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“Mamma.”

“No.”

She lets it go faster than she would have a year ago, and I notice that too.

“You drew the truck.”

“It was supposed to be a still life.”

“It is one.”

She shrugs, pleased, and tries not to be.

“You put the vent the wrong way,” I say.

“I didn’t.”

“It is turned toward the passenger seat.”

“Because you always turn it toward me.”

I reach across and turn it toward her.

Then I take us home.

Chapter thirty-two

Colt

The house sounds wrong without Tova in it.

Not empty. Empty would be easier.

Her shoes are still under the bench by the garage because apparently Sweden has shoes. A purple cup is upside down beside the sink. One of her hoodies has been hanging over a dining chair since the morning she left, even though Astrid told her twice to take it upstairs.

Astrid notices it the second night.

“You know that belongs in her room.”

“I do.”

“You are leaving it there.”

“Looks like it.”

She studies me from the kitchen doorway. “Why?”

I consider lying.

“Chair looked wrong without it.”

Her expression softens before she catches it.

She leaves the hoodie where it is.

Ruth comes on Thursday and cleans around it.

I know because the chair is pushed in, the table is clear, and the hoodie is exactly where it was with one sleeve hanging down.