The Double Silence (Andas Knutas 7)

both sides of the street. In a second she would be home. Their house was at the far end, with a wooded area behind. It was a white-painted wooden house, built in an early-twentieth-century style, in spite of the fact that it was only fifteen years old. It had a pitched roof, gingerbread trim, mullioned windows and a glass veranda.
    As Andrea got closer, she gave a start. The front door was open. Just slightly ajar, but enough so that she noticed it as she passed their bright-red postbox, which Sam had bought in New York in the spring.
    She stopped short. Listened intently. Not a sound except for the quiet dripping from the drainpipe on the garage wall. She fixed her eyes on the door. Had she forgotten to close it when she left for her walk? That was impossible. She was always so careful. An inveterate worrier who regularly checked that the balcony door was locked, that all the windows were closed and the lights off before she left the house. She always set the security alarm that had been installed next to the front door, under the key cupboard. She would not have neglected to lock the door or set the alarm.
    Soundlessly she crept closer. No signs of a break-in. Her brain was registering data and the exact time in case she would have to notify the police and the insurance company. Wednesday, 25 June, 9.35 a.m. Asquietly as possible she went up the steps to the porch, cringing at every creak. She paused to listen for any sound from inside. Still nothing. She held her breath. Then she stretched out trembling fingers towards the crack in the doorway. Slowly she pulled the door open.
    And stepped inside.

THE SHADOWS MOVED like elongated, intangible figures across the kitchen floor. Stina Ek sat on the floor with her bare feet on the cool tiles and leaned against the kitchen cupboard in the corner between the sink and the pantry. Her knees were drawn up, her arms folded. Her eyes followed the erratically rippling patterns, dissolving and merging, all depending on the capricious play of the tree branches outside the window. The light was lovely, and the house was completely silent. The sun had suddenly peeked out from the heavy cloud cover. The babysitter had picked up the children right after breakfast. She ought to pack but couldn’t get herself to move. She just remained sitting here, incapable of doing anything at all. As if the air had gone out of her when the house had emptied and she was left alone with her thoughts.
    Her controlled façade crumbled, the muscles in her face relaxed, her shoulders drooped, and she found it easier to breathe. She no longer had to make an effort, and that made her feel tired.
    On the following day she and Håkan were going away with their best friends: Sam, Andrea, John and Beata. They were neighbours in Terra Nova. All of them had moved in at the same time, when the houses had just been built and the area had the air of a new development. Back then their children were young, and they had met at the day nursery or the playground. The years had passed with a countless number of parents’ meetings, children’s parties, dinners and celebrations that had brought them close, so that over time they had become practically indispensable to each other. They helped each other out by taking the kids to and fromschool and football practice; they exchanged recipes and borrowed high-pressure washers and circular saws. In the autumn they set aside special days to rake leaves together, then burned the leaves and grilled sausages. They helped each other put up wallpaper and finish DIY projects. And it wasn’t just daily chores. They had dinners and parties together, including the annual crayfish feast,
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parties at Christmas, and celebrations on Walpurgis Eve and at Midsummer. They steadfastly clung to traditions, and everything always had to be done in the same way. A few times they had diverged from the customary festivities, with unfortunate consequences. None of them wanted to risk losing the deep-seated sense of community that they’d established, so now they all kept to the unspoken rules. At least outwardly.
    A few years back they had created a new tradition. Three couples in the neighbourhood who were particularly close friends decided to take a brief trip together each summer. A grown-up trip without the children. Sam Dahlberg was the one who had come up with the idea. He was the driving force in the group, inventive and creative. He thought that since the children were older now,