Page 118 of Damn Roommate

This attack breaks my heart. How dare he smear my mother’s name? His cruelty knows no bounds. My lips quiver under the virulent words that I would like to throw at him. Nothing comes out, as always.

Rikard looks at me sternly. “Something to say?”

You are just a bastard. A bastard. I hate you!

“No, nothing.”

A ball of anger clogs my throat and prevents me from breathing properly. My confused thoughts bubble with rage. In these moments, I am able to imagine the worst things to do to him without ever acting. I often feel bad afterwards, and then, only ice-cold water baths manage to calm me down. And…

… I feel like I’m getting closer to him.

We drive half a mile, crossing the snowy forest of the estate before arriving in front of a huge brown brick house. A little further on our right, a dozen parked cars tell us where to go. Rikard parks between a black Volvo and a red Volkswagen.

My boyfriend helps me to get out of the car, my heels not allowing me to walk without tripping. For the occasion, I’m dressed in a black dress that comes just above the knee; the sleeves go down to my elbows. In the biting cold, my outfit is enhanced with dark thick stockings and a suede coat with a fur collar edge. Rikard slips a possessive arm around my hips. A whistle comes from his mouth as he admires the size of the house.

“You didn’t tell me your family was rich. He could have paid you more.”

“Hendrik only gave me what I needed to live, not a penny more.”

“I hope he left you something. So, that I didn’t make this trip for nothing,” Rikard says.

Money plays a big part in his life. He’s been in it since he was born. At the beginning of our relationship, he was the one who financed absolutely everything. You would think that my bank account is full, thanks to all the concerts that the orchestra performs, but Rikard makes sure I spend every penny. Sometimes I feel like he does it to keep me with him.

It’s a success.

I love him, but I can’t stand being around him anymore.

The funeral service takes place in the house. The burial takes place in the Ekman family vault, a hundred feet away. We climb the stairs to the porch. From there, an employee opens the door for us, I don’t know who she is. She is dressed in a black pantsuit with a white shirt. On her blazer, her first nameCrystalis written on a badge.

“Rikard Rapace and Lovisa Granberg,” my boyfriend introduces us.

Crystal checks her list and checks off our first names with a nice brown pen with a gold edge.

“Please come in.”

We don’t hesitate to enter the impressively large hall. I immediately notice the familiar smell of burning wood and sage. The latter is placed in the ashes to spread its good smell. In nine years, the decoration has not changed. A feeling of finally coming home invades me.

The entrance is modest, as in my memories. A huge canvas covers the wall to my right, it is a mixture of blue, gray, and black paint. This painting has always made me think of a forest immersed in mist, a feeling of calm came over me each time I looked at it. This is still the case today.

“May I take your coat?” offers Crystal.

“Thanks,” I say, taking off my jacket.

The warmth of the fireplace is enough to heat the living room in which all the guests are gathered. A large buffet sits in front of the bay window that overlooks the front of the house. When Rikard and I enter the room, several people glance in our direction before returning to their conversations.

“Let’s not stay too long,” Rikard whispers in my ear.

I nod my head, quickly scanning the world around us. Damn it!Where is he?

“I’m going to get myself a drink. You want something?”Rickard asks me.

“No, thank you,” I refuse. “I’m going to pay my respects.”

I venture into the living room, zigzagging between the guests. There are still the studded brown leather sofas around the fireplace with the coffee table in the center. On the walls, portraits of Hendrik and his ancestors sit proudly all around us. A true tribute to the Ekman family. Almost no trace of my passage is visible; I appear in only one photo. It’s on a small piece of furniture against the wall, below a shelf containing encyclopedias on the history of the Nordic countries. In the frame, my mother, Hendrik, him, and I pose solemnly. Our parents on a beautiful leather sofa, while he and I are behind them. My mother and I share this flamboyant red hair, while the two men next to us have a brown hair with golden highlights. We all seem so distant and serious that it’s hard to believe we ever were a family.

“Lovisa?”

That voice.

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