His mouth opened and closed. A line furrowed between his brows as if he were searching for words. “I can’t believe my daughter was shot and didn’t call me.” His voice was steady with no trace of a slur. Was he sober?

“I’m sorry, Daddy.” Guilt swamped Louisa.

“No. It’s not your fault.” Leaning forward, he took her hands between his and stared down at them. “The fault is all mine. I’m sorry. For everything.”

“You haven’t—”

“Louisa, when your mother died, I didn’t handle it well. I didn’t handle it at all. I used my work and scotch to put the whole situation out of my head. I didn’t want to think about it. About her. About living without her for the next fifty years. The rest of my life felt so . . . long.” He sighed. “Every time I looked at you, I saw her. You made me remember, and I was too much of a coward to face it.”

A tear rolled down Louisa’s cheek. Her throat clogged with the salt of sorrow. “I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing for you to be sorry about.” He glanced up at her, his eyes moist.

She should have called him. “How did you find out?”

“Conor called me right after you got out of surgery last week. I almost flew here that day, but I wanted to clear up a few things first.”

Yes, work. Always his number-one priority. Disappointment pressed on Louisa’s chest, as painful as her stitches. At least her gunshot wound was healing. “I’m sorry to drag you back to the States. I know you love Stockholm.”

His head snapped up. “Oh no, I didn’t mean that. I took a leave of absence.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m staying.” His smile was sad. “I’ve been a terrible father for a long time. I can’t make it up to you. That’s impossible. But I can do better. I sure as hell can’t do worse.” He looked away. “I’m not being entirely honest. I bottomed out last spring. Seeing you so sad . . .” He looked down at his hands and cleared his throat. “Anyway, instead of staying here and helping you, I rushed back to Sweden. I drank for a week straight. I showed up to a lecture drunk. The dean pulled me aside and suggested a leave of absence. I haven’t worked in three months.”

“What have you been doing?”

“At first, nothing except wallowing.” He exhaled hard through his nose. “Then the dean paid me a visit. He dragged me to an AA meeting every day for a month. I’ve been sober for nine weeks.”

“Is that what you were going to tell me on Thanksgiving?”

He nodded. “I need to start over. I don’t want to go back to Maine or Stockholm. There are too many bad associations with both those places.”