“My dad wants to meet you,” Gina said, nervously biting the inside of her cheek. She was so unsure of how Peter would react to the request that she’d taken an eternity to say anything. But now they were almost there, and she had finally managed to spit out those difficult words. She had avoided all the questions at home for as long as she could, but that couldn’t go on forever. This was tricky. She was a grown woman. Could a Swede understand how important her father’s opinion was to her? They had such different customs, the Swedes; they identified first and foremost as individuals. In many respects, she was, of course, Swedish. But not in all. To her, family came first, and being an individual would always be subordinate to that.

“I guess he wants to see the man who’s driving his daughter home,” Peter said.

“I told him we were friends,” Gina said. She gave him a quick look.

He nodded. “Okay.”

What would her dad say if they met? Peter was much older than she. And her father hadn’t looked happy when she’d told him about the man at work—one of her bosses—who drove her home.

She played with her purse. She had few, no, zero Swedish friends. She barely knew how to spend time with one, beyond the commonplace: work, studies, student bars.

If they stepped out of the car together, if Peter followed her up, into her world, everything would change.

She had never brought anyone home, not a friend, definitely not a boyfriend. Not that Peter was a boyfriend, she reminded herself, embarrassed. But what was their relationship, exactly? Could they even be friends? People always talked about differences being good, but no matter where Gina looked, she saw conformity. White people spent time with other white people, and the middle and upper class socialized with one another, enjoying cultural discussion and fine wines. And in Tensta, her home, you saw nothing but immigrants. Was there anywhere outside Peter’s luxury car that their relationship could work? Was it wise to burst the bubble? What would happen when the world around them started to pay attention?

Peter pulled up in a parking lot, not outside her door.

“I’ll come up with you,” he said.

“Alright,” she replied, her mouth immediately dry. She pulled at the safety belt. It wouldn’t come loose. “I’m stuck,” she said.

“Let me see.” He leaned over her, his head grazing her breasts, and she froze, overwhelmed by a feeling she couldn’t identify.

“There.” He undid the belt. They looked at each other.

“Thanks,” she said. We should get out of the car, she thought. Should stop staring at one another. She blinked slowly.

“Gina …” he began uncertainly.

She touched his cheek, felt his rough stubble and his warmth. He took a deep breath, unmoving, as though he had frozen. He didn’t look happy, more uncertain.

He looked away.

“We should …” he said, and moved so her hand fell down. “You shouldn’t …”

She swallowed. Didn’t know what had come over her.

“Sorry,” she said.

“Nothing to apologize for,” he said as he opened his door and hurried out of the car. He came round to open her door. Gina stepped out, made a big deal of straightening her clothes, checking that her purse was closed. She hadn’t meant anything, it was as if her hand had just moved by itself. She knew that if she raised her hand to her nose, the smell of his aftershave would be there.

“Are you coming up?” she eventually said, still embarrassed by his reaction. He must have thought it was totally improper.

Peter looked up at the tower block.

“Yeah,” he said curtly.

* * *

Peter was silent in the worn elevator that carried them upward in the gray apartment building. His gaze wandered; he looked down at the tips of his shoes, ridiculously well polished and shining in the flickering strip light. He glanced up, could sense Gina’s body warmth in the small space, but didn’t dare look straight at her. The numbers on some of the buttons had rubbed off, and someone had sprayed paint over the mirror. What did it say about him as a person, that he’d never set foot in an elevator like this before?

He didn’t know what to think about what had happened in the car. He ran a hand through his hair, sweating, wishing he was wearing anything other than a tailor-made suit.

He was going to meet her father, a man for whom Gina had a huge amount of respect. A man he desperately wanted to approve of him, even though he didn’t quite know why.

“Gina …” he started, wanting to leave, to …

The elevator stopped, and the window of escape was gone.

“We’re here,” she said.

He waited behind her as she opened the door. She stepped to the side. He paused, but then went into the dark hallway. What was he doing? Why was he here, in this hallway, full of unfamiliar smells and other people’s private lives?

“Dad?” Gina called. She sounded nervous and his own nervousness skyrocketed. “We have a visitor.”

A well-built, slightly stooped man came toward them down the dark hallway.

“Dad?” Gina’s nervous voice again. “This is Peter. From work, you know? He gave me a ride home. He does sometimes, like I told you. He wanted to come up and say hi.”

Peter had never heard her babble like this. Nervous, slightly shrill. And she wasn’t quite telling the truth. He wasn’t the one who had wanted to come up. He would’ve been happy simply to drive away. Not starting to get complicated feelings, to be drawn into her family life. He fought a wave of panic and then found strength in the upbringing that had been drummed into him, more or less literally, since he was a child. He held out a hand and said, calmly and assertively, as though he was talking to a customer or an employee: “Good to meet you. Peter De la Grip.”

Her father flicked a switch and the hall grew marginally brighter.

Peter could see posters and photographs on the walls. Mail and shoes and jackets in compartments and on hooks. A few closed doors and a kitchen at the far end of the hallway. That was all: It was a small apartment, would practically fit into his living room.

Dark, apprehensive eyes looked at him, steadily. Gina’s father had a severe face. Gray hair. Slippers and a cardigan, but a presence filled with quiet strength. Just when Peter started to feel like an idiot, standing there with his hand outstretched, Gina’s father reached out and took it.

“Ismail Adan,” he said.

Peter managed not to jump, managed to hold back a grimace of pain, but the man’s grip was like a stone crusher. This was a man who had fled war and terror, survived hardships Peter could never imagine. A man who had taken his two young children, left his homeland, and somehow made it here in one piece, to Sweden, a country that probably didn’t always treat him too decently.

“Thank you for driving my daughter home so many times,” he said, eventually letting go. He spoke with an accent, but grammatically his Swedish was perfect. Gina had talked about how hard he’d studied to learn the new language as an adult.

His dark eyes didn’t leave Peter for a second, and Peter could feel himself being evaluated and judged; he had never felt so out of place in all of his life. Gina didn’t know her father’s age, but Peter guessed the man in front of him was younger than fifty in any case. That meant Peter was closer in age to Gina’s father than he was to Gina. As though he needed more reasons to feel like a creep. Christ, what did this man think of him? He stood up straight, tried to look reliable, not like an older white man with dubious intentions.

“How is Amir?” Gina asked, breaking the deadlock.

“It’s late,” said her father. “Your brother needs help with his homework. There’s food in the kitchen. Eat,” he added before he left them by opening a door and disappearing into what seemed to be a small living room.

Gina bit her lip and gave Peter a slight smile. “He likes you,” she said.

Peter almost burst out laughing, it was such a blatant lie.

“I noticed,” he said, managing to not wipe sweat from his forehead.

But he had done it. He had met Gina’s father and survived.

“I’ll go down with you,” she said.

They were standing in front of the elevator when she said quietly, “Can I ask you something?”

Peter nodded and held the elevator door open for her.

“You can say if you don’t want to talk about it.”

“Ask whatever you like.”

“What you did last summer. To your family. To your business? Why did you vote against your father at the shareholders’ meeting? It felt like you sabotaged your life completely. You could have taken over after him if your family still held control, couldn’t you? I’m sorry, but I just don’t understand.”

He was silent. Had had a feeling the question might come up, felt dread.

“It had to do with something that happened when I was young,” he eventually said.

She was dressed in a thin, striped cardigan, and pulled it tight around her against the cold wind. “What?”

“Do you ever feel afraid of me?” he asked quietly. “When it’s just the two of us, I mean.”

She shook her head. “No, not at all.”

“Maybe you should.”

An uncertain expression passed over her face. “It can’t be that bad, can it?”

It could. And it was.

“I raped a girl when I was young,” he said, bracing himself.

Gina put a hand to her mouth.

That’s it, it’s over now, he thought with the deepest sense of regret he’d ever felt.

She stared at him from behind her hand, and he hated the fear he could see deep in her eyes. It seemed as though she had taken a step back, but maybe it was his imagination.

“What I did last summer, it was a way of putting things right.” How much should he explain? That he had sunk the family business through his vote as a way to atone for things his father had done. Things he had done. Horrible things. Unspeakable things.

“And did it?” she asked. “Put things right?”

“I thought so, for a while. The girl I hurt … she forgave me. We don’t have any direct contact, but we do bump into one another from time to time.”

Gina didn’t say a thing. He continued.

“And what I’m telling you now, it needs to stay between us.”

Her breathing was shallow. He could see she was fighting shock, and he was waiting for her to turn on her heel and run.

“Alright,” she eventually said.

“It was David Hammar’s little sister.”

She frowned as if to try to make sense of it. “Carolina?”

“It was a long time ago, when we were young. It was at school. I went to a boarding school.” It was a good school. Famous for fostering leaders and educating the elite. And also infamous for its hazing. He wished he could say he had taken no part. But he had. First he had been bullied. Then he had become the bully. David Hammar had been at the school. On a scholarship. A poor and working-class boy. With a single mom. And a young sister. Peter ran a hand across his face. Christ, this was hard.

“Carolina was fifteen. Some friends and I went to her house. The night ended with her being raped and badly abused. By us. By me. My father hushed it all up. I thought that she’d died, and I lived with that guilt for years, more than half my life, until I found out she wasn’t dead at all.” His entire life summed up in a few sentences.

“I don’t know what to say,” she whispered. He didn’t blame her.

“I raped a young girl. But there is more.”

“More?”

“Yes. David, her brother, tried to bring charges. We beat him, threatened him. It was all hushed up, too. Also by my father. I’m not trying to share the blame. I take full responsibility for what I did. But it explains why I voted against my dad and for David. I wanted to do something to atone for my deeds.”

“But why did you do it?”

“The rape? I really wish I had a good answer. I’ve never been a strong person, I guess. I was weak. And angry—at my dad. At everyone that seemed happy. That’s not an excuse, because there is no excuse for it, but when I try to understand what happened, those are the two things that come up. But I don’t expect you to understand. Because it is beyond understanding.” Beyond forgiveness.

“How old were you?”

He thought back to that fall. His memories of that evening were vague, with only occasional clear moments. “I wish I could say I was a kid, but I’d just turned eighteen.” Carolina was just a small, young girl. Brutalized by a group of teenage boys. He still couldn’t think about it without wanting to die.

“That’s awful.”

“Beyond awful. So, anyway, that’s why I voted for Hammar Capital and their takeover last summer. Because it gave me a chance to somehow, in some small way, atone for what I did to Carolina and her family. My father has refused to speak to me since, but I still think it was the right decision.” He had lost his wife, his position, his mansion. He had often wished there were more he could do or lose, because somehow it just wasn’t enough. Well, it looked like his prayers were going to be answered, because now he would lose Gina.

Gina looked at him as though he were a stranger, and he thought to himself that this was just the price he had to pay, over and over again, for what he’d done. He knew he deserved it, but it hurt so much that he suddenly started to have trouble continuing the conversation. He almost wished Gina would run away so that he could go home and just give up for good.

“How is she? Carolina?”

“She’s actually really well. She’s engaged. You can’t ever get over something like that, I know that. But she really seems to have left it behind her.” In the midst of so much that was unbearable, that was a comfort. That Carolina Hammar seemed genuinely happy.

“Unlike you?”

“I guess.”

He wished he hadn’t stayed, hadn’t gone up with her. Then the question might not have come up just yet. Family was so important to Gina, it was natural for her to wonder about the relationships in his life. He just wished it hadn’t happened yet.

“Gina, I can see that you’re shocked. You can ask me whatever you want. How do you feel about what I said? I understand if you …” He fell silent, couldn’t bear to say the words. That he knew she wouldn’t want anything more to do with him.

She frowned and worried her lower lip. She dragged the toe of her shoe on the asphalt.

“Rape is a terrible thing. I feel shocked, of course, like you said.” She fell silent. She still avoided looking at him. “And I’m so sorry. It’s a dreadful story. Poor, poor Carolina.” More silence. Peter’s hands were sweating, the lump in his throat almost impossible to swallow.

“You know, in my country … things you could barely imagine here in Sweden happen,” she continued, finally looking up to meet his gaze. Her eyes were impossible to read. But she didn’t look as shocked anymore, just endlessly sad. “So many women’s lives are ruined. By rape. Abuse. Mutilation.”

“Yes,” he said, swallowing and swallowing. He had ruined Carolina’s life. He knew that.

“But Peter, I also know that you can get over it, just like you can get over any other violent crime. Do you know if Carolina got help?”

“She saw a therapist. She said she was well. That she’s left it all behind her. And her brother does everything he can for her. He dotes on her.”

“I’ve met David Hammar. He’s, uh … impressive.”

Despite the mood, Peter cracked a laugh. Understatement of the century.

“I wish I could go back and undo it all,” he said.

“But you can’t. No one can.”

“No.”

“Sorry I brought it up. It must be hard to talk about.”

“I assume there’ll be consequences.”

“For what?”

“Us.”

“Yeah, I guess so. I probably need to do some thinking.”

“I understand,” he said, his hope crumbling. He understood her.

She pulled her cardigan more tightly around her. “I have to go.”

“Of course.”

“Good night.”

He wanted to reach out, say something to stop whatever it was they had from falling apart. But there was nothing, so he made do with a quiet, “Good night, Gina.”