How the stench, sharp, intrusive, a stench he’s so familiar with, which met him faintly as soon as he entered the beautiful stairwell and assaulted him anew the moment the child with stains on her dress and her face opened the door—how that stench doesn’t really become part of his consciousness until he takes a few steps into the hall and is standing in front of a man slumped over in a chair between a coat and a shoe rack.

“This is my dad.”

A large hole sits on the right side of his forehead. Shot at close range from the front, probably a handgun and a soft-point bullet, half lead, half titanium.

“I told you.”

The other bullet hole is slightly smaller, shot from an angle, just below the left temple.

“See they can’t walk.”

Ewert Grens doesn’t have time to stop her from jumping into her father’s lap, arranging his stiff, unwilling hands so that they’re not in her way, squeezing in between his right thigh and the chair’s armrest.

“Come here.”

“I’m going to talk to Daddy.”

“Come to me.”

Grens has never held a child of that age, and they’re heavier than he imagined. He grabs hold of her shoulders, then lifts her gently.

“Are there more?”

“More?”

“Is it just you and Daddy?”

“Everybody’s here.”

Her mother is sitting in a chair in the kitchen. She seems to have her eyes shut, lips frozen in a smile. Two bullet holes, just like the father—forehead and temple. There’s sugar and flour on the table, her clothes, and the floor. It doesn’t want to let go of the soles of his shoes as he walks across it. Mostly Grens stares at the cake, which sits untouched on the large kitchen table, five extinguished candles, green marzipan.

“It’s mine. My birthday cake.”

“It looks delicious.”

“I blew the candles out myself.”

The two siblings are exactly where the girl says they’ve been for a long time. In their rooms, the sister lying on the bed, bullet hole in the back of her head, the brother at his desk, shot straight from above, bullet hole on the crown of his head.

That terrible sound. A TV, at maximum volume, a kid’s show. Ewert Grens turns it off.

The quiet living room feels emptier.

Too much space for a stench more intense than any he’s experienced before.

He sits down on the black leather sofa, as glossy as it is long, puts the girl in one of the armchairs. He looks at her for a long time. She doesn’t seem scared, just hums quietly to herself.

“You have a pretty voice.”

“Happybirthdaytoyou.”

“Very nice. You just had your birthday?”

“Yes.”

“Five? Like the candles on the cake?”

“And a few days.”

“A few days?”

“And a few nights.”

Ewert Grens looks around, struggling to keep breathing, slow and steady.