Your father started working for King Zoltan in Sweden; in fact it was Mirza who handled the micro-smuggling, the whole Balkan route. Not big money, five or ten weapons at a time, buy for a hundred dollars each, sell for a thousand dollars, but it was a comfortable, well-to-do living. After a few years, the time was finally right—perfect for taking over the arms trade in several countries using his golden egg. But they were no longer in complete agreement. Zoltan demanded that your father give him all the information about the secret weapons stash, the exact coordinates, before their contract was written as equal partners—he wanted to go there, investigate the place. But Mirza refused to give him more than a few samples, a couple of machine guns every now and then, until everything had been agreed on—the gun stash was his insurance policy. That’s why one day they came to your home and you saw and heard your mother and father and sister and brother be executed. When they left the apartment with your father’s computer, you were still in the closet, and they had what they came for. Or so they thought. False information. Your father had made sure that the directions on his computer weren’t the real ones—he sent them on a wild goose chase after his death. The real directions were hidden elsewhere. Still lie hidden elsewhere.

Aunt Vesa turned to me. Looked at me. It was as if she was trying to crawl into the closet toward me, take my hand, comfort me.

Then you came here, Zana. Showed up out of nowhere. Eleven years later. You started asking questions about the name Lilaj, and the ones who shouldn’t know soon found out—one daughter had survived. A witness. She also had to be killed.

It didn’t turn out that way. I killed your would-be murderer instead.

And so that’s why we’re sitting here, in my car, in the darkness, driving down back roads, fleeing.

—

She held one of both of the boys’ hands as they walked out of the air raid shelter and through the dark basement. Rasmus was on one side, Hugo on the other, still with his little sister in his arms, he refused to let go of her.

“Amelia, is that your name?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re really a police officer?”

“Almost. I’m still learning, but I will be soon.”

“And how could you . . . how did you know we . . . ?”

“You have a lot of questions, Rasmus.”

“Yes. And I want to . . .”

“First let’s go see your mom. Then you can ask me more questions.”