Sara rolled down her window and let the drizzle soothe the tension around her eyes. Not a week went by when she didn’t ask herself how safe it really was to live in the middle of the city, a stone’s throw from Christiania—Copenhagen’s anarchist, hippie commune—with two daughters who were growing bigger every time she blinked. Amina already acted like a teenager, more interested in her friends and K-pop than she was in spending time at home. Would she be safer out here under these tall trees? Not that it was a financial option, but if it were?

“It was Johannevej, right?”

Larsen slowed down and turned left, rolled slowly ahead, and parked in front of number 10. A modern yellow-brick house stared blankly at them with curtainless windows on either side of the front door’s mouth. Two short trees flanked the entrance symmetrically but unostentatiously. This house could have been placed anywhere in the Greater Copenhagen area. It was far from the prospective buyer’s fantasy that Larsen had just shared a couple of minutes ago—just a completely normal middle-class house with a fancy-pants zip code.

The woman who opened the door, on the other hand, looked expensive. She was discreetly dressed with her mouth set in a firm line; short, clean fingernails; and an elegant gray haircut. The skin around her eyes looked transparent, as it does when one has been crying but is trying to hide it. Dignified was the word that came to Sara’s mind as she held out her hand and introduced herself and Larsen. The woman looked dignified.

“Sara Saidani and Thomas Larsen with the Copenhagen Police. Thank you for agreeing to see us on such short notice.”

“I’m Frida Dreyer. Oh, but then you know that. Come in. My husband is in Sweden today, but my grandchildren are in the conservatory.”

She led them through the modern house and its eclectic interior style of rustic peasant furniture and chic, clean-line design. Sara ducked under a copper chandelier in the entryway, which would have hung beautifully in a front hall with a high ceiling but seemed unwieldy and out of place here. Victor and Esmeralda Dreyer-Hoff sat in a glassed-in sunroom on either end of a floral-upholstered sofa, each with a blanket over their legs. A stack of magazines lay between them, and on the bamboo coffee table an empty pizza box had leaked oil at the corners.

“My angels, the police are here.”

“Have they found him?” Victor asked, his voice sounding hopeful.

“Unfortunately not.”

Victor blinked. His hair was disheveled and black, his eyes dark with long eyelashes, and his lips full. He was an uncommonly handsome boy, Sara thought, and pointed to a bamboo chair.

“May we have a seat?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Frida said, throwing her hands up in the air, flustered. “Of course. Please, sit. Put the comic book away, Essie. The police want to talk to us.”