosion) at the fellowship hall. Other examples:
And there shall be signs in the sun, and in the moon, and in the stars; and upon the earth distress of nations, with perplexity; the sea and the waves roaring.
Men’s hearts failing them for fear, and for looking after those things which are coming on the earth: for the powers of heaven shall be shaken.
And then they shall see the Son of man coming in a cloud with power and great glory. And when these things begin to come to pass, then look up, and lift up your heads; for your redemption draweth nigh.
Klas begged her, again and again, to come with him to the True Church. To be redeemed before it was too late. Maybe him acting “crazy” at the funeral isn’t strange at all; I mean, he does believe that his daughter is burning in hell. That she will do so for all eternity, while he’s in heaven, a safe distance from the flames. Forever apart. That must be a horrible thing to imagine.
But Tilda resisted Klas’s attempts to “save” her. She rarely replied to his messages. He kept sending them until the day Tilda’s body was found. He couldn’t have done it, even though Tilda compared him to a priest in a horror movie. There are pictures of him, Anders, and Erika in the True Church on the night Tilda died.
Then there were messages exchanged with boys Tilda had had sex with this summer. I didn’t show them to Simon. Seeing them was difficult, even for me. I know Tilda’s body so well. We’ve seen each other in changing rooms thousands of times; we’ve massaged each other in the sauna when our legs and arms cramped. When we stayed over at each other’s houses, we never hid behind towels when we showered. Our naked bodies were completely ordinary. But seeing the pictures Tilda had sent to these guys is something completely different. I’ve looked at their public profiles. Some of them watched the game with a bunch of friends in their own homes; others weren’t even in town that night. A couple of them were in the square—and checking them out could possibly be worth it—but I don’t think any of them did it. When Simon told me what he and Tilda had talked about, it became clear that she was going to see someone she knew well—either to talk to me or to confront one of the “hypocrites.” Regardless, it was someone who meant a lot to her. In the messages to these guys, there are no feelings involved. They hardly seem to know each other.
There are really only two, maybe three, people we know we should talk to:
Tommy: Tilda’s final message to him was sent a few days before her disappearance. It looks like she’s commenting on something they’ve discussed. She wanted to add one last thing: If what I’m doing is wrong it’s YOUR FAULT. Before that, the messages are from the end of May, and there’s only the usual info about schedules and competitions. So what happened during the summer? It was something that made Tilda write in her letter that she wanted to say “fuck you” to what Tommy represented. Erika said something had happened between them, but didn’t know what. For fuck’s sake, Tilda, why were you so secretive?
Does Caroline know something? I noticed her avoiding Tommy at the funeral.
Tommy hasn’t posted anything on social media all summer. We don’t know what he was doing on the night of the game.
The new friend: Neither Simon nor I know whose home she was at when she wrote me the letter. Amanda didn’t know about anyone who was obsessed with space. I couldn’t find any messages to him either, unless he’s the same person who was selling her drugs.
Tilda’s dealer: We don’t know who this is, but at least we now have a phone number. I found messages to someone who wasn’t in her list of contacts. It started in the beginning of June. The messages are short. Often Tilda would just suggest a time, and get an okay or can’t in response. They never had to decide on a place, which means they always met at the same spot.
The messages were rarely longer. The person was worried Tilda would expose them. She promised never to do that. It’s not like I want to risk not seeing you again. They were going to meet in the afternoon the same day she died. It can hardly get more suspicious than that.
We’ll get in touch with them. But what do you say to a criminally inclined and clearly paranoid person? “Sorry, but did you happen to murder my best friend in a drug deal gone wrong?”
I’ll admit: Simon and I don’t have much to go on. Fantasizing about our important mission was easier last night. I have to hurry if I’m going to meet up with him, but part of me wants to call the whole thing off. What the fuck do we know about catching a killer?
SIMON
It’s the first time I’ve ever seen the glass factory up close. I park Judette’s car in front of the turquoise box made of corrugated metal. Five signs, one letter on each, spell out the word GLASS, no more nor less. Lucinda isn’t around, but I’m early.
I pull out the key, lean forward in the driver’s seat, and see lanterns made of plastic, flowers in different stages of decomposition, notes and trash that have been scattered by the wind across the asphalt; some of them stick to the net fencing behind the factory. I squeeze the steering wheel with one hand, listening to my breathing and the sound of the wind finding its way through the gap between the car door and the frame.
