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“That you were released five years ago.”

“Mamma, Peter?” Ulla said behind them. For a moment, Ronja was transported to 1975 when a six-year-old Ulla caught them arguing in the kitchen. Ronja had been careless and misplaced a receipt for the pictures she’d developed and bought. The photographs had been the most damning evidence of Peter and Gabby’s gambling ring and escort service that doubled as an operation to smuggle immigrants.

Ronja stepped from Peter’s sphere and went to Ulla. “It’s okay. Turn on the T.V. and let me have a talk with Peter. Do not open that present,” she said, eyeing the huge box wrapped in confetti paper and silver ribbon.

Ulla obeyed with the present, setting it on the kitchen table, but she insisted on knowing how Peter found them, too.

Peter answered the question, “I didn’t find you. You found me.”

Ronja whirled to face him as he spoke, “Your new last name, Bergstrom, that suits you. And they stashed you only an hour from the Cities?” His laugh held genuine mystification. “Imagine my surprise when the universe rang my phone and said, ‘Are you Ulla Bergstrom’s father?’”

Ronja watched the chill run through Ulla before igniting into rage. “What is she trying to do to me!”

She wrapped her arms around her daughter. “We don’t know it was Linnea.”

Ulla fought against Ronja’s embrace. “She saw my birth certificate. She’s the only one on this earth who knows. She and I used to talk about trying to find him—you!” Her eyes raced to Peter. She bolted from the kitchen.

Ronja snatched her. “Älskling, no, no, stop. She’s not worth your time. Maybe this is what she wants, to see you upset.” Ronja felt Peter’s eyes appraising their exchange. Ulla went limp. Ronja smoothed her daughter’s red face and wiped the corners of her heartbroken eyes, wishing she could resuscitate Ulla’s lynched heart. She whispered in her ear, “I will take care of this. Trust me.”

Ulla pulled away. “Last time you promised me that, you almost died.”

“Not this time.”

Ulla shifted a wary, skeptical glance at Peter, as if she wanted to run into his arms—and as far away from them as possible.

Ronja knew that feeling all too well.

Ronja watched him sleep on the couch. Unable to close her eyes, she’d first checked on Ulla and found her daughter had mercifully gone to sleep. But late.

She quietly slipped outside into the arctic twilight clad in heavy boots and a parka with a thick comforter around her head, protecting her hands. She needed the cold to shock her thoughts back into order.

The lake was solid. She stood on the wooden dock, ready to collapse from years of freezing and thawing and that she and Ulla had rescued and repeatedly salvaged over the years with fresh planks. Ronja had hoped to save up and buy one that was removable. She braved walking out farther, not wanting anyone to hear her sadness. They would have to leave Mora, where she’d planted her heart. Rip it out from the earth. Peter was wrong. The federal marshals had not chosen to relocate them to Mora. That was Ronja’s bargain.

Before she could shed a tear, Ronja knew he was behind her, and she fought the emotion away. Without turning around, she said, “Are you here to kill me?”

He chuckled sadly. “Five years in prison, and every day I thought of how desperately I missed you.”

“Why can’t you leave us alone?”

“I would if you meant it.”

Ronja faced him. He had thrown on his coat and boots. His hair was disheveled, and she saw the longing for her, the possessiveness that he always seemed to think he had earned. “If they find you here, they’ll kill all of us. What is wrong with you? You think they don’t track you? It’s the fucking mob,” she cursed. “It’s one thing to put my life in danger, but Ulla’s?”

“She’s mine, too,” he yelled, clearly not caring if all of Mora heard his indignation. His eyes flooded. “What is wrong with me?” He was in her face, his gaze straining with anger. “You did all this, Ronja. You set this in motion thinking you were so goddamn righteous. They were never—ever—going to touch you and Ulla. We finally had everything we ever wanted, more money than we ever imagined, steady money. We were a family, and you threw it away.”

“Don’t you dare blame me.”

He locked his jaw, sniffed, and looked away. “So what now?”

“What now?” she mocked.

“I work a menial job, live in a shithole apartment,” he pointed to the lake, “while you get all this.”

“So you are here for revenge.”

He gripped the blanket and pulled her into him, drawing his mouth close to hers. “I’d be fine with nothing as long as I have you and Ulla.”

“I hate you,” she whispered.