I saw fear now in his brother John, saw in his eye the moment of realization. I felt a horrifying thrill of pleasure. Good, I thought.

Now you know.

Then Elsa was on the ground. The policewoman had a knee in the small of Elsa’s back. Her rifle was pointed directly at Elsa’s head. A second policewoman was reaching to cuff her hands.

“Dad,” said Vee. “Dad, we have to help her.”

“Stay where you are, Vee.”

“Are you just going to let them—”

Elsa had her head raised. “Cal.”

I looked at the rifle; I looked at the pistol on the ground; I looked at my wife.

The policewoman with the rifle saw me. “No closer,” she said.

I stayed where I was.

“I want you to know that I do love you,” said Elsa, her voice loud and clear. “I want you to promise me that you know that.”

“Cal Curtis,” said Bror’s voice. I ignored it.

“Sir,” said the policewoman. “Sir, step away.”

I stood staring at my wife.

“Cal Curtis.”

I turned, saw Bror at the side of the path, his face twisted, full of wrath.

“Cal Curtis!” he shouted. “Øvre Øvrebøhaugen four, Oslo, Norway.”

Vee at my side, grasping my hand. “What’s he doing, Dad?”

Two officers stepped forward, stood one on each side of Bror. I looked around, saw the look on Tvist’s face. He understood full well the danger of this man.

Vee turned to me. “He’s threatening us, isn’t he?” She turned to face Bror. “You’re fucking threatening our family.”

Bror heard her speak. He turned, looked her full in the face.

“Viktoria Steen Curtis,” he shouted. “At the same address.”

Issuing an instruction, I realized.

“Franklin Steen Curtis. Same address.”

He was summoning the murder of my children. Calling on his admirers to make good on his threat.

I looked toward the food tent. Every face was turned toward Bror. It only took a sympathizer among the staff . . .

“The cameras,” said Vee. “The fucking cameras, Dad.” I heard the panic in her voice. I turned.

The TV crews. Two cameras, one pointed at Elsa where she lay on the ground, the other at Bror. I began to walk toward them.

“This way.” A policewoman at my side, trying to lead me away.

“Daniel Curtis.” Bror was screaming at the top of his lungs now. “Spring Bank Drive fifty-two, Washington D.C., United States of America. Daisy Curtis and Lyndon Curtis, also of Spring Bank Drive fifty-two.”

“This way,” repeated the policewoman.

“Wait,” I said. “You need to seize the cameras.”

“No, Mr. Curtis, you need to come.”

“Douglas and May Curtis. Inverleithen Terrace forty-three, Edinburgh, Scotland.”

Bror was a powerful man. The police were struggling to drag him down the path.

“Henrik Steen, Lundeveien eight, Drøbak, Norway.”

Tvist’s voice. “Come away, Cal. Now.”

The cameramen filming, saying nothing.