“When will they be home?” Siri asked.
“Tomorrow. Then the battle will begin again.”
“Teenagers?”
“You bet. Do you have kids?”
“Two of them.”
“Teenagers?”
“Not yet, but I’m dreading it.”
“You’ll miss them when they move out,” Vidar said. “Believe me, I know.”
Felicia asked if they wanted tea. She rummaged in the cupboards and stood by the stove, waiting for a saucepan of water to boil. Steam rose toward the fan. On the kitchen table, in front of Vidar and Siri, she set cups and teabags, and an open jar of Halland Honey.
“I know something’s going on,” she said once she’d poured the water and taken a seat at the table. “I’m sure you’re not here just for tea.”
“No, I’m afraid you’re right,” Siri said.
Felicia dunked her teabag into the piping-hot water, avoiding their gazes. “I don’t know quite what to say. This is dredging up all that old stuff again, somehow. For a split second, you’re eighteen again. And not in a good way.”
“I understand. I’m no longer a police officer—I want you to know that—but I thought I should be here anyway. If that’s okay with you.”
Felicia nodded. Vidar had selected his tea. He watched dark ribbons swirl out of it like smoke, coloring the water golden brown. Felicia studied him, looking hesitant.
“We’re trying to understand what’s going on,” he said slowly. “For that reason, I have some questions for you, and they might seem a little strange. But all you have to do is answer as straightforwardly and thoroughly as you can.”
Felicia crossed her legs and leaned forward, cupping her hand around her own mug of tea to warmit.
“When did you last see Killian Persson?” he asked.
“I thought you wanted to ask about Filip.”
“We’ll get to him. When did you last see Killian?”
“Oh boy. Um, Christmas Eve of 1999. That evening.”
“And when did you last hear from him?”
“Well, that same night. That was it.” She blinked. “Killian is dead. You know that, right?”
Vidar’s tea was ready. He lifted the teabag out and wound it carefully around his spoon, squeezing out the last few drops and placing it aside.
“We have reason to believe,” he said, sounding apologetic, “that Killian Persson might not be dead.”
“What?”
“We think Killian might be alive.”
She stared at them.
“Killian…” Vidar began, but Felicia beat him toit:
“What do you mean,reason to believe? What the hell kind of reason would that be? Are you completely—”
She leaned back against her chair. Her sudden rage evaporated.
