The daylight making its way through the white curtain told her that it was lunchtime and that the weather was lousy. Strangely enough she felt rested and it didn’t hurt anywhere.She rolled over on her side, her gaze stopping at the card she had put on the night-stand. Rebecka’s number. The decision came from out of nowhere; she simply sat up in bed and dialled the number on an impulse, out of curiosity.It rang. Regular tones – nothing sounded unlisted or unusual. Tense, she waited.‘Paradise.’ The voice was that of an older woman.‘Umm, my name is Annika Bengtzon, and I’d like to speak to Rebecka.’‘Hang on . . .’The telephone crackled with the ordinary sounds of silence: heels tapping along the floor, approaching, a toilet flushing. She listened attentively. So far the sounds at the Paradise Foundation appeared fully normal.‘Annika, how nice to hear from you.’The high voice, a bit drawling and slightly cool.Annika felt the old familiar surge of excitement; she’d almost forgotten its pull.‘I’d like to see you again,’ she said.
