On the train into town she sat staring about her, nervy and ill at ease. Her eyes kept falling on a group of young Somali men in the seats across the aisle. One caught her eye and smiled. Licia looked away. The men laughed and joked, said something about her in Norwegian. I don’t think there was any ill intent, but the exchange seemed to terrify her. She spent the rest of the train journey staring straight ahead, ignoring my attempts to start a conversation.

In the park below the police station men with dark skin were grilling meat on charcoal barbecues, playing football with their sons, shirts off, laughing and shouting. Licia walked stiffly past them, eyes set on the building in front of her.

“Hey,” I said. “What is it, Licia?”

“How can this be happening? Right by the police station?”

I looked around. The park was abuzz with voices: children’s voices; women’s voices, a clamor of activity.

“But Licia, there’s nothing illegal going on here.”

She gave me an uneasy smile.

I wondered what change Bror could have wrought in my daughter, that she should be so afraid of the city in summertime.

Tvist had been right: Bror was a dangerous man. How cleverly he had guided our suspicions, how easily he had nudged me toward the belief that it was Tvist who was my true enemy. He had seen my anger at a flawed system and guided it toward something darker and more confrontational, quietly and skillfully urging me to act. If he could do that to me, what could he do to the mind of my sweet child?

A waiting area on the second floor. Blue sofas on three sides of a glass table. Beyond us, men and women sat at uniform desks, in front of uniform computers, drank coffee from uniform cups.

“They shouldn’t be here,” said Licia. “Not on a Sunday.”

“Things changed after the attacks, love.”

A reaction I could not read.

I filled two paper cups with water from the cooler, handed one to her.

Footsteps on carpet. “Cal?” I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Edvard, tired-looking but still darkly handsome in his shirtsleeves. We hugged. Stubble on stubble.

“I thought you were at home.”

“My union rep got me reinstated.” He leaned close. “I’m really not your source.”

“I know.” I turned. Licia was staring at us, unsmiling.

“This has to be Licia.” he said, as if noticing her for the first time.

“This is Licia.”

“So like her mother . . .” He squeezed my shoulder, smiled the most infectious smile. “I am so fucking pleased for you all.”

“Licia,” I said, “do you know Edvard?”

“Why?”

The hostility of that simple word. I looked at my daughter, shocked.

“Hello, Licia,” said Edvard, all smiles. “Amazing that you’re back.” He offered his hand. Licia held it limply, then released it and sat down again.

“Early days,” I whispered.