It had been dark for a long time when Grens and Zofia sat down at the kitchen table, each with a glass of wine in their hands, far too sweet for this late hour, but the only alcohol he had at home. And Zofia couldn’t say exactly how she knew, but she just felt that this was where her husband went when he was in need. To the detective superintendent who had once been his greatest enemy.

“Yes. He did. And you should know how much he missed you and the kids.”

“And this?”

Zofia turned over the whiteboard, looking at the police investigation held there by magnets.

“It’s not over, is it, no matter how much you pretend it is?”

“Not for me. But for you, I promise.”

She absently looked at the forensic reports from Nils Krantz, followed Grens’s lines and arrows, trying to interpret photos whose faces were crossed out.

“She . . . never hesitated.”

“Who?”

“The young police officer who saved our lives. She didn’t hesitate. She acted in the way I’ve only ever seen one other person act, like Piet. That determination. Presence of mind.”

Zofia Hoffmann was an intelligent, warm person. It was nice to sit with her in this unexpected calm. Even if it was under unfortunate circumstances. Her husband had been his first guest in years, but she was the first woman who had sat at this table since Anni. Laura, the autopsy technician who had been his first relationship in three decades, he’d always met at her home. Soon. Soon he’d be strong enough to meet someone again, trust someone again.

“Ewert—this is lovely. Being able to stay with you for a while. Thank you. From me and the children and Piet. But now I think I have to sleep.”

“I put sheets and towels on the bed in the guest room.”

“Finally I’ll be able to fall asleep—without worry.”

“And tomorrow morning when I head off to Kronoberg, you can sleep in. I’ve got officers guarding both the entrance on Svea Road and the inner courtyard.”

She hugged him, and it felt as natural as it was simple. He filled a glass with ice-cold water and walked out to the balcony to look out over Stockholm on a summer night. Too many thoughts, too much buzzing inside him, and he needed to find some calm before he went to bed. So many nights he’d spent out here, leaning against the railing and listening to the wind over the rooftops.

But the calm did not come. His thoughts wouldn’t stop spinning.

No matter how hard he tried to share in the silence, be in the stillness.