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    Strangers: An Exclusive Short Story
    Strangers: An Exclusive Short Story
    Strangers: An Exclusive Short Story
    Ebook107 pages2 hours

    Strangers: An Exclusive Short Story

    By Camilla Grebe and Åsa Träff

    4.5/5

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    About this ebook

    From the internationally bestselling authors of Some Kind of Peace, this eBook features an original short story, “Strangers,” plus bonus materials, including:

    · Extended excerpt from Some Kind of Peace, the first Siri Bergman thriller
    · EXCLUSIVE sneak preview of More Bitter Than Death, the second Siri Bergman thriller (on sale June 18, 2013)
    · Q&A with Camilla Grebe and Åsa Träff

    A chilling blend of psychology and murder, this heart-pounding Swedish series follows Siri Bergman, a thirty-something psychologist in central Stockholm, as she tries to heal the minds of her patients—despite the fact that she’s running from plenty of demons of her own. But the mind is a maze with many winding paths, and somehow Siri keeps finding herself venturing away from the safety of the therapist’s couch . . . and onto the trail of a killer.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSimon & Schuster
    Release dateMar 19, 2013
    ISBN9781476740850
    Strangers: An Exclusive Short Story
    Author

    Camilla Grebe

    Camilla Grebe is a graduate of the Stockholm School of Economics. She was a cofounder of Storyside, a Swedish audiobook publisher, where she was both CEO and publisher during the early 2000s. She lives in Stockholm, Sweden.

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      Book preview

      Strangers - Camilla Grebe

      title

      Contents

      Strangers

      Excerpt from Some Kind of Peace

      Extended Sneak Preview of More Bitter Than Death

      A Conversation with Camilla Grebe and åsa Träff

      STRANGERS

      We will remain strangers.

      A brief encounter, a chance meeting: two worlds that graze each other fleetingly. And in an instant, new paths open up—for a second, there is a possibility that the story will actually change course, that our lives will become intertwined and something tremendous and improbable and wonderful will happen.

      The First Woman

      She had red hair. And the sun turned it into a gleaming halo billowing in the faint breeze as she approached on the sidewalk along Stockholm’s Götgatan. There was a considerable amount of self-assurance in her stride, as if she were convinced of her own worth, as if she owned the dirty asphalt, damp with morning dew, that she was walking on. She held a red leather purse in her hand and was swinging it back and forth like a pendulum. It was worn and, frankly, really ugly. Actually, upon close consideration, everything about her was a little worn. She was a little too old to be swinging her hips in that cocky manner, a little too fat for those tight jeans. And there was a hint of gray in that mane of red hair.

      But she walked with assurance anyway, radiating the promise of soft skin, strong hands, and an ample bosom.

      He saw all of this: the self-assurance in her stride, but also the strands of gray in her hair, the wrinkles between her breasts, and the worn clothes. But that didn’t matter to him, because she was beautiful and desirable and sort of worn, in a good way. He liked things with a patina, that had been used, that life had taken its toll on, tamed. And there was no difference between a woman and her body. It was the evidence that she had lived and that just made her more attractive. He breathed the smoke deep into his lungs and then tossed his cigarette aside.

      About a block away.

      Still plenty of time to make sure everything was in place. With great effort he struggled to his feet using his crutch. The morning sun warmed his cheeks and he reminded himself that he had to stop by 7-Eleven and buy a coffee, later that is, after he was done loading everything up.

      She didn’t seem to be in a hurry. Her gait reminded him of some sort of dance. He didn’t know yet if she was the right one. He couldn’t decide. She had to come much closer. They had to talk. She had to help him. He didn’t like unhelpful women. He didn’t want unhelpful women. The whole world was full of narcissistic, unhelpful women.

      Half a block.

      He checked to make sure everything was in place. The table was on the sidewalk. The crayon marks on the tabletop were clearly visible in the morning sun. The small van was pulled over and ready to load. The teddy bear was on the floor, the pacifier, too.

      Now he could smell her scent: citrus mixed with sweat and a hint of musk. As if she’d come straight from her lover. That made him both happy and excited. He liked women who had a strong personal scent. Rubbing each body part with creams and oils, removing all the natural odors and replacing them with synthetics was against nature. And a person who went against nature would eventually be punished.

      He absentmindedly scratched at his cast—as if that would help with the persistent itch along his ankle. His cast was covered with drawings and small notes written in wobbly letters: I love Daddy and Anton is a pig. He reminded himself that he needed to clear out some of the toys from the back of the van; there were way too many in there. Two or three was plenty. It was starting to look like a mobile day care instead of a means of transportation. It was never good to overdo things. The subtle details communicated the message best.

      Fifty feet.

      He prepared himself, using his arm brace to maneuver up onto the sidewalk and over alongside the table until he reached the short end that was farthest away. She’d seen him. He slowly ran his hand through his thick, dark hair and set his brace down on the ground, supporting himself on the table so as not to lose his balance.

      Do you need help?

      He glanced up at her with an expression that he hoped was both startled and pleasantly surprised. And the truth was that he actually was surprised—it wasn’t usually this easy. Fish didn’t just leap out of the ocean right into your boat. Money didn’t rain down from the sky. Women didn’t just walk up and offer their services totally voluntarily, without some ulterior motive, wondering what was in it for them.

      He scrutinized her more closely. In the unforgiving light of the morning sun, he could see that she was heavily made up. Black eyeliner framed her small, dull gray eyes. Thick layers of powder formed little sausage shapes in the wrinkles around her eyes. Her lips were dry and chapped and totally bare, giving her a pale, unhealthy appearance. As if she were suffering from severe anemia.

      He forced himself to smile.

      Sure, if you could just take the other end and go up into the van first? he suggested. He smiled broadly, exposing his perfect teeth. Was she a mind reader, too, this little whore?

      Unbelievably decent of you, he mumbled when she took hold of the table.

      As she bent over, wide holes gaped in her snug-fitting jeans, her flesh swelling out of them like freshly risen bread dough. It reminded him of his mother, who always wore clothes that were too tight, hoping they would help her lose weight. And that in turn brought up a bunch of images that severely disturbed him: empty knocked-over wine bottles on the vinyl flooring, cigarette butts in the toothbrush cup, his mother’s underwear in the hallway along with unidentifiable men’s dirty clothes. The scared, skinny dogs that howled with hunger and the black speckled spiral flypaper that hung like streamers in the dirty windows.

      Is this good, like this?

      He stared at her blankly as she stood there, all they way in the back of the van. No, it really wasn’t good like this. She gave him the wrong vibe. It was never going to be right, he was sure of that.

      So he said, Nah.

      No? she asked.

      No, it’s not good, he replied slowly. You’re not good. Even my mother is better than you, you get that? Even the dogs wouldn’t want to come near your fat ass.

      She stared at him in disbelief, as if she couldn’t process what he’d just said. But something told him that she understood anyway. That in spite of everything, some reptilian part of her degenerated brain was sending out small warning signals to the rest of her body, because she started to slowly make her way out of the van’s interior toward the safety of the sunlight outside.

      You’re messed up, she said and then turned around and walked away without looking back.

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