Read Online The Drowning by Camilla Läckberg - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Camilla Läckberg
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cupboard doors in a rustic style, hand-painted so that the brush strokes were visible and gave a certain life to the surface.
She cupped her hand around one of the big wine glasses. A wedding gift from Erik’s parents. Hand-blown, of course. At their wedding dinner, she’d been subjected to a lengthy lecture by Erik’s mother about the small butexclusive glass-blowing workshop in Denmark where they had specially ordered the expensive glasses.
Something snapped inside her, and her hand opened as if of its own accord. The glass shattered into a thousand pieces on the black pebble-tile floor. The floor was also from Italy, of course. That was one of many things that Erik had in common with his parents: anything Swedish was never good enough. The farther away the origin of something, the better. Just as long as it didn’t come from Taiwan. Louise sniggered, reached for another glass, and stepped over the shards on the floor, her feet clad in house slippers. Then she made a beeline for the boxed wine on the counter. Erik always ridiculed her boxed wine. For him, the only acceptable wine came in a bottle and cost hundreds of kronor. He would never dream of sullying his taste buds with wine that cost two hundred kronor per box. Sometimes, out of sheer spite, she would fill his glass with her wine instead of the snooty French or South African variety that was always accompanied by long-winded discourses on their particular characteristics. Strangely enough, it seemed that her cheap wine possessed the exact same qualities, since Erik never noticed the difference.
It was those sorts of minor acts of revenge that made her life bearable – the only way she was able to ignore the fact that he kept trying to turn the girls against her, treated her like shit, and was fucking a bloody hairdresser.
Louise held the glass under the tap of the wine box and filled it to the brim. Then she raised her glass in a toast to her own reflection, visible in the stainless steel door of the fridge.
Erica couldn’t stop thinking about the letters. She wandered through the house for a while, until a dull pain started up in the small of her back, forcing her to sit downat the kitchen table. She reached for a notepad and a pen that were lying on the table and began hastily jotting down what she could remember from the letters she’d seen at Christian’s house. She had a good memory for text, so she was almost positive that she’d managed to recreate what the letters had said.
She read through what she’d written over and over again, and with each reading the short sentences seemed to sound more and more threatening. Who would have cause to feel such anger towards Christian? Erica shook her head as she sat there at the table. It was impossible to tell whether a woman or a man had written those letters. But there was something about the tone and the way in which the views were expressed that made her think she was reading a woman’s hatred. Not a man’s.
Hesitantly she reached for the cordless phone, then drew back her hand. Maybe she was just being silly. But after re-reading the words she’d jotted down on the notepad, she grabbed the phone and punched in the mobile number she knew by heart.
‘This is Gaby,’ said the publishing director, picking up the phone on the first ring.
‘Hi, it’s Erica.’
‘Erica!’ Gaby’s shrill voice went up another octave, prompting Erica to move the receiver away from her ear. ‘How’s it going, dearie? No babies yet? You do know that twins usually arrive early, don’t you?’ It sounded as if Gaby were running.
‘No, the babies aren’t here yet,’ said Erica, trying to restrain her annoyance. She didn’t understand why everybody was always telling her that twins were usually born early. If that was the case, she’d find out soon enough. ‘I’m actually calling you about Christian.’
‘Oh, how is he?’ asked Gaby. ‘I tried ringing him several times, but his little wife just told
She cupped her hand around one of the big wine glasses. A wedding gift from Erik’s parents. Hand-blown, of course. At their wedding dinner, she’d been subjected to a lengthy lecture by Erik’s mother about the small butexclusive glass-blowing workshop in Denmark where they had specially ordered the expensive glasses.
Something snapped inside her, and her hand opened as if of its own accord. The glass shattered into a thousand pieces on the black pebble-tile floor. The floor was also from Italy, of course. That was one of many things that Erik had in common with his parents: anything Swedish was never good enough. The farther away the origin of something, the better. Just as long as it didn’t come from Taiwan. Louise sniggered, reached for another glass, and stepped over the shards on the floor, her feet clad in house slippers. Then she made a beeline for the boxed wine on the counter. Erik always ridiculed her boxed wine. For him, the only acceptable wine came in a bottle and cost hundreds of kronor. He would never dream of sullying his taste buds with wine that cost two hundred kronor per box. Sometimes, out of sheer spite, she would fill his glass with her wine instead of the snooty French or South African variety that was always accompanied by long-winded discourses on their particular characteristics. Strangely enough, it seemed that her cheap wine possessed the exact same qualities, since Erik never noticed the difference.
It was those sorts of minor acts of revenge that made her life bearable – the only way she was able to ignore the fact that he kept trying to turn the girls against her, treated her like shit, and was fucking a bloody hairdresser.
Louise held the glass under the tap of the wine box and filled it to the brim. Then she raised her glass in a toast to her own reflection, visible in the stainless steel door of the fridge.
Erica couldn’t stop thinking about the letters. She wandered through the house for a while, until a dull pain started up in the small of her back, forcing her to sit downat the kitchen table. She reached for a notepad and a pen that were lying on the table and began hastily jotting down what she could remember from the letters she’d seen at Christian’s house. She had a good memory for text, so she was almost positive that she’d managed to recreate what the letters had said.
She read through what she’d written over and over again, and with each reading the short sentences seemed to sound more and more threatening. Who would have cause to feel such anger towards Christian? Erica shook her head as she sat there at the table. It was impossible to tell whether a woman or a man had written those letters. But there was something about the tone and the way in which the views were expressed that made her think she was reading a woman’s hatred. Not a man’s.
Hesitantly she reached for the cordless phone, then drew back her hand. Maybe she was just being silly. But after re-reading the words she’d jotted down on the notepad, she grabbed the phone and punched in the mobile number she knew by heart.
‘This is Gaby,’ said the publishing director, picking up the phone on the first ring.
‘Hi, it’s Erica.’
‘Erica!’ Gaby’s shrill voice went up another octave, prompting Erica to move the receiver away from her ear. ‘How’s it going, dearie? No babies yet? You do know that twins usually arrive early, don’t you?’ It sounded as if Gaby were running.
‘No, the babies aren’t here yet,’ said Erica, trying to restrain her annoyance. She didn’t understand why everybody was always telling her that twins were usually born early. If that was the case, she’d find out soon enough. ‘I’m actually calling you about Christian.’
‘Oh, how is he?’ asked Gaby. ‘I tried ringing him several times, but his little wife just told
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