“And when Edvard got there it was gone. On the CCTV there’s this little wiry kid hanging about, but you don’t see him take it, and the staff remembered nothing. And it’s probably not terrorists and it’s probably just a kid being a kid. But it doesn’t matter how many times I try to speak to Edvard’s boss, because she really doesn’t care that it’s my fault and not Edvard’s. Edvard is responsible for his own uniform. And Edvard hates me. I mean, he tries not to, I know, but he does. I humiliated him. I put him under suspicion.”

“Did you get it back?”

“No. And you can’t talk about this.”

“I can see that.”

“He’s the best thing that ever happened to me.” He laughed bitterly. “Was. Now he turns away when I kiss him.”

I said, “I’m sorry, mate.”

“I am so fucking stupid. Because I know the uses a police uniform can be put to . . .”

Twenty-One

At half past eight the streetlights in Oslo would go out, all at once. Sunrise was officially at nine, though we rarely saw the actual sun. The filtered daylight felt like a mistake, an unintended interruption to the unending dark.

Elsa and I settled into our new reality as parents of a missing child. We grew used to television cameras and microphones, to stares in the street and to journalists who could not quite meet our gaze. We dressed like concerned parents in respectful, conservative clothes. I took to wearing dark suits; Elsa to high-buttoned blouses and long-flowing skirts.

We read prepared statements to the press, which we agreed in advance with Tvist:

If you have any information, anything at all . . .

We miss you, Licia.

Please come home . . .

We were kind to each other inside the home, made a point of holding hands and kissing in front of the children. To look at us you would think we were getting by. But Jo was right to be concerned. It was February. The truth was that in eight months Elsa and I had not fucked once. And the lie she had told about her therapist: I could not let go of that.

Later that month I lost my column in the Beltway Times.

“Your writing’s gotten serious, Cal,” my editor said. “This is a satirical column.”

“Satire’s purpose is serious, Gina.”

“And your writing always had a point behind the laughs. But white supremacist murderers? Every week? Do you want to be on these guys’ radar?”

“Isn’t that my risk to take?”

“Plus our readers need some actual laughter . . .”

The argument was lost. I could come back, she said, when I was ready. But I knew that—in the kindest, nicest way—she was firing me.