“Wow. That is some hinterland your wife has there. When did she last take a picture?”

“It’s been years, mate.”

“So Elsa has this whole churning inner world,” said Dan. “And it’s no longer finding expression. And now with Licia gone . . .”

“Missing. Important distinction.”

“Missing,” he said. “Aye. But, Cal, are you surprised that your wife goes to bars without you?”

At five I woke to Elsa’s arm, trailed carelessly across my chest, her hand grazing my right nipple. I lay for a while, watching her face, listened to the gentle wheezing of her breath.

In. In. Out.

Smiling now, eyes closed. Beautiful in sleep.

“Elsa,” I said.

“Mmm.”

“Elsa, I love you.”

“Mmm,” she said.

I lifted her arm carefully from my chest. I sat for a while looking out from the terrace toward the trees, watched as a cat chased butterflies on the lawn.

I searched through my phone, found the video files that Tvist’s people had undeleted. That female figure in darkness, breathing in-in-and-out, beautiful and indistinct. But if the figure was Elsa, and surely it was, what did the files actually show? The first was time-stamped 03:01 on the twenty-third, an hour before Elsa returned home. Perhaps then she had betrayed me with another man. Perhaps that man had filmed her as she slept. But the time stamp on the second file was 02:57 on the twenty-fourth, while Elsa and I stood waiting on the slipway for news of Licia.

I unblocked the number and called it. No longer in use.

I sat for the longest time, watching the files and watching my wife, wondering what this was. Was it evidence of betrayal, or of something else?

What am I not seeing, Elsa?

Stupid, really, because all I had to do was ask. But some instinct warned me that catching my wife in a lie would be the end of us.

Fifteen

Chief of Police Ephraim Tvist sat, hands clasped, watching my daughter, his thumbs resting on his chin. He looked down at the plastic bag on the desk in front of him. He leaned forward, turned it so the opening faced him. He examined the dress, then let go of the bag.

“It’s already contaminated,” said Vee.

Tvist tilted his head away. Hands still clasped, he traced a line from temple to crown with his right index finger. “It’s contaminated, you say . . .”

“I wore it. To the memorial service. My dad didn’t know. And I do realize that this compromises its value as evidence. It was impulsive and immature of me. I truly am very sorry.”

“Viktoria, it sounds as though your parents have already had with you the discussion I was planning to have.”

Vee nodded, sniffed hard, blinked twice. “They have.”

Tvist looked at me. “Then perhaps we don’t need to have that discussion a second time.”

“She gets it,” I said.