“Stop! Stop at once!” She realised that she was shouting and lowered her voice.
“Damn it all, you can’t come barging in here as if you owned the place. We don’t
even know each other.”
Blomkvist paused, holding a jug and turned to look at her.
“Wrong! You know me better than almost anyone else does. Isn’t that so?”
He turned his back on her and poured the water into the machine. Then he started
opening her cupboards in search of coffee. “Speaking of which, I know how you do
it. I know your secrets.”
Salander shut her eyes, wishing that the floor would stop pitching under her feet.
She was in a state of mental paralysis. She was hung over. This situation was unreal,
and her brain was refusing to function. Never had she met one of her subjects face
to face. He knows where I live! He was standing in her kitchen. This was impossible. It
was outrageous. He knows who I am!
She felt the sheet slipping, and she pulled it tighter around her. He said something,
but at first she didn’t understand him. “We have to talk,” he said again. “But I think
you’d better take a shower first.”
She tried to speak sensibly. “You listen to me—if you’re thinking of making trouble,
I’m not the one you should be talking to. I was just doing a job. You should talk to
my boss.”
He held up his hands. A universal sign of peace, or I have no weapon.
“I’ve already talked to Armansky. By the way, he wants you to ring him—you didn’t
answer his call last night.”
She did not sense any threat, but she still stepped back a pace when he came
closer, took her arm and escorted her to the bathroom door. She disliked having
anyone touch her without her leave.
“I don’t want to make trouble,” he said. “But I’m quite anxious to talk to you. After
you’re awake, that is. The coffee will be ready by the time you put on some clothes.
First, a shower. Vamoose!”
Passively she obeyed. Lisbeth Salander is never passive, she thought.