Chapter 7: The Study

On Saturday morning I went back to the main house with my laptop under my arm.

Torsten drove me through the gate and stopped at the foot of the steps.

My hands were cold on the door handle.

He put his palm flat between my shoulder blades, over my coat.

"Breathe," he said.

I breathed.

His hand was warm even through the wool.

He took it away only when I was ready to stand.

I told myself it was what a driver does for anyone who is about to be sick.

"I'll be right here," he said.

"If you come out fast, I'll have the engine on."

"And if I don't come out?"

"Then I'll come in," Torsten said.

The housemaid let me in without a word, and pointed down the hall.

My father's study was at the back of the house.

I had never been allowed to knock on that door as a child.

I knocked now.

"Come," he said.

He sat behind the big oak desk in his shirtsleeves, with a stack of papers and a cold cup of coffee.

He looked older than he had on Thursday.

He did not stand.

I set the laptop on the desk and opened it.

"Hall camera," I said.

"Fourth of June, five years ago. Four-oh-nine in the morning."

His face did not change.

That was the worst part.

He didn't ask what I meant.

"Turn it off," he said.

"I haven't turned it on."

"Kerensa."

It was the first time in five years he had said my name to my face.

I had imagined that moment so many times.

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