“Let me in. We have to talk.”
She hesitated. “We have nothing to talk about.”
“We do now, and you can discuss it here on the steps or in the kitchen.”
Blomkvist’s tone was so determined that Cecilia stepped back and let him in. He sat
at her kitchen table.
“What have you done?” she said.
“You claim that my digging for the truth about Harriet Vanger is some futile form of
occupational therapy for Henrik. That’s possible, but an hour ago someone bloody
nearly shot my head off, and last night someone—maybe the same humourist—
left a horribly dead cat on my porch.”
Cecilia opened her mouth, but Blomkvist cut her off.
“Cecilia, I don’t give a shit about your hang-ups or what you worry about or the fact
that you suddenly hate the sight of me. I’ll never come near you again, and you
don’t have to worry that I’m going to bother you or run after you. Right this minute
I wish I’d never heard of you or anyone else in the Vanger family. But I require
answers to my questions. The sooner you answer them, the sooner you’ll be rid of
me.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Number one: where were you an hour ago?”
Cecilia’s face clouded over.
“An hour ago I was in Hedestad.”
“Can anyone confirm where you were?”
“Not that I can think of, and I don’t have to account to you.”
“Number two: why did you open the window in Harriet’s room the day she
disappeared?”
“What?”