“Monica,” he whispered.
He had shared parts of his secret with her during their walks. Not everything, but small fragments. It had felt good. And he hoped it had given her something, a feeling of trust, perhaps. But mainly it had helped him. And now she was going to disappear? Unless she already had? He needed her…as the bearer of his guilt.
So Tommy began to explain in graphic detail to his dead wife how he had shot, strangled, and murdered people around him, then talked about his self-awareness and self-control, seeing as he had managed to stop drinking all on his own. After that it just kept coming. Tommy talked about his view of life. Lots of truths, they just kept coming, they sounded good. They made him sure that everything he had done was right, and that he had to keep going along the same path.
And Monica seemed to agree with him, because she didn’t say anything, just sat there listening and concentrating, keeping her eyes on a single point.
Then Tommy cried, lots of heavy tears, his body shaking as he wept. He was crying because he was free. It felt so good….
Tommy let go of Monica’s cold, stiff hand, and called to report his wife’s death.
Some uniformed colleagues arrived, went through the routine for suicides, passed on their condolences. The paramedics waited until they were done, then came into the kitchen and carried her out to the ambulance.
Tommy watched them drive away. Then he packed all of Monica’s clothes and belongings into some moving boxes and carried them down to the basement. There, in his little office, his refuge, his hiding place, he looked at his desk. Piles of papers; it looked messy.
He began to tidy up, organize, sort things….It was mostly to do with his surveillance of things that could come back and bite him, expose him. So Tommy looked at it a different way. He started to investigate himself, like the brilliant detective he was. He looked at it all from every angle, to see how the intense events of recent weeks could be traced back to him. Only then could he block the holes. And once again, Tommy was surprised by his own skill, both as a detective and as a perpetrator.
He worked, wrote, sketched…evaluated risk. Two names leaped out at him. Miles Ingmarsson and Sophie Brinkmann. Otherwise he was untouchable.
He was going to make it, he was going to put a stop to this, he would work hard, always one step ahead, and be seriously goddamn dangerous. Tommy felt strong…invincible.
Miles was waiting in the arrivals hall at Prague Airport. He saw her walking toward him. His brother Ian by her side, pulling a case. She was wearing a shawl, sunglasses, a scarf. But it wasn’t enough. The recent operations to her face were clearly visible.
She speeded up as she got closer to him, crept into his embrace, and stayed there. They stood like that for a long while. Ian waited at a distance.
“Now we’re together,” Sanna said.
He pulled out of the embrace and looked at her.
“It’ll heal,” she whispered. “The doctor said so.”
He patted her gently on the cheek.
Ian walked over.
“Hello, Miles,” he said.
“Hello, Ian.”
Miles looked at his younger brother and thought he must have grown a meter or so since he last saw him, in terms of his character at least. There was a sort of honesty to him, a stability. As if he had stopped trying to hide his poor self-esteem, and had thereby got rid of it.
“Thanks for all your help, Ian,” Miles said.
Ian shrugged, as if to say that he didn’t know what Miles meant. But Miles was serious. Ian had worked tirelessly on everything Miles had asked him to do. First on protecting Sanna at the hospital. And now he had accompanied her here, had even bought new clothes for her so she’d feel she looked OK. Now he was going to turn around and fly home again.
Ian hugged Sanna, then held his hand out to Miles.
Before Miles took it, he said, “I hope we’ll soon be able to sit down, the two of us, and just eat, drink, and talk.”
“About what?”
“About nothing,” Miles said.
“I hope so too.”
Miles shook his hand. Ian smiled, turned around, and walked away.
—
They ate together in their shared home, the apartment in Prague.
Sophie, Albert, Mikhail, Miles, and Sanna. There were two empty places. That was what they had agreed. Lothar and Jens would sit there again. No one knew when, but that wasn’t the point.
Sophie looked at the people eating, drinking, and talking to one another.
She was starting to recognize Albert again. He was talking, wanted to understand, wanted to know what was going on. She had told him everything, without any evasion, without softening or glossing over anything. It had been hard. But he had demanded it of her. He had demanded her honesty, not so much for his own sake as for hers. And it had been a relief…like the start of her own process of accepting herself for who she was, and of getting better.
The same applied to everyone around the table. It was as if that was their tacit understanding: to get better, each one of them on their own terms. Because they had each chosen to.
Miles looked radiant, in a way Sophie liked. Sanna was good for him. She was aware, honest, wise, and warm, and created harmony around her. And Mikhail, he was more and more human with each passing day. But perhaps he always had been.
But they were also sitting there for a reason that none of them had any power over. They were all hunted, with death constantly lying in wait around the corner. None of them was free.
And none of them could simply accept that. They were going to fight for their survival. For their freedom.
Albert was sitting on the other side of the table from her. He laughed at something Miles was saying.
His laughter was infectious, and she started laughing too.
Thanks to my editor, Zachary Wagman, editorial genius, friend, and advocate; Molly Stern and the brilliant team at Crown; Elizabeth Foley, Alison Hennessey, and everyone at Harvill Secker; Neil Smith, translator extraordinaire; and all of my dedicated publishers around the world. Finally, gratitude to all the inspiring authors and storytellers out there.
The Other Son Page 36