Joona Linna Crime Series Books 1-3: The Hypnotist, The Nightmare, The Fire Witness. Lars Kepler
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and—”
“You can’t reason like that.”
“Yes, I can,” she said, “because I want to be one of those who makes it.” She took a step closer to me and her eyes gleamed with unexpected cruelty as she lowered her voice. “I think Charlotte will be the one who takes her own life.”
Before I had time to respond, she simply sighed and said, “At least she hasn’t got any children.”
I watched Lydia go and sit down. When I glanced at the time, I realised more than fifteen minutes had passed. Pierre, Lydia, and Jussi had returned to their seats. I called Marek in; he was wandering around in the hall, talking to himself. Sibel was standing in the doorway, smoking, and giggled wearily when I asked her to come in.
Lydia’s expression was smug when I finally had to admit that Charlotte hadn’t returned.
“Right,” I said, bringing my hands together. “Let’s continue.”
I saw their faces before me. They were ready. In fact, the sessions were always better after the break; it was as if they were all longing to return to the depths, as if the lights and the currents down there were whispering to us, inviting us to join them once again.
The effect of the induction was immediate. Lydia sank into a deep hypnosis in just ten minutes.
We were falling. I could feel lukewarm water washing over my skin. The big grey rock was covered with corals. The tentacles of their polyps were waving in the water. I could see every detail, every glowing, vibrant colour.
“Lydia,” I said, “where are you?”
She licked her dry lips and tipped her head back; her eyes were just closed, but she had an irritated expression around her mouth, and her brow was furrowed. “I’m taking the knife.” Her voice was dry and rasping.
“What kind of knife is it?” I asked.
“The knife with the serrated edge, the one on the draining-board,” she said in a surprised tone, then sat in silence for a while, her mouth half open.
“A bread knife?”
“Yes.” She smiled.
“Go on.”
“I cut the pack of ice cream in half. I take one half and a spoon to the sofa in front of the TV. Oprah Winfrey. Dr Phil is sitting in the audience. She asks him a question and he holds up his index finger. There’s a piece of red thread tied around it, and he’s just about to tell us why when Kasper starts yelling. I know he doesn’t want anything, he’s just trying to spite me. He yells because he knows it will upset me. I won’t tolerate bad behaviour in my house.”
“What is he yelling?”
“He knows I want to hear what Dr Phil says. He knows I enjoy Oprah; that’s why he’s yelling.”
“And what is he yelling right now?”
“There are two closed doors between us,” she goes on. “But I can hear him yelling.”
“What is he saying?”
“Horrible words. He’s yelling cunt, cunt, cunt
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