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Back Love and Other Lies Save as PDF
Chapters (61)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Imagine a girl
  4. Prologue
  5. The Foreigner
  6. One
  7. Two
  8. Three
  9. Four
  10. Five
  11. The Skeptic
  12. Six
  13. Seven
  14. Eight
  15. Nine
  16. Ten
  17. Eleven
  18. Twelve
  19. Thirteen
  20. Fourteen
  21. Fifteen
  22. Sixteen
  23. Seventeen
  24. Eighteen
  25. Nineteen
  26. Twenty
  27. Twenty-One
  28. Twenty-Two
  29. Twenty-Three
  30. The Spectator
  31. Twenty-Four
  32. Twenty-Five
  33. Twenty-Six
  34. Twenty-Seven
  35. Twenty-Eight
  36. Twenty-Nine
  37. The Assassin
  38. Thirty
  39. Thirty-One
  40. Thirty-Two
  41. Thirty-Three
  42. Thirty-Four
  43. Thirty-Five
  44. Thirty-Six
  45. Thirty-Seven
  46. Thirty-Eight
  47. Thirty-Nine
  48. Forty
  49. Forty-One
  50. The Hunter
  51. Forty-Two
  52. Forty-Three
  53. Forty-Four
  54. Forty-Five
  55. Forty-Six
  56. Forty-Seven
  57. Imagine a girl
  58. Acknowledgments
  59. About the Author
  60. Also by Ben McPherson
  61. About the Publisher

“Dan,” I said. “Thank you. Thank you. From the bottom of my fucking heart—”

He cut me off. “I mean, let’s forget for a moment your conspiracy theory—”

“This is more than a theory. The police knew who these men were, and they did nothing. They could have prevented the attack. They had the license plate. And they have footage that proves something, which we’re forbidden to see—”

“So let’s say you do have a source—”

“Let’s say I have two sources—”

“And if you can show your conspiracy, great. But you’re not an investigative reporter, so I want you to do what I know you do well. Which is the family stuff. You cover the trial and you tell us what it feels like. You have instincts, and your instincts are good. Tell us the story of your family, and people will listen.”

“That’s not the story I want to tell.”

“Cal,” he said. “Take the offer on the table.”

Twenty-Three

The late snow caught us off guard. Huge flakes were falling fast through the still air, obscuring the island. They settled on the oil-black surface of the fjord, held there for a moment, and were gone. Below our feet the engine thrummed. Chain links clanked in across the bow. A heavy rope was thrown from shore onto the deck and the ferry rocked forward into gear. People stumbled, reached out with their hands, but kept their footing.

It was the first Monday of May. An official court day, though the trial would not begin for six weeks. The judges were here to examine each of the ninety-one murders, following the timeline minute by minute. The survivors and the families of the bereaved were here to watch the reconstruction. The whole thing would be broadcast on television and live-streamed on the Internet. Here, perhaps, was what the prime minister meant by more democracy, more openness.

Around us were the families of the dead. Eighty people, I guessed, and not a one speaking. They huddled into their jackets, pulled their hats low across their faces. Strange what ten months of loss can do to a face: the bagging of the flesh below the eyes, the lining of the forehead and the cheeks, the graying of the skin. Dark faces. Light faces. All clouded with the same pain, etched in hard lines around their mouths. You could see in their eyes the awful resignation. Their son, their daughter, their brother, their sister: never coming back.

Toward the aft I saw Arno and his mother. Mari noticed me looking and smiled. Arno looked away. In his hand he was carrying something heavy. A book, bound in leather.

As the ferry began to near the other side, I saw a cameraman on the dock lining up on Vee. I jumped ashore, put myself between him and my daughter, pushed him gently away as I helped Vee and Elsa ashore.