The House That Jack Built by Jakob Melander

out, hitting the officer on the temple. The officer fell to the ground without a sound. The man jumped over the officer, ready to run across the courtyard. Sanne instinctively stuck a leg out, and the man fell to the ground next to the officer with a hollow thud. She fumbled with the service pistol in her shoulder holster, then held it in front of her with both hands.
    â€œStay down!” she shouted.
    Her heart was pounding; she was gasping for air. The parents at the table still hadn’t made a sound. One of them held his coffee cup suspended halfway between the table and his mouth. One of the children was crying.
    She heard more footsteps coming up the staircase.
    â€œJesus.” Allan appeared in the doorway. He took two steps forward and managed to wrest the gun from Sanne. He glanced down at the other officer, who was groaning on the ground. Allan secured her weapon and stuffed it into his pants. Then he walked over to the suspect, forced one arm behind his back, then the other, and fastened them with plastic straps.
    â€œIt is now 9:37 a.m. and you’re under arrest,” he said. Only then did he return the pistol to Sanne.
    â€œSit down for a moment.” He helped her over to a crate that was next to the building. “Put your head between your legs.”
    Sanne did as she was told while Allan helped the injured officer sit up. Her mind was swirling: the heat, the weapon in her hand, the sliding resistance of her trigger. Easy. So close.
    The officer driving the car came racing into the courtyard with his weapon drawn.
    â€œYou can put that away.” Allan said. He leaned over Sanne. “Are you okay?”
    She nodded, spat between her knees.
    â€œHe — he’s getting away.” One of the parents was pointing. The suspect was on his feet again, running awkwardly toward a shed at the other end of the courtyard with his hands secured behind his back.
    â€œHey, you, hey!” Allan ran after the suspect. When he caught up with him, he got hold of his T-shirt but the man tore free. Allan caught up with him again and stuck his leg out. The suspect fell to the ground, but this time he couldn’t break the fall with his hands and fell face-first on the asphalt. His face was battered and smeared with soil, blood, and grime. His eyes were half-closed and his T-shirt was torn to shreds. The pungent smell of sweat surrounded him.
    Allan pulled him up, then motioned for one of the officers, and together they managed to drag the man back to where the others were.
    â€œMay I present: Meriton Bukoshi.”

Chapter 11
    E LENA WINKLER. Lars’s eyes cast over the large sweeping letters on the glass door. At least she hasn’t changed her name yet. Through the store window, past an opulent display of shoes, he saw her standing behind a large leopard-print armchair. Her back was turned to him. She was wearing a thin cream-coloured knit T-shirt, mocha-coloured slacks that were tight around the hips and wide through the legs, and a pair of high heels from her collection. Her dark frizzy hair was pulled back in a low, tight bun. The row of Chinese masks on the wall bore into him with their evil eyes.
    He ran his hands through his hair and took a deep breath. This was it.
    She turned around when the bell sounded.
    â€œHi Lars.” They stood across from each other, uncertain. Two people with far too much history. Then she kissed the air by both of his cheeks and took two steps back, turned around, and continued arranging the display.
    The scent of her skin and the light hint of perfume made his stomach tingle. He shut his eyes.
    â€œHave you been to Milan again?” he asked after a while.
    â€œYes, I brought Maria with me. Just after . . . you left. We visited one of the factories and saw next year’s collection. Those are this year’s.” She turned around and pointed at the shoes in the window. “Aren’t they lovely?”
    He had never really understood