On the countertop my phone chirruped. Already people were attaching hashtags to the video of our appeal: #blondgrrl and #islandheroine, as well as #Licia and #fightback. Dan had good instincts. In the video we looked united in our grief.

Dan had been right about Tvist too: the police had briefed the press about Licia. Thanks to them, people knew that a girl matching the description of my daughter shouted out a warning in the main house; that she comforted a boy she met in the woods; that she shielded that same boy from harm in the water despite the wound in her shoulder. Licia had cut short the massacre, it seemed, by throwing away the metal case so that the men had eventually run out of ammunition. She was a hero. An actual, all-American hero. Amid all the uncertainty, that one thought brought me comfort.

I didn’t like the picture of my daughter holding the pistol. I didn’t like the way the image began to mutate, to combine with images of the Andersens and calls to action. I hated the hashtags #blondgrrl and #fightback. But people were angry about the attacks on Garden Island and wanted revenge. They needed a hero too, and in my daughter they found someone they could believe in.

None of us had predicted that future for Licia.

Seventeen

The road was unsurfaced; neat hedges lined both sides. I drove across one cattle guard, then another, then a third. A hand-carved wooden sign stood to the left of the path:

Patriotic Order of the Temple Knight

Ahead of me a woman stepped into the road, smiling. I wound down the window, leaned out, smiled in return.

“Hei.”

“Hello,” I said.

Her white-blond hair spiraled into a stern bun. She was twenty, I guessed, but dressed like a woman of sixty in a gray smock and black lace-up shoes. A simple leather bag lay slung across her shoulder.

“I’m looking for the Order of the Temple Knight.”

She smiled. “Isn’t everyone?”

Beyond us ash trees stood protectively around a white farmhouse. The gabled roof sloped steeply to keep snow from gathering in winter.

She said, “You are in the wrong place, friend. Bror is seeing no one.”

I opened my door, got out. “You make it sound as if I am in the right place.”

This time the edges of her mouth twitched downward. “He is not expecting you. Ahead you will find the gate is locked.”

“Maybe I’ll climb the gate.”

From her bag she produced a phone. She held it up, took a picture of the car. She dialed a number, spoke in English, making sure I understood the threat.

“Bring dogs to gate number two.”

“My daughter is missing,” I said as calmly as I could.

She hesitated. “You’re not a journalist?”

“No.”

Her stance softened. I saw curiosity in her eyes. Sympathy, perhaps. “You seek Bror’s counsel?”

“He showed me kindness. He might remember me.”