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had built an entire future on boundless self-confidence; Isak started a dot-com company before most people even knew what they were and had had the sense to sell it in time. Now he enjoyed playing around with a computer for a few hours every day, he sailed in regattas half the year, and helped the Salvation Army to look for missing persons in his spare time.
    Johanne had fallen in love with the way he embraced the world with laughter, the shrug of his shoulders when things got a bit complicated that made him so different and attractive to her.
    And then along came Kristiane. The first years were swallowed up by three heart operations, sleepless nights, and anxiety. When they finally woke up from their first night of uninterrupted sleep, it was too late. They limped on together for another year in some semblance of marriage. A two-week family stay at the National Center for Child and Adolescent Psychiatry in a futile attempt to find a diagnosis for Kristiane had resulted in them separating, if not exactly as friends, at least with a relatively intact mutual respect.
    They never found a diagnosis. Kristiane wandered around in her own little world and the doctors shook their heads. Autistic, perhaps, they said, then frowned at the child’s obvious ability to develop emotional attachments and her great need for physical contact. Does it matter? Isak asked. The child is fine and the child is ours and I don’t give a shit what’s wrong with her. He didn’t understand how much it mattered to find a diagnosis. To make arrangements for her. To make it possible for Kristiane to achieve her full potential.
    He was so damn irresponsible.
    The problem was that he never had accepted that he was the father of a mentally handicapped child.
    Isak glanced back in the mirror. Johanne looked older now. Tired. She took everything so seriously. He desperately wanted to suggest that Kristiane could live with him all the time, not just every other week like now. He could see it every time: when he handed Kristiane back after a week, Johanne was in a good mood and rested. When he picked up his daughter the following Sunday, Johanne was gray, drawn, and impatient. And it wasn’t good for Kristiane. Nor was the perpetual round of specialists and self-appointed experts. Surely it wasn’t that important to find out what was wrong with the child. The main thing was that her heart functioned properly, she ate well, and was happy. His daughter was happy. Isak was sure of that.
    Johanne had been grown up too long. Before, before Kristiane, it had been attractive. Sexy. Johanne’s ambition. The way she always took everything so seriously. Her plans. Her efficiency. He had fallen head over heels for her mature determination, her admirable progress in her studies, her work at the university.
    Then along came Kristiane.
    He loved that child. She was his child. There was nothing wrong with Kristiane. She wasn’t like other children, but she was herself. That was all she needed to be. All the specialists’ opinions on what was actually wrong with the child were irrelevant. But not for Johanne. She always had to get to the bottom of everything.
    She was so damn responsible.
    The problem was that she had never accepted that she was the mother of a mentally handicapped child.

T EN

    D etective Inspector Adam Stubo looked like a football player. He was stocky, obviously overweight, and not much more than average height. The extra pounds were evenly distributed over his shoulders, neck, and thighs. His rib cage was bursting out of his white shirt. There were two metal tubes in the pocket above his heart. Before she realized they were cigar cases, Johanne Vik thought that the man actually went around with ammunition in his pocket.
    He had sent a car for her. It was the first time that anyone had sent a car for Johanne Vik. She was very uncomfortable about it and had asked him not to. She could take the metro. She could take a taxi. Certainly not, insisted