When a man is murdered and his son abducted, it looks like his wife is guilty…but Annika Bengtzon sets off for the truth in this thriller by the #1 internationally bestselling author Liza Marklund. The inspiration for the hit film series, Annika Bengtzon: Crime Reporter , now available on Netflix. NOTHING IS AS IT SEEMS . . . Police officer Nina Hoffman is called to the scene of a grisly crime. There she finds fellow officer and friend David Lindholm naked on his bed, shot through the head and stomach. His traumatized wife, Julia, is in shock, and can barely form a coherent sentence. She hovers near the body, rambling on about a woman entering the house, killing David, and running off with their son—but all the evidence points to her guilt. Annika Bengtzon is drawn headfirst into the case, because she believes that Julia is about to be falsely charged. But will anyone else believe it? Chilling and complex, this thriller will have you guessing until the shocking end. “The Queen of Scandinavian Crime Fiction.” -- Henning Mankell “Marklund has created a complex page-turner, complete with gritty realism, a flawed but likable protagonist, and nonstop suspense.” ― Publisher's Weekly, starred review “The best of Marklund's books to be published in the U.S.” ― Kirkus Reviews Liza Marklund is an author, journalist, and goodwill ambassador for UNICEF. Her crime novels, featuring the relentless reporter Annika Bengtzon, instantly became international hits and have sold millions of copies in thirty languages worldwide. Visit her website at LizaMarklund.com. Lifetime THURSDAY, JUNE 3 The call went out at 0321. It was sent from the regional communication center to all patrol cars in the center of Stockholm and was short and lacking in detail: “Control to all units, report of shots fired on Bondegatan.” Nothing more. No house number, no information about casualties or who made the call. Even so, Nina felt her stomach clench in a way she didn’t quite understand. Bondegatan’s a long street, there must be a thousand people living there. She saw Andersson in the passenger seat reach for the radio, and she quickly grabbed the mouthpiece of the S80 system and pressed the transmit button on its left-hand side while at the same time turning up onto Renstiernas gata. “Patrol 1617 here,” she answered. “We’re one block away. Have you got a house number?” Andersson let out a theatrical sigh and looked demonstratively out of the side window of the police car. Nina glanced at him as the car rolled toward Bondegatan. Okay, sulk if you want to. “Control to 1617,” the operator said over the radio. “You’re the closest unit. Is that you, Hoffman? Over.” The number of the patrol car was linked to the number on her police badge. One of the routines before each shift started was to feed the car’s registration number and your badge number into the Central Operations Planning System, handily abbreviated to COPS. This meant that the operator in the communication center could always see who was in which vehicle. “Affirmative,” she said. “Turning in to Bondegatan now . . .” “How does it look? Over.” She stopped the car and looked up at the heavy stone buildings on either side of the street. The dawn light hadn’t reached between the buildings yet, and she squinted as she tried to make out shapes in the gloom. There were lights on in one top-floor flat on the right-hand side, but otherwise everything was dark. It was evidently a street-cleaning night, no parking allowed, which made the street look particularly empty and abandoned. One rusty Peugeot stood alone, a parking ticket on its windscreen, halfway down toward Nytorgsgatan. “No visible activity, as far as I can tell. What number was it, over?” The operator gave her the address and she went completely cold. That’s Julia’s number, that’s where Julia and David live. “And he’s got a flat on Söder, Nina! God, it’ll be nice to get away from this corridor!” “Don’t just take him because of his flat, Julia . . .” “Take a look, 1617, approach with caution . . .” She wound down all the car’s windows to make it easier to hear any sounds from the street, put the car in gear, turned off the headlights, and drove slowly down the familiar street. Andersson had perked up and was leaning forward intently. “Do you reckon it’s anything, then?” he asked. I hope to God it isn’t anything! She stopped outside the door and switched off the engine, then leaned forward to peer up at the gray cement façade. There was a light on in a window on the second floor. “We’ll have to assume the situation is dangerous,” she said tersely and grabbed the radio again. “Patrol 1617 here. We’re in position, and it looks like there are people awake in the building. Should we wait for 9070, over?” “Patrol 9070 is still in Djursholm,” the operator said, referring to the operational command vehicle. “The Nobel murderer?” Andersson wondered, and Nina gestured to him to be