Felicia didn’t move as Vidar spoke. He avoided details, skipped specifics, never mentioned Jakob Lindell, or anyone else, by name. When he was finished, she began to ask questions: how many people knew about this, and for how long? Why hadn’t anyone said anything? And how could they have been mistaken back then, when the accident happened, how was that even possible?
She came back around to that question over and over. Vidar tried to answer as truthfully as possible.
“So that’s why,” Vidar said, “we have to ask again. Have you been in touch with him? Has he tried to contact you?”
“Definitely not. Not that I know of.”
Felicia’s voice sounded hollow. Maybe it was shock, only now taking hold of her.
“If he does try to contact you, we’d like you to let us know.” He took a notepad from his pocket, tore off a page, and jotted down his phone number. “Can you do that?”
Absently, she took the piece of paper from him.
“Yes, of course. For sure.”
Meanwhile, Siri gathered their teabags and went to the sink to throw them in the garbage. Vidar tried to signal discreetly to her to come back to the table, but she didn’t pay attention.
Instead, she gingerly closed the cabinet door, as if the slightestsound might shatter the conversation around the table, and took a lap through the house, her steps slow and light. She stopped in front of the basement door, as if something was happening there that only Siri noticed. Vidar, jaw clenched, stayed in his chair while Siri grasped the handle and slowly turnedit.
96
Felicia’s basement smelled like earth and paint and laundry detergent. They could hear the voices upstairs clearly; the walls were thin. Footsteps sounded sharp and decisive; furniture scraped loudly when they sat down at the table.
Killian had curled up in a corner as though trying to protect himself.
Felicia had told them that the slightest noise would carry up to the kitchen. Sander hunched and closed his eyes, felt exhaustion coming over him. It mixed with the mild intoxication that was rising into his head.
When he opened his eyes again, Killian was a silhouette of shadows and the occasional stripe of light. He had tucked his head between his knees and it sounded like he was snuffling. Sander saw his shoulders shaking.
“Killian. Killian,” Sander whispered softly, moving cautiously, silently to sit beside him. “It’s okay. Everything’s going to work out fine.”
Killian didn’t seem to hear him. The snuffling continued. Sander put an arm around his shoulders.
Killian seemed almost feverish. Sander told him again that everything was okay, even though it was starting to dawn on him that it wasn’t; he told Killian things would work out even as he realized theywouldn’t. He pulled Killian close and found him remarkably pliant, as if there was no will left in his large frame. Killian’s head fell to Sander’s chest and rested there.
This was just like the way Sander held Albin and Josefin sometimes. When he thought of them, his heart lurched and he wished them all the good and beautiful things in the world, wanted them to be protected at any price. Hoped that any bad decisions they might be forced to make at the age of eighteen wouldn’t haunt them for the rest of their lives.
Sander watched as Killian reached out a hand, searching for something to hold on to, and found Sander’s upper arm.
They slowly sank farther onto the floor until they were nearly on their backs. Then it happened: for a brief moment, Killian’s head weighed nothing against Sander’s chest, as if he were merely vapor, or the chilly gust of wind that comes in when you open a window. Maybe he reallywasdead, after all. Then in a split second its weight returned, almost unnaturally great and deep, like everything Killian had gone through and still carried was present, but on a slight delay.
Gradually Killian grew still, and soon he was simply breathing. Above them, the police were still talking to Felicia.
Sander had spent so much time thinking about death over the years, Killian’s death and his own, who he would be when the end came. Death was the greatest of all mysteries, he thought, and the answer would only come in the same instant it became too late to consider it. Now he realized he was wrong. Life was more profoundly mysterious than death could everbe.
He could smell Killian’s hair. It smelled like the forest, earthy and fresh. Familiar and foreign all at once.
“I wonder what my real funeral will be like,” Killian whispered after a while.
“How would you like it to be?”
“I don’t know. But if there’s no alcohol, I’m not coming.”
“You’re not going to attend your own funeral?”
“No. I mean, it wouldn’t be the first time.”
An absurd laugh bubbled up in Sander’s chest, but he swallowed it down.
