White brick wall. A lawn that was a little greener than their neighbors’. Dancing garden gnomes next to colorful mushrooms next to a sneaking little garden troll. Blooming flower beds surrounded perfectly groomed fruit trees and flourishing berry bushes. The people who lived here liked their home so much that Ewert Grens—who found it hard to keep plastic plants alive—didn’t even really know where to place his feet in order not to destroy anything on his way from the car to the front door. He’d dropped the cadets off at the small police station downtown to hunt down any information they could about a girl they now knew was named Hannah Ohlsson—they were supposed to chat with their local colleagues and maybe find out anything that might not have made it into the official records. He’d felt they’d do more good there than here for two reasons: local police took in a lot more information about their beats than most might assume, and knocking on the door that now stood in front of him flanked by a whole delegation from Stockholm police headquarters seemed like the worst possible way to begin a conversation that required delicacy and trust.

But no one heard him knocking. So he tried the flower-shaped doorbell with a button surrounded by golden petals. Even that was so cozy and well cared for, and it rang a friendly little tune that reminded him of birdsong late at night.

“Yes?”

A woman in her fifties—her hair a shiny silver, her face with a deep tan, her eyes cautious but friendly. A bit farther down the long hall stood a tall, slender man who was wearing glasses like an old-fashioned schoolteacher.

“Detective Superintendent Ewert Grens. I’m here from the City Police in Stockholm.”

“We know—a former social worker from the child welfare department called and warned us you were on your way.”

The retired department head had claimed to not have had any contact with this family for years. Apparently that was no longer the case.

“Maybe she also warned about why I’m here?”

“Yes. And neither me nor my husband feel very good about it.”

The woman didn’t sound unfriendly as she pointed to her husband. A little fragile. A little tired. But her voice was calm and collected.

“So we’d rather that you leave.”

“I’m not leaving. Not until you’ve answered my questions.”

“We have no obligation to talk to you about our daughter. Not with you or anyone else.”

“Not legally, perhaps. But morally. I was the one who long ago stepped into her former world and literally carried her away from it. I took care of her in a safe house for several weeks. I was a temporary parent, you might say. So I think you owe it to me to do exactly that—tell me about her.”