“Isn’t it the case that Stella in fact came home much later than you claim?”
I sneak a look at the security guard and find that his interest in me has abated.
“No,” Adam says firmly. “Stella came home at eleven forty-five.”
Michael swipes the back of his hand over his sweaty forehead. Next to him, Stella is staring at the table with glassy eyes. She looks so small and fragile and I hate myself for what I am subjecting her to.
In the past few weeks, I have found myself explaining time and again to both myself and Michael why we can’t tell Stella everything. I have felt my doubts gnawing at and burrowing into me, but it would be too risky to tell her. Stella has far too much trouble controlling her impulses. One too-strong emotion, one stray word, and that would be the end of it.
Furthermore, Stella has always loved being contrary. When her handball coaches told her to aim low she lobbed high instead; when Adam’s mother admired her waist-length hair she shaved her head.
My chest fills with pain as I look at her.
“Do you know where Stella’s cell phone is?” the prosecutor asks Adam.
“No idea.”
“Why have the investigators been unable to locate it?”
“I don’t know.”
Adam’s voice sounds calmer now.
“When did you last see Stella’s phone?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Isn’t it the case that you found it, Adam?”
“No,” he says firmly. “Stella always has her phone with her.”
“You mean she had it with her at work, at H&M, on that Saturday when she was taken into police custody?”
“I assume so.”
“If that were true, the police would have found it, wouldn’t they?”
Jansdotter stares him down, but doesn’t manage to make him lose his cool.
“Isn’t it true that you found Stella’s phone on Saturday? The day she was brought in to jail.”
“Absolutely not.”
Adam jerks his head and glances over his shoulder; for a split second we look straight at one another.
“I don’t know anything about Stella’s phone,” he repeats.
This is closer to the truth than the prosecutor suspects. Adam doesn’t know what happened to Stella’s phone. Only I do.
For a brief moment, the prosecutor loses her train of thought. She does a good job of hiding it, but it certainly doesn’t escape me or the other experienced lawyers in the courtroom. I allow myself to relax ever so slightly; I lean back and take a few sips of water. The bearded man looks at me and I get the sense that he knows, that he can see right into my thoughts.
Once Jansdotter has collected herself and conferred with her assistant, she continues her examination.
“Did you speak to Stella when she returned home that Friday night?”
“Yes,” Adam says. “As I’ve already stated.”
“What did the two of you say?” the prosecutor asks.
“I opened the door and said goodnight. Stella said goodnight too.”
“So you saw her?”
“Yes.”
“What was she wearing?” Jansdotter asks.
“Underwear.”
“Just underwear? Does she usually undress before going up to her room?”
“It happens, I guess. If her clothes need washing she puts them in the laundry room.”
“According to Stella’s colleagues, those who were with her at the Stortorget restaurant that night, Stella was wearing dark blue jeans and a white blouse. The police found the jeans when they searched the house, but the top hasn’t been located. Did you see the white blouse when Stella came home?”
“No,” Adam says. “I don’t know anything about a blouse.”
To some extent, this is true.
“Are you sure? You didn’t see the white blouse in the laundry room?”
“No.”
“On Saturday either?”
“Not that I can recall,” Adam says. “But if I had seen it, I probably wouldn’t have committed it to memory.”
“I think you would have, actually,” says Jansdotter. “Because I believe that blouse was covered in stains. From blood. You really didn’t see the bloody blouse?”
“Definitely not!”
Now Adam is so firm that he sounds angry. That’s not good. Not good at all. Michael sends him a small signal.
Jansdotter lunges again.
“You have a woodstove in the house?”
“Yes?” Adam says.
“During the search of your home, the police noted that a fire had recently been lit in the woodstove. Who lit the fire that Saturday?”