Asylum

Chapter 6: Paying the Piper

I signed my real name with a flourish at the ground floor reception of the Lower Manhattan skyscraper that housed Hellström Industries. I took my ID and the visitor's badge from the new security guard, who hadn't recognized me, with a smile and tucked both into the outer pocket of my long wool overcoat, ignoring the badge's lanyard. The heels of my designer boots clicked loudly on the polished granite floor as I headed for the left-most bank of elevators, which would take me to the building's upper levels.

As the doors slid shut, I checked the diamond-rimmed, mother-of-pearl face of the Montblanc Villeret 1858 watch that Mormor had given me one Christmas; it was 3:57pm. I let out a shaky breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding; my grandmother considered tardiness to be the eighth deadly sin. I nervously adjusted the oversize cowl neck on my dove gray mohair sweater and mentally prepared myself to glide through the Hellström lobby like I owned the place.

Which, in large part, I did.

The doors swished open, admitting me into the pale wood and pressed steel environs of our Swedish family's home-away-from-home. The comfortable, contemporary lobby that served the company's section of this floor was surrounded entirely in glass, allowing the natural light that hit the building's curtain walls to penetrate the glass-walled conference rooms and meeting areas along the sides to illuminate the core.

This normally meant that every part of the executive floor was bathed in sunlight and the beauty of the view of New York Harbor. Today, however, the lamps were lit and the view was veiled by the roiling storm clouds encroaching on the city. It was hard not to consider them portentous; even though I was the one who requested this meeting, I couldn't help but feel like I had been called to the principal's office.

A pair of receptionists and another security guard sat behind the large, blond-wood desk opposite the elevators. Behind them was another glass wall with the Hellström Industries logo in pressed steel mounted on it as though frozen in mid-air: a capital sans serif H with an I in the center, looking more like three vertical bars connected by a skinny line through the middle than a pair of initials.

As a child, I had thought the logo was a kind of modernist hieroglyphic depicting the company's founders: Mormor and Great-Uncle Valfrid on the sides, with Morfar in the middle binding them together.

"Good afternoon, Ms Hellström," the receptionist in the center greeted me. The other woman was on the phone, probably alerting Sarah to my arrival.

"Hello, Constance," I nodded. I headed for the right side of the desk, toward one of the frameless glass doors that led to the open-plan work space/café that served all of Hellström Industries' headquarters. The security guard moved to open the door for me, a courtesy normally afforded only to Tilda Hellström. Clearly they were all on high-alert, which did not bode well for Mormor's mood.

I smiled at the man as I walked through the door and bore right, then right again to walk down the long hall between the lobby and the floor's largest conference room, to the alcove outside of floor's largest office.

As expected, Sarah was waiting for me. The fifty-something Irish-born executive assistant was girded for battle in a tweed skirt suit, camel turtleneck, and a strand of chocolate Tahitian pearls, her auburn hair – limned with just a touch of silver – coiffed into a formidable helmet. She took my heavy coat with a wordless smile and knocked on the immense wooden door next to the coat rack.

"Komma in."

Sarah opened the heavy door and waited just outside for me to pass her, then closed it quickly behind her. That wasn't a good sign either.

My grandmother rose from behind her austere oaken desk and crossed immediately to greet me. Dressed from head to toe in white – tailored white pantsuit, white silk shell, double strand of pearls, even white heels that should have seemed a ridiculous choice for February in New York but somehow worked on Tilda Hellström – and with her smooth, white, shoulder-length hair, she seemed a slighter shorter, older version of her granddaughter, leeched of all color.