Page 128 of The Living and the Dead

“And,” Killian continued, “I want them to play my playlist.”

“You have a playlist?”

“I have songs I like.”

Sander realized he didn’t know what songs those were. He wished Killian could send them to him, but how? Did Killian have a cell phone, did he have social media profiles, did he subscribe to streaming services?

“And,” Killian went on again, “whoever can’t produce a picture of us together isn’t allowed in.”

“What’ll that be, then, like, three people?”

This time Killian was the one smothering his laughter. “Plenty of alcohol for me, in that case.”

He didn’t add up, Killian. It was like he was split in two, both markedly older and still eighteen. He spoke about death as they would have back then, in 1999, shallowly, fragmentally, uncoupled from reality. Death as nothing more than a fantasy, something you could easily keep at arm’s length. Maybe that’s what happens when you manage to fool death for so long.

“You always brought out the best in me,” Killian said. “Do you know that?”

“I did?”

“Yes. That’s how I felt, anyway. Most of the time, at least. Until…you know, that last night. But,” he added, when Sander opened his mouth, “that doesn’t matter now. I just wanted you to know that. That you saw me, somehow. In a way no one else did.”

“I never believed it was you.”

Seconds of silence from Killian, a few too many. “What do you mean?”

“Mikael.”

When Killian finally spoke, he sounded different, like he had crept down into a tiny fissure inside himself. “That night…”

Both of them fell silent as they registered Vidar Jörgensson’s words on the top side of the floorboards.

There is evidence that he may have been involved in Filip Söderström’s death.

Vidar’s voice was deeper and more robust, clearer to make out than the other two. Killian didn’t move. Sander kept listening, suddenly more attentive, but he tried to hideit.

They heard soft steps. Someone had stood up and was walking through the house. The footsteps approached the door to the basement. Killian slowly stood up and looked around in the darkness as if trying to locate something.

The steps stopped at the door. Sander held his breath.

“Killian,” he whispered. “No.”

The handle turned with a creak. Killian thrust his hand into his backpack, and when it came back out his fingers were clutching the handle of a woodcarving knife.

“What the hell are you doing?” Sander hissed.

But this was a different Killian, unfamiliar, a stranger.

The handle jiggled. Someone was trying to open the door. Killian moved to the bottom of the stairs with his knife in the air. Sander followed him, very uneasy, and was just about to grab Killian by the arm when all the air was sucked out of the room.

Above them, the yanking on the handle grew more insistent.

“Don’t say a word.”

Suddenly, Killian’s free arm came out and his hand clamped around Sander’s neck, firm and mechanical. The stranglehold was so unexpected that the shock didn’t give way to pain until his head started pounding. His mouth and throat were producing sounds, but no words. Killian stared at Sander, his eyes blank.

Sander tried to call for help, but Killian’s grip only grew more tenacious. He clawed at Killian’s arm, but it wasn’t enough. His friend was so much bigger, so much stronger. Killian looked toward the basement stairs again.

The yanking stopped. Steps again, steps retreating through the house.