The hallway ended in a light-filled living room, nearly as big as the kitchen space. A pink five-seat sofa sat beneath a Kasper Eistrup painting, which suited the space so perfectly that it must be a commissioned piece. By the window stood an easel with a half-finished blue painting, and next to it a tall gray-haired man waited for them with his back to the ocean and his hands in his trouser pockets. He had a vertical crease between his eyebrows but looked put together in a freshly ironed white shirt and beige canvas slacks that closed over a budding paunch. His shoulders drooped in the fashion of someone who spent most of his day at a desk.

He walked over to greet them, holding out his hand.

“Henrik. Hi. Thanks for coming.”

Jeppe was puzzled by his choice of words, which would have been better suited for a social call. But worry makes people say the strangest things.

“Have a seat.”

Jeppe and Anette sat down on two matching armchairs facing the pink sofa, where the couple then settled. Henrik Dreyer-Hoff put his arm around his wife protectively.

“You still haven’t heard from your son?” Jeppe scrolled to a blank page in his notebook.

They both shook their heads.

“When did you discover that he was missing?”

“This morning.” Malin took a deep breath. “On Saturdays we usually eat breakfast together, all of us. It’s a family tradition. Henrik cooks brunch.…”

She looked at her husband, who nodded.

“I love to cook, but I rarely have time on weekdays. So on the weekend… Oscar always requests pancakes. The American buttermilk ones with syrup.” Henrik stopped.

Malin gave her husband a look, as if he had said something wrong, and turned back to Jeppe.

“I got up early and painted,” she said, “while I was waiting for everyone else to get up and for Oscar to come home. But he never came. At eight thirty I called him and texted.”

Jeppe noted the time and saw as he did so that Henrik’s hand was squeezing his wife’s shoulder in a tight grip. As if he were holding her up. Or back.

“Where was he last night?” Jeppe asked. “Or where was he supposed to be?”

“At his friend Iben’s, to study for a written Danish exam. They’re freshmen. But she says he never showed up. I got ahold of her just before ten. That’s when we knew something was wrong.” Malin nervously twisted a ring around her finger.

“And Iben doesn’t know where he is?”

“She says she just thought he had changed his mind. I think that sounds weird. And her father, who could have done the responsible thing and contacted us, didn’t even know about their plans. Or so he says.”