“Anyway, I called a few people. Because Midsummer’s Eve is our anniversary, and I won’t let it belong to those men. I’m going to buy gin and lemons and olives. And we can toast each other, and we can think about Licia. And then we will go out and meet our friends.”

I blinked the tears away. “Put the gin in the freezer, Elsa. Along with the shaker and a long spoon.”

People were sharing my report. As I entered the courtroom I could see on their phone screens the red roof and the yellowed grass of the shower block from the helicopter footage, even as the court discussed those same murders.

And there was Tvist smiling up at me, from the seat beside mine. I smiled as neutrally as I could. I sat down.

The short brother was speaking. Paul Andersen.

“Hun sa nei. Holdt armen foran ansiktet.”

She said no. She held her arm up in front of her face.

Tvist leaned across to me. “Did you notice?” he said. “The short one remembers each gunshot with absolute clarity. And the tall one simply watches his brother, and then he watches the family’s reaction. These are men who enjoy the details of suffering.”

The Andersen brothers were looking directly at the father of a murdered girl, checking his response. The man sat rigid in the front row, listening to the brothers’ account.

I turned to look at Tvist. I could see the cleverness of the man. The way in which he used the truth—because he was right about the Andersens—to throw me off the scent. And Tvist smiled his smile, and gave nothing away.

I nodded and turned toward the Andersen brothers.

Paul Andersen continued speaking. I heard the word for angle, and the word for bullet.

Tvist leaned forward. “Is he really saying that? That his greatest worry was that the girl’s arm might deflect the round from its trajectory?”

“I guess he is.”

“This is an outrage, no?” Tvist leaned very close to me. “Even as they are watching this poor soul you can feel them seeking out the next family with their eyes. Because our laws say these men must have access to the media. And so they familiarize themselves with photographs from the newspapers.”

The father of the girl had turned his face from the men. Such quiet dignity in the face of their unrepentance.

“How does he do it?” whispered Tvist. “How does that poor man keep from screaming his hatred and his contempt for these men and what they have done to his family?”

I looked at Tvist. He was staring levelly at me, waiting for a reply. I stared levelly back.

“Right?” he said again.

“Right,” I said quietly.

“These brothers, though. They’re very caught up in the detail of what they have done. They are not planners. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Maybe.”