Her eyes flicked back to the television. On-screen a dark-skinned man turned toward the camera, shaven head glistening under the lights.

A caption:

Ephraim Tvist, Chief of Police, Oslo District

“Mr. Tvist,” said the woman on television, “Mr. Tvist, you are Oslo’s first black police chief. You have been in the job three weeks.”

“Jesus,” I said. “Today is like one long psychotic break. That’s the man who interviewed me.”

“Yes,” said Tvist cautiously. “I’m not sure what either of those facts—”

The journalist cut him off. “Why was Garden Island not on lockdown after the explosion in town?”

“We had four islands in the Oslo Fjord on lockdown.”

“Again: Why not Garden Island?”

“Garden Island was rated as a medium-risk target. The four islands on lockdown were considered high-risk targets.”

This was not the Tvist I had met. The camera reduced him; he looked shifty and out of breath.

“On those other four islands,” the journalist was saying, “there were career politicians present. Garden Island was a youth camp with only youth politicians. Is this the reason for the medium-risk designation?”

“The designation was signed off by my predecessor, six months ago.”

“My God,” said Elsa quietly. “Did he really just blame the last guy?”

The journalist on-screen was studying her notebook. “Mr. Tvist, how many helicopters did you mobilize?”

“I’m not certain that a helicopter is the correct response to an event of this type.”

“So, no police response helicopter was available? Seems barely credible.”

Tvist looked away, tapped the tips of his fingers together.

The journalist looked severe. “May we take that as a no?”

Tvist made himself tall. He was looking directly at the camera.

“Elsa,” I said, “he thinks someone in this apartment was accessing crusader knight websites.”

Tvist was speaking slowly, as if appealing to the nation. “We did not consider a helicopter to be the best use of police resources.”

“This is absurd,” said Elsa. “Obscene.”

“Elsa, did you hear what I said? Those are basically the people who carried out the attack. Someone in our apartment was downloading their material.”

“And Mr. Tvist . . .” The reporter on-screen was consulting her notebook. “Mr. Tvist, the first shot was fired on the island at six-oh-three p.m.”

“That doesn’t in any way worry you, Elsa?”

Elsa did not respond.

“At six-oh-three p.m., Mr. Tvist,” the journalist was saying. “Can you confirm?”

“That sounds correct.”

“Who’s that man?” said Vee from the doorway.

An uncomfortable pause. Elsa and I exchanged a look.

“Dad, who is that?”

I studied Vee’s face. She gave no sign of having heard us arguing.

“It’s the police chief, love.”

“He interviewed Dad.” Elsa smiled, a little too brightly. “So we have his attention. That can only be good, right?”

“I suppose,” said Vee.