She stares mutely at Leo. Meets his regretful eyes with a hard glare.

You bastard. Don’t put your damn hands on me, don’t breathe on my neck. Don’t look at me with eyes that make me weak. Don’t slink around my kitchen like a horny tomcat. Take your fucking guitars and go to hell. And take that sanctimonious bitch with you. Leave me alone!

He can see what she’s thinking.

She can tell he does.

‘Karen . . .’

She turns away. His hand follows, comes to rest on her arm.

And then, at the exact same time, they both spot her.

Without either of them noticing, Sigrid has returned to the kitchen. Her back, slim and stiff, bent over the pot on the hob; her hand, clutching the wooden spoon, completely motionless now. As though she’s trying to escape by not moving a muscle. An unbearable image of a girl who grew up with so much conflict and fighting that she eventually couldn’t bear to stay. Moved out at sixteen, got by as best she could, built that shield of hers.

Eventually, she ended up at Karen’s house, looking for peace and security with someone other than her parents.

Karen and Leo look at Sigrid, then back at each other. A nod of agreement.

‘I didn’t mean—’ he says.

‘I know, Leo. I’m sorry. I’m just so damn tired. We should eat, shouldn’t we? It smells delicious.’

Over dinner they chat in a way that may come off as normal and pleasant to the casual observer. Sigrid’s food is praised, they talk about how they should take Rufus to the vet to have his teeth scraped, discuss the upcoming election and the campaigning that is already in full swing. Leo offers to do the dishes even though it’s not his turn and Karen says she’s thinking about renovating the house. Maybe start with Sigrid’s room. Everything’s back to normal.

But she notices that Sigrid’s eyes keep darting over to the kitchen window.

Chapter 10

10

The capital looks surprised to have been woken up. At the end of April, it usually still has time to blink the sleep out of its eyes and have a leisurely stretch, or maybe even go back to sleep for a bit, ignore the unpredictable spring weather and wait until early summer has warmed the land and its people.

But instead, this.

Dunker’s streets and public squares are crowded with hastily brought-out tables and chairs, while gravel and dust still cover asphalt and pavements like a dirty blanket. Grey winter jackets and black coats, which just a few days ago were meticulously buttoned all the way up, have now been shoved into backpacks or thrown over the back of chairs. Winter-pale faces are greedily, gratefully turned towards the sun and the shops are selling out of sunglasses.