“Yet you have described yourself as skeptical toward immigration . . .”

“And I think perhaps you are confusing skepticism, which is part of our religious praxis, with acts of violence, which do not form any part of our praxis. The peaceful Muslim is our brother, our sister, our friend. No? And this video is not a racist dog whistle, no matter what you in the media might wish.”

Elsa’s fingers played across her lower lip. Her wolf eyes glowed.

“So you are not,” the announcer was saying, “an anti-Islamic organization? And you condemn the actions of the Andersens?”

“Would you hold me responsible for the misuse others make of our good name?”

The interviewer was not letting go. “But you, like they, are immigration skeptics.”

“And now you too are twisting our words. We teach skepticism in all things; it is the bedrock of our praxis. We insist that our recruits question every orthodoxy. Especially political orthodoxies. We demand that they speak with radical honesty about their innermost feelings. We are no more against immigration than we are against life itself. About which our recruits also have many skeptical questions.”

Elsa was staring at the screen as if entranced. Vee was watching her mother intently.

“Mum,” said Vee. “Mum, how do you know that guy?”

Elsa’s hand curled around Vee’s. “Wow, Vee. You are good.”

“You got this secretive smile.”

They looked at each other, Elsa’s eyes shining. “He was a friend once.”

No, I thought. No, he’s more to you than that. Because the way my wife was looking at the man on-screen, you would swear she knew him well.

“He seems okay,” said Vee.

“Yes,” Elsa said. “He is okay.”

Vee made to say something more. Elsa’s phone rang. She got up off the sofa.

“But Mum,” said Vee.

Elsa picked up her phone. “Just a minute.” She answered the call, listened, nodded. “Finally.” She turned to me. “Police. Can we meet them in an hour?”

Seven

We should not have let the police divide us up. It created the sense that we were not in this together. It was the beginning of a fracture between Elsa and me, though it was tiny at first and I did not see where it would lead.

A policewoman showed me to a brightly lit room. The windows were obscured by heavy black drapes. In front was a low table. There were two blue pens, and two red pens. There was a stack of paper. There were two empty coffee cups, and a carton of chewing tobacco.

The policewoman motioned for me to sit.

Three low armchairs faced each other across the table. The chairs were mid-blue, the carpet mid-blue, the walls cream. On the wall opposite, a pair of red checked curtains.

“What are the checked curtains?”

“The curtains are not relevant.”

I walked to the wall, drew back the curtain on the left.

A plate-glass window, so dark that it was almost black.