‘No, they took her. She’s with someone named Erasmus. And don’t ask me who that is, because I don’t know.’

They sat in silence. The only sound was the water dripping from her hands when she gingerly touched the skin stretched taut over her cheekbone.

‘I suppose it’s that cult,’ he said. ‘Lennart Brösth.’

‘Can we talk about it tomorrow? Look at me. I’m beat up, both physically and mentally. I barely know my own name and I need to sleep. I can tell you more tomorrow.’

‘Do you want me to take off work?’

‘There’s no need.’

‘Are you sure?’

She nodded.

‘What are you going to tell Kiruna?’

He motioned toward her face.

‘Sometimes you get assaulted. For no good reason. Children get that.’

He looked like he was about to object. But nothing came out.

‘Have you talked to Gudrun?’ he said.

‘To Gudrun? I’ve barely even talked to you.’

He stood up but didn’t leave.

‘You shouldn’t have gone out there.’

‘Doctor Sillfors concurs with Doctor Sillfors.’

She was able to make a joke. Where did she find the strength? She didn’t understand it herself. But she assumed it was some kind of defence mechanism. An attempt at redirection. Or was she happy? Baffled at still being alive? Despite everything. She lay still and watched the water lap against her knees. She had figured she would call Gudrun and tell her what had happened to Susso. The urge had overwhelmed her several times during the drive. But she had suppressed it each time. If Gudrun decided to call the police, what had happened would be translated into paltry police prose and registered and archived. That would make it irrevocable. There would be a file and that file would redefine her life. And she didn’t want that. She still held out hope she might manage to wiggle out of the whole thing somehow. Find a way out. Trap the event between the brackets of a parenthesis. Her whole being was straining to achieve that. Working toward it, tireless, automated. Like smooth muscle tissue. Her eyelashes stuck together when she blinked; she wiped the water away with the tip of her middle finger, which had gone pruney.

He was still on his back with the screen on his chest when she entered the bedroom. But he turned it off and took out his earphones and watched her put on her nightgown, a gown of light-blue, almost transparent cotton. She lifted the duvet, gently pushed the little girl aside and slipped in next to her, feeling the heat from the tiny body. Then she pressed her fingertips against his shoulder and said they would talk tomorrow and he nodded.

Stava climbed out of the car…