I thought of Licia behind her bedroom door, mumbling words that we could not hear. I thought of Bror advising her to apologize to her sister. But then I thought of Licia’s tears when we visited the tree we had planted in her memory: Surely those tears at least were genuine?

Bror smiled. “Licia was pregnant and broken when she came to me. Not unlike her mother at that age . . . Very receptive, desperate to be heard, delighted to find me a good listener . . .” That same easy, charming smile that had comforted me a year ago. The sledgehammer blow of his words. “Sorry to be the bearer of bad news.”

“No,” I said. “No, none of that’s true.”

“Tempting to think, though, surely? Would that bring you some closure, an explanation of how she ended up believing what she does? She’s her mother’s daughter, after all, and to be pregnant at fifteen . . . Oh, so she was traumatized. Oh, so she was brutalized. Oh, so she was brainwashed. Maybe that’s how we did it?” He adjusted his stance, made himself tall. “Now move your car.”

“No.”

He looked me up and down. “Or perhaps she despised you, Cal, and everything you stood for. What if she simply looked at us and liked what she saw?”

“No,” I said.

We taught her right from wrong.

Still, the accusation caught me off guard.

Bror made a scoffing sound at the back of his mouth. “Oh, I can see that’s an unbearable thought to the great Cal Curtis . . .”

“Fuck you, Bror.”

Bror laughed. “Let’s not forget I fucked your wife. What if Licia were my daughter all along? She found that argument very persuasive. Father Bror.”

I tried to slow the racing of my mind. I made a point of laughing, of looking him in the eye.

I said, “The dates don’t work.”

“If your wife is to be believed, they don’t . . .”

“And you told Licia that?”

“You’ll never be sure exactly what I told her. She isn’t coming back, Cal. Sorry.” He stepped away. “Now, why don’t we take my implicit threat and make it explicit? There are no safe countries anymore. Wherever you think you will find sanctuary, there we will find you.”

“Except that I’m not afraid of you.”

“Your son will not see his second birthday.” He spoke the words so quietly. For a moment I thought I had misheard.

“Say that again,” I said.

“Victoria will not see adulthood. Your children are as good as dead. Your only legacy will be Licia Curtis and the Garden Island massacre, and even then people will argue over whose daughter she is.”

My right arm swung toward his left temple.

I saw a moment of panic in his eye. He tried to lean away from the blow.

Too late.