CHAPTER TWO

Time went by in a loop.

He had changed so much. Maybe it was the extra weight that, paradoxically enough, made him look shorter than the six foot seven she knew he measured on a good day. The broad shoulders were stooped and his trouser belt strained below his potbelly. His face was smooth-shaven, just like his head.

“Hanne,” he said.

“Billy T.,” she answered after a few seconds’ pause, without making any move to push her wheelchair back from the doorway to allow him access. “It’s been a long time.”

Billy T. rested his arm on the door frame, leaning against it and burying his face in his huge hand.

“Eleven years,” he mumbled.

A door slammed outside in the corridor. Decisive footsteps could be heard heading from the neighboring apartment in the direction of the elevator. They slowed as they approached Hanne Wilhelmsen’s front door and the big man, who was standing in what could easily be interpreted as a threatening pose.

“Everything okay here?” a deep male voice enquired.

“How did you get in downstairs?” Hanne asked, without replying to her neighbor. “We have an entry phone—”

“My God,” Billy T. groaned, tearing his hand away from his face. “I’ve been in the police longer than you. A fucking miserable door security system! You wouldn’t have let me in if I’d rung the bell, just as you’ve rejected every damned attempt I’ve ever made to contact you.”

“Hello,” the neighbor said gruffly, trying to insinuate himself between Billy T. and the wheelchair. He was almost as tall as Hanne’s old colleague. “It looks as though Ms. Wilhelmsen here isn’t particularly keen to see you.”

He looked quizzically at her, but she did not respond.

Eleven years.

And three months.

Plus a few days.

“Or what?” the neighbor said, irritated, placing a hand on Billy T.’s chest to push him farther out into the corridor.

“That’s right,” she said at last. “I’m not interested. I’d be grateful if you’d see him out.”

“Hanne …”

Billy T. shoved the man’s hand away and dropped to his knees. The neighbor took a step back. His surprise at seeing this enormous body kneel and fold his hands in prayer made him stare open-mouthed.

“Hanne. Please. I need help.”

She did not answer. She tried to look away, but his eyes had locked on hers. He had husky eyes, absolutely unforgettable, one blue and one brown. It was his eyes she feared most. So little else about this figure reminded her of the man Billy T. had once been. The fleece-lined denim jacket was too small for him and a big stain of something, possibly ketchup, disfigured one of the breast pockets. Black outlines of snuff were etched at both corners of his mouth, and his complexion was bloated and winter-pale.

His blue-brown gaze was still the same. In front of her wheelchair, only a few centimeters from those useless legs of hers, all the forgotten years stared her in the face. Jostling at her. As she resisted, she noticed she had stopped breathing.

“Come here,” the neighbor eventually said, so loudly that Hanne flinched. “You