“The quote comes from the end of the book, just before Dorian Gray takes his own life. Hence it might be a suicide note. There’s that curious coincidence of the names, Oscar Wilde and Oscar Dreyer-Hoff as well.”

Jeppe drank some coffee and contemplated the young man on the cover of the book.

“Remind me how the story goes again?” Jeppe asked. “There’s something about a painting, right?”

“Exactly! The handsome young man, Dorian Gray, has his portrait painted and is so enamored with his own beauty that he trades places with the picture so that he remains young and the picture ages. All his misdeeds—and age, as it comes creeping up on him—are visible in the painting, but Dorian’s own face doesn’t change. Finally he can no longer stand to look at the truth of the painting, and he destroys it. But as he thrusts a knife through the canvas, he himself dies. A subtle form of suicide, if you will.” She threw up her hands and for a moment felt like an academic again, driving home her point.

“But would a fifteen-year-old think like that?” Jeppe asked with a skeptical wrinkle in his brow.

“What were you like as a teenager?” she asked.

That made him smile again.

“You’re one smart cookie, Esther de Laurenti.”

“Oh, please.” She topped off their cups and realized she was blushing. “But seriously: if I were you, I would investigate whether the missing boy has reason to want to disappear.”

“Suicide?” Jeppe asked, his skeptical wrinkle back.

Esther set the French press down carefully on the coffee table.

“Do you have a better explanation?”

CHAPTER 11

At Holmeås 14 the evening meal was being served earlier and earlier with every passing week. Anette sometimes had the feeling that both she and Svend were unconsciously pushing the dinner hour so that they could all go to bed earlier. As a confirmed night owl, she opposed cutting the evening short and giving up that potential adult time, but in all honesty she could use the extra sleep.

Special Forces soldiers, she thought, who brag about not sleeping for multiple days straight, should try having kids.

Gudrun had long since cried her way into their double bed and now slept regularly in the sweet spot between her parents. That meant unrestful sleep for all three of them as well as constituting a massive threat to her and Svend’s sex life. They often agreed that their daughter had to learn to sleep on her own soon, but she resisted ferociously, and they didn’t have the energy to insist. Besides, having her snuggled between them was cozy. So far their discussions about moving her had led to nothing.

Anette watched her husband clear the table while he played peekaboo with Gudrun in her high chair. At least their child was alive and at home.