“I’m going to go lie down,” he said, nodding slowly.

“Okay, just come get me if you need anything.”

Gregers shuffled down the hall toward his bedroom and closed the door behind him.

Esther finished brewing the coffee and poured herself a glass of port. She deserved it. She needed it, at any rate.

Just as she brought the glass to her lips, someone buzzed from downstairs. A minute later, Jeppe stood in her front hall, out of breath. He kissed her cheek and walked in an arc around the barking Dóxa into the living room. When Esther brought in the coffee, he was standing at one of the windows facing the lake.

“Not a view you get tired of, is it?” he asked.

“Not in my lifetime anyway. Have a seat. You’ll have some coffee, won’t you?”

He obediently sat, took a cup from the tray, and held it out to her.

“I’ll always say yes to your coffee. Thank you.”

She poured them both a cup and sat down in her peach-colored wingback chair. There was an unsettled energy about Jeppe today, but of course, he had a lot on his mind. She took a sip of coffee and cleared her throat.

“So,” she began, “what’s all this about Dorian Gray?”

Jeppe set down his cup with a smile.

“Right to the point, as always. I appreciate that. We’re looking for a teenage boy who has been missing since Friday afternoon.”

“Oscar Dreyer-Hoff, right?” Esther asked. “I saw it on the news.”

“Exactly. His family found this letter.” He handed her a piece of paper. “This is a copy, you can touch it.”

Esther took the paper and read it carefully. She recognized the words and enjoyed their eloquence, read them again.

“Is this a suicide note?”

“We think he might have been kidnapped and that the abductor left the note.”

Esther got up and walked over to her shelves, which covered the whole end wall of the living room and were stacked with books from floor to ceiling. She searched briefly and then pulled out a volume. It had the picture of a young man on the cover.

“Here it is. The Picture of Dorian Gray, one of the best books in the history of the world if you ask me. Like I said, I wrote my master’s thesis on Wilde back when I was a student eons ago.”

She handed Jeppe the book and he dutifully flipped it over and skimmed the back.

“Yes, thank you, Professor. But why do you think the quote could be a suicide note?”

She smiled over the edge of her coffee cup.

“Turn to page two hundred fifty-five!” she said.

Jeppe found the passage and read it aloud.

“ ‘As it had killed the painter, so it would kill the painter’s work, and all that that meant. It would kill the past, and when that was dead, he would be free.’ ”