“Dad.” Vee was in front of me, tugging at my elbow.

I held up my hand. Wait.

Carly’s voice. “Theories must be emerging, Cal.”

“Right.”

“What are people saying?” I didn’t know what people were saying. I thought for a moment. “Yes, at this stage I suppose it’s impossible to rule out a terrorist attack. This country has had military presences in many Middle Eastern flashpoints.”

Lights flashing. The doors-closing signal.

Vee stepped away from me onto the train. “Dad, come on . . .”

I stepped on board; the doors slid shut.

“Thank you, Cal Curtis in Oslo, Norway. More on that story as it emerges.”

A click, and the feed from the studio faded out.

Vee sat facing me, stared me full in the face, arms folded angrily across her chest. I took off the headset.

“What is it, Vee?”

“Why did you say the Muslims blew up Oslo?”

“Vee, you know I would never claim something like that.”

“Actually, you pretty much did. And you were speaking in this weird deep voice, like you think that’s how radio people speak.”

“Please tell me I wasn’t,” I said. “Was I?”

She nodded at me sternly, then her face broke into a smile.

“Okay,” I said. “Well, that isn’t good.”

Vee stepped across the threshold, leaned in to her mother, let herself be held, then pulled away and headed toward her bedroom. Elsa watched her go, wondering perhaps if she should call after her.

“How is she?” she said.

“It’s all coming out as anger. She was very close to the bomb.”

“If it even was a bomb.”

“From what she says, it was.”

“Maybe.” She said it on the in-breath. A strange little sighing sound.

I followed Elsa through to the kitchen, stood looking up at her unreadable pictures on the white wall above the table. The pictures were of crime scenes in Washington, photographed with the cooperation of the police. Elsa would work methodically, using whatever light was available, shooting on large-format film cameras, always without a lens.

Carmine 12 was taken at the scene of a stabbing; Cinnabar 44 a shooting; Burnt Umber 11 a hammer attack.

“Why murder?” people would ask.

Elsa never explained.

The serious newspapers loved my wife’s work; critics made comparisons with Munch. “A Postmodern Scream for the New Post-Enlightenment” was my favorite headline; the article was as hard to decipher as Elsa’s pictures.

“Elsa,” I said, “there’s something I need your help to understand.”

She looked levelly back. “What’s that?”

That video file, I wanted to say. Time-stamped three a.m. When you came home at four. On the morning of our anniversary.

No hint of guilt in Elsa’s gaze. Instead there was something complex and loving and warm.

“You guys about ready?” Henrik’s voice from the hall.

Elsa smiled. “Dad’s going to drive us to the marina.”

“You sure, Henrik?” I called out.