Anneli had anticipated feeling nervous about what she had planned to do. That she would have felt sick to her stomach and that her heart would have been pounding, but up until the moment she put her foot down on the accelerator, there had been no reaction at all of that sort. A huge, ten-second injection of adrenaline was all she experienced, and then it was over.
Maybe Anneli had thought that the impact would feel different, but the dull thud when she hit the body didn’t measure up to the sight of Michelle Hansen’s body being flung backward and her head hitting the pavement.
Their eyes had met for a split second before the impact, and that had been the biggest satisfaction. The fact that the girl had drawn her last breath knowing that she had been targeted, that the driver was someone she knew, and that she got what she deserved.
The small Peugeot Anneli had chosen had been surprisingly suitable and easy to maneuver, so she reckoned that if she was going to go after her next victim this weekend, she could use it again.
With Michelle Hansen’s terrified face still fresh in her mind, Anneli forgot about the cancer, pain, and anxiety, resting her head back on her pillow. In reality, it was maybe a sort of divine gesture that this stupid girl could give another person such heavenly pleasure with her last gaze. Perhaps fate had somehow chosen both victim and perpetrator for this symbiotic act. One by giving her life, the other by taking it.
—
Anneli woke feeling rested and her mind occupied with the project. In just one day, she would have disposed of another expendable human being, and what a great thought that was. Of course, she was well aware that it was wrong in a societal sense. Taking the law into one’s own hands, not to mention murder, was illegal. But when she thought about the thousands of hours these parasitic girls had spent on making fools of her and the system, wasn’t it about time and good for everyone that someone finally took action? And considering the moral decline in Denmark at present, there were many other things that deserved harsher criticism than her little vendetta. The politicians were acting like pigs, taking society for a ride with stopgap measures and insane ideologies that were better suited to dictatorships. What did a few petty murders matter compared to the character assassination of an entire nation?
She sat down in her small kitchen with the hideous cupboard doors and, slowly and steadily, in the comfort of her own little world, built up a feeling of justified indignation and omnipotent power. In this tiny, humble room, she temporarily represented all the executive power in the world, and no one could argue against her.
She had wanted to celebrate the media coverage of Michelle’s death by spoiling herself today, buying things she otherwise didn’t allow herself, indulging herself with something nice to eat, and only then planning the details of her next retaliation.
But when she turned on her computer to check the news and found the headline she was looking for, she felt a violent stab in her chest, and any feeling of euphoria was gone.
“Young female victim of a hit-and-run in Copenhagen’s North West district miraculously survives,” it read.
Anneli froze. She read the text over and over before collecting herself enough to click on the link to read the full story.
The victim’s name was not mentioned—of course it wasn’t—but there couldn’t be any doubt that it was Michelle Hansen.
In her desperation, she searched the text for the words “in critical condition” but didn’t find them. She was in shock. Couldn’t even breathe.
Everything went black and she fell backward onto the kitchen floor.
When she woke she managed to push herself up into the corner next to the fridge. Her head was full of unpleasant questions.
Had Michelle Hansen really seen her face? How could she have when the windshield was so filthy and it was only a question of a split second? And even if she had seen her, like she had initially hoped, what would that even prove? Anneli knew that middle-aged women with faces like hers were a dime a dozen, so she could just deny it. Explain it away by saying that the girl must have imagined it or was purposely trying to frame her because she hated her. That she was nothing but a drain on society and that she was trying to get revenge in this petty way because Anneli had made things difficult for her.
Anneli convinced herself that no one else could have seen her. The street had been completely empty, and even if there might have been witnesses who had been looking out of their windows, it would be impossible for them to identify her.
Pensively, she reached out for a bottle of red wine and unscrewed the cap. What if someone had managed to see the license plate? The thought made her hand shake when she poured, because then the police would already be searching for the car.
She emptied the glass in a few gulps while thinking.
How could she find out if the car had been reported missing? And if it had, was it parked far enough away from her home on Webersgade?
Anneli assessed the situation over and over. There was so much that felt wrong just now. First and foremost that Michelle Hansen was still alive, but also that this could hinder her entire project.
“No!” she shouted out after her third glass. Now she had finally felt alive. Had finally felt the joy of life rushing through her veins. She wasn’t about to give that up. Not even at the risk of being caught.
So Anneli got dressed without having a shower first and stepped out determinedly into the gentle sunshine toward the street where she had parked the red Peugeot.
She waited until the street was empty. Then she removed the plastic from the broken side window, opened the door, got in the car, and forced the screwdriver into the ignition.
Anneli had a plan that was not only smart but also simple. She needed to find out if the police had been informed about the number plate of the car involved in the hit-and-run. And what better way to find out than to park the car in a public place where there would be a lot of traffic and police presence? Then it would only be a question of time before she knew if they were looking for it.
During the two hours when Anneli kept an eye on the parked car from a distance, at least four patrol cars had driven slowly past it. And as nothing had happened, she bought a parking ticket with some spare change and left the car. If it was still parked on Griffenfeldsgade tomorrow, she could keep her weapon of choice.
—
Senta Berger had named herself after a famous Austrian film star, which Anneli had struggled to get used to. Senta had formerly been called Anja Olsen, which she changed to Oline Anjou before eventually deciding on this glamorous name that she could by no means live up to. She had been Anneli’s client throughout the years, in which the girl had gone from being an annoying, self-promoting, and demanding eighteen-year-old to being an insipid, glitter-covered, and pompous pest of twenty-eight.