maybe the rest
of her belongings would fit into something else.
Unzipping the black suitcase, she went
through the clothes, making two different stacks: one with things
she was sure she wanted to keep—the blue dress, the blue underwear,
her shorts, and a couple of T-shirts and blouses that weren’t as
boring as the rest. The other stack was clothes she could do
without, clothes that were similar to what she had at home, and
clothes that didn’t—she realized—make her feel good about herself
when she put them on. The blue dress had made her feel good, had
made her feel pretty. The silver sandals made her feel pretty. The
blue underwear and the scarf with the silver threads made her feel
pretty. The jeans made her feel good, too. Young and hip, very
unlike a librarian. Same for the shorts.
The drab olive blouse with the poufy sleeves
and high neck, not so much.
The castoffs she left in the suitcase, in
the closet. Once she got to where she was going, she’d call the
hotel and tell them she wouldn’t be back, and just to discard it.
The rest of her clothes she folded carefully and put them into the
shopping bag she’d gotten at the boutique yesterday. It was
oversized, to accommodate the shoebox as well as dress, scarf and
underthings, and she was able to fit two pairs of shorts and three
shirts into it, along with a half dozen pairs of plain cotton
underwear. She wore her jeans, along with a dull gray blouse and
the silver sandals.
The jeans had been a gift from Astrid last
Christmas, and it was really the first time Annika had worn them.
She’d never imagined herself as the jeans-type. Especially not
Paris-designer jeans. But Astrid said no woman’s wardrobe was
complete without a pair of great jeans, and as she twisted and
turned in front of the mirror, Annika could see her sister’s point.
The jeans did look good on her. Different, but good. For one thing,
they took a few years off her age. She looked twenty seven now,
instead of past thirty. They hugged her butt and rode low on her
hips, which was different from anything she was used to wearing,
but they made her legs look great, and they also made the boring
gray shirt look a whole lot less boring than it usually did.
Instead of twisting her hair up into a bun, she left it loose to
flow over her shoulders, and as the final piece de
resistance , she took her glasses off and put them in her purse.
She could no longer see herself in the mirror, but she knew she
looked good.
And she looked different, which was what she
wanted, really. Good was nice, but different was better. She wanted
to be able to walk out of the hotel without anyone realizing who
she was. If Nick was hanging around somewhere keeping an eye on
her—or his friend, the big blond with the gun—she wanted them to
look past her, to think she was someone they’d never seen before.
Just another twenty-something Swedish blonde in Parisian jeans and
sandals, out shopping.
She took the chair from under the doorknob
and put it back against the wall—clearly no one had been in the
room while she was sleeping—and then she took the stairs to the
first floor and headed for the back of the building, where the
loading dock was. It was deserted, save for a delivery van of some
sort, with a balding, middle-aged man behind the wheel. He kept his
eyes on her all the way across the dock and down the stairs, but he
didn’t speak.
And then she was around the corner and away
from the Lady Hamilton Hotel and on her way.
She couldn’t see anyone behind her—not the
driver of the car, not Nick, nor his friend with the gun—but even
so, she wandered in circles for an hour, keeping an eye over her
shoulder. She ducked into a couple of buildings and out through the
back doors—including the red-brick Gothic Storkyrkan —site of
the recent royal wedding—and Tyskakyrkan , in the first
German parish ever established outside Germany. She crossed the
town square and went down Köpmangatan , the oldest street
of her belongings would fit into something else.
Unzipping the black suitcase, she went
through the clothes, making two different stacks: one with things
she was sure she wanted to keep—the blue dress, the blue underwear,
her shorts, and a couple of T-shirts and blouses that weren’t as
boring as the rest. The other stack was clothes she could do
without, clothes that were similar to what she had at home, and
clothes that didn’t—she realized—make her feel good about herself
when she put them on. The blue dress had made her feel good, had
made her feel pretty. The silver sandals made her feel pretty. The
blue underwear and the scarf with the silver threads made her feel
pretty. The jeans made her feel good, too. Young and hip, very
unlike a librarian. Same for the shorts.
The drab olive blouse with the poufy sleeves
and high neck, not so much.
The castoffs she left in the suitcase, in
the closet. Once she got to where she was going, she’d call the
hotel and tell them she wouldn’t be back, and just to discard it.
The rest of her clothes she folded carefully and put them into the
shopping bag she’d gotten at the boutique yesterday. It was
oversized, to accommodate the shoebox as well as dress, scarf and
underthings, and she was able to fit two pairs of shorts and three
shirts into it, along with a half dozen pairs of plain cotton
underwear. She wore her jeans, along with a dull gray blouse and
the silver sandals.
The jeans had been a gift from Astrid last
Christmas, and it was really the first time Annika had worn them.
She’d never imagined herself as the jeans-type. Especially not
Paris-designer jeans. But Astrid said no woman’s wardrobe was
complete without a pair of great jeans, and as she twisted and
turned in front of the mirror, Annika could see her sister’s point.
The jeans did look good on her. Different, but good. For one thing,
they took a few years off her age. She looked twenty seven now,
instead of past thirty. They hugged her butt and rode low on her
hips, which was different from anything she was used to wearing,
but they made her legs look great, and they also made the boring
gray shirt look a whole lot less boring than it usually did.
Instead of twisting her hair up into a bun, she left it loose to
flow over her shoulders, and as the final piece de
resistance , she took her glasses off and put them in her purse.
She could no longer see herself in the mirror, but she knew she
looked good.
And she looked different, which was what she
wanted, really. Good was nice, but different was better. She wanted
to be able to walk out of the hotel without anyone realizing who
she was. If Nick was hanging around somewhere keeping an eye on
her—or his friend, the big blond with the gun—she wanted them to
look past her, to think she was someone they’d never seen before.
Just another twenty-something Swedish blonde in Parisian jeans and
sandals, out shopping.
She took the chair from under the doorknob
and put it back against the wall—clearly no one had been in the
room while she was sleeping—and then she took the stairs to the
first floor and headed for the back of the building, where the
loading dock was. It was deserted, save for a delivery van of some
sort, with a balding, middle-aged man behind the wheel. He kept his
eyes on her all the way across the dock and down the stairs, but he
didn’t speak.
And then she was around the corner and away
from the Lady Hamilton Hotel and on her way.
She couldn’t see anyone behind her—not the
driver of the car, not Nick, nor his friend with the gun—but even
so, she wandered in circles for an hour, keeping an eye over her
shoulder. She ducked into a couple of buildings and out through the
back doors—including the red-brick Gothic Storkyrkan —site of
the recent royal wedding—and Tyskakyrkan , in the first
German parish ever established outside Germany. She crossed the
town square and went down Köpmangatan , the oldest street
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