A Nearly Normal Family(18)

She looked at me like I was nothing but a dumb pastor.

“This is the kind of thing lawyers do.”

“But isn’t it enough to prove that Stella is innocent? What if a different innocent person ends up in a fix? She’s been assaulted and raped, and now—”

Ulrika stood up.

“This is Stella we’re talking about. Our daughter is locked up in a jail cell!”

She was right, of course. Nothing was more important than getting Stella out as soon as possible. I drank the rest of my whiskey and walked over to the woodstove. When I opened its glass door, the heat flew up into my face and I had to wait a moment before jabbing the poker into the ash, sending it whirling. Curls of smoke swirled up around my head.

“Do you love me?” I asked without looking at Ulrika.

“Why, honey, of course I do.” She reached for me and touched the back of my neck. “You and Stella, I love you both above everything else.”

“I love you too.”

“This is a nightmare,” she said. “I’ve never felt so powerless.”

I sat down and put my arm around her.

“Whatever happens, we have to stick together.”

We kissed.

“What if she…,” I said against Ulrika’s cheek. “Do you think she might…”

Ulrika recoiled.

“Don’t think like that!”

“I know. But … her blouse.”

I had to know what had happened to it. Ulrika must have taken the top. And if so, she would definitely have noticed the stains; they were impossible to miss.

“What do you mean?” she said.

“The stains on her blouse,” I said.

“What stains?”

She looked at me as if I were delirious.

Hadn’t she moved the blouse? If not, the police must have found it. My heart was pounding as Ulrika placed her hand on my arm.

“We know Stella was home when that man died.”

And she left it at that.





18


I didn’t get a wink of sleep on Monday night. My mind went round and round. What had Stella done?

I vacuumed, scrubbed the floor, and cleaned the kitchen cabinets until I was dripping with sweat and feeling more and more bewildered. Frightened of my own thoughts. Stella, my little girl. What kind of father was I, to breathe even a whisper of doubt about her innocence? The oxygen caught in my throat like phlegm and I had to go out to the garden to fill my lungs with fresh air.

Ulrika had shut herself into her office. Several hours later I found her asleep, her head between her arms on the desk. Next to her was an empty bottle of wine and a glass that was still half full. I gently stroked her hair, inhaled the scent from her nape, and left her to sleep on.

The next morning I sank down at the kitchen table, exhausted. I began to flip through the paper and came face-to-face with a picture of the playground where Christopher Olsen had died. Had Stella been there on Friday night? Had she … Why? I shook off my thoughts and went up to see Ulrika.

“I’m going to go there. I want to see it with my own eyes.”

“See what?”

“The spot. The playground.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea at all,” Ulrika said. “It’s best for us to stay as far away from everything as we can.”

Instead I looked around on the internet.

Thus far there was only limited information about the murder, but it was clearly only a matter of time, probably just hours, before people would be posting about it in forums, before it would be chatter on social media. Stella would in all certainty be stamped as guilty. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire, people would say. The gossip would be extra delicious given that a pastor’s daughter was involved.

The power to condemn belongs to the people, no matter the opinion of the legal system, and the court of popular opinion hardly has the same evidentiary requirements as a court of law. I have only to look at myself. How many times have I felt doubt when a suspect is freed for lack of evidence?

I kept googling, but words and images were not enough. I needed to see it with my own eyes, stand at the center of it.



* * *



I didn’t tell Ulrika where I was going. She seemed so certain that Stella had nothing to do with what had happened. I climbed into the car with my chest constricting.

My phone rang when I was halfway into town; the screen told me it was Dino.

“The police questioned Amina. I’m not happy that she is being dragged into this.”

His words came quickly, and there was an unusual harshness to his voice.

“What did they ask about?” I wondered aloud, but Dino wasn’t listening.

“What if word gets out at the medical school that Amina is involved in a murder investigation? That won’t look good.”

“Dino, stop! My daughter is suspected of murder! Amina isn’t the one we should be feeling sorry for here.”

He abruptly fell silent.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry, I just don’t want anything bad to happen to Amina because of something … something she has nothing to do with.”

Naturally, he didn’t mean any offense. Tact and discretion are not Dino’s strong suits. I can’t even count all the times I’ve had to smooth things over after one of his hasty reactions or harangues on the handball court. But this time I was under stress as well. To say the least.