Page 286 of These Tears

Her teeth work around something indecent, but she holds it in and takes the letter from me before stepping aside.

As I come in, I meet Anders’ eyes. He looks promptly down at his hands, rubbing one thumb over his palm as if the guilt might be scrubbed from the skin.

Markus moves before anyone else can. He stops in front of me and keeps his eyes on the floor, searching for the right words as if they might magically appear if he looked hard enough.

A rush of Norwegian comes at me. I can only untangle the first few words of apology. The rest reaches me when he lowers his head and cautiously extends one hand between us, leaving enough distance for me to refuse it.

‘He’s apologising for the Hunt,’ Henrik clarifies by the kitchen counter, where he’s propped with the signature lumberjack frame of the Nielsen-Halvorsen line.

I glance up at Markus, let him stew for a beat, then finally place my hand in his.

His cold fingers close around mine with almost painful care. I squeeze once in return. When he finally looks up, I give the bridge of his nose a gentle tap to underline the settled score – the same nose Elias nearly broke for donning the mask and dragging me into the Hunt.

A faint, uncertain, slightly mortified smile touches his mouth.

‘We’re all right,’ I tell him, hoping he understands the tone, at least. I try it also in Norwegian as best as I can, ‘Det er bra.’

Finally, Inga hands me back my letter with an uncertain expression, and we move into the sitting room where truths and lies await like burning kindling threatening to overtake the space.

And I tell them.

Not everything, just filtered things about the flight, Sindre, the way I woke in the cabin, how what happened between Elias and me changed after all that. Details remain in the dark and in my heart.

Sunna does not move. Neither does Anders. They sit with the same kind of stillness that runs in their nephew, as if every word has to be allowed to land softly before anyone is permitted to breathe again.

Inga?

Not still.

During my monologue, her mouth tightens. When I talk about the cabin, her arms uncross. Sindre’s confession has her glaring daggers.

Henrik folds his arms across his chest and leans back against the wall, jaw working as if he can chew the truth into something easier to swallow. Not only does he look like Inga’s twin despite being two years older, but now he’s also fashioning the glower endemic to Sunna’s side of the family.

And it makes sense. He probably understood only half of what I said. The half he did understand is enough: he has been in our house, watching us smile at him while all of this sat underneath it.

When I finish, the room has gone so quiet even Brute’s breathing sounds too loud.

Inga opens her mouth, but her mother takes her hand and offers a weak, warning smile.

Anders lowers himself into the armchair as though his knees have failed him. ‘Past forty, a man should be settled enough to think about the years ahead – surrounded by those he loves and who love him, doing things that make his life complete.’

The sentiment takes over the space with a weight no one tries to lift.

He sighs. ‘But Jakob never had that,’ Anders continues quietly. ‘Some men—’ He taps Olle’s shoulder as his son drags a chair up to sit beside him. ‘Grow into life. He had to fight for it. One lets a man become soft where he should be soft, the other teaches him to raise his guard in every gentle place. We can’t be surprised he does not know how to hold love without first mistaking it for something hidden, guarded or taken.’

‘You are not at fault for what he chose to do.’ Sunna takes over as she glances at me. The room softens at the sound of her voice. ‘Nor for what you came to feel afterwards. In truth, we are his family. We should have done better.’

‘Done what better?’ Inga complains.

‘Every man must follow his own path,’ Anders says.

‘Excuse me,’ I interrupt, rubbing the spot at my temple that’s begun to ache. ‘That is all very deep. And true,’ I admit. My eyes lock with Anders’. ‘That doesn’t change the fact that if you’d given me the letter in time, Elias might still be here.’

‘He would not,’ Anders argues.

‘You shouldn’t have even taken the letter from him!’ Inga snaps to her feet. ‘You shouldn’t have agreed to be a part of his self-destruction at all!’

‘He told me to wait seven days,’ Anders rumbles with a stern frown. ‘He wanted enough time that you could not follow.’