Iben came out of her room and headed straight for the bathroom without looking at him. He reached for her, but she dodged around him and slammed the bathroom door behind her. He heard her lock it and stood for a moment watching the closed door; he considered knocking and trying to get his daughter to talk, but dropped it. It would just make her hate him even more.

When had she started treating him like a leper? Was it when his addiction had escalated, or simply when she had become a teenager? It felt like only a moment ago that she would sit on his lap while he read her a bedtime story. She used to kiss him ten times on the lips before he was allowed to turn off the light.

Kasper pulled a clean T-shirt over his head and went to his desk in the living room. On the way he bumped into the blue floor lamp, knocking it to the floor, and the bulb broke. He had better drink some water.

As he leaned down to the tap over the kitchen sink, he realized how seriously drunk he was. The corners of the room were blurry and swimming—if it weren’t for the nausea rising up his throat, it would have been hilarious. He returned to the desk and the computer and congratulated himself on his fortitude, as he did every time he managed to abstain. Instead, he checked the account as he had done daily since the bank transfer two weeks ago and smiled at the number that appeared on his screen.

He was relieved—he just had to get through the discomfort of this first phase, then surely it would all work out.

A ding announced an incoming email. He opened his in-box and carefully skimmed it. It was a press release from the office, and he could already tell from the header that it was one of the news items for which he himself had provided the information.

ARC saves the environment from the equivalent of fifty thousand cars’ worth of NOX emissions. The catalytic converter turns toxic NOX into standard nitrogen, which means we are now emitting only a tenth of the NOX released by the old incinerator. It is a sensational achievement.

Kasper skimmed the text, his pulse speeding up. Everything was great. He should be proud and happy, inviting his coworkers to dinner and toasting them all with champagne while discussing future projects and trips. And yet here he was alone, drunk as a skunk and scared stiff. He knew that communicating in writing was dangerous, but given that it was his ass on the line, he refused to bear sole responsibility if it was discovered. He opened Messenger and wrote:

What do I do if they find something?

Then he hit Send.