Emilie Isaksen was driving along Ringvollveien. She was new to this area—she’d lived in Hønefoss less than twelve months—and it suddenly struck her that she was taking a roundabout route. Emilie Isaksen taught Norwegian, and several of her pupils lived around here, a few kilometers outside the town center. She shifted down to second gear and turned off onto Gjermundboveien.
Emilie Isaksen had known that she wanted to be a teacher from the moment she started college. She found work right after completing her teacher training, and she had enjoyed her job from day one. Several of the teachers at the school had given her advice when she first started, and they meant well—how important it was to look after yourself, not take your work home with you, don’t get too close to the pupils—but that wasn’t the way Emilie did things. And that explained why she was in her car now.
Tobias Iversen.
She had noticed him from the first lesson, a good-looking, gangly boy with alert eyes. But something was wrong. Something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. He was well liked, so popularity wasn’t the issue. She hadn’t grasped the problem initially, but it came to her in time. His mother never attended Parents’ Evenings. Neither did his stepfather. They didn’t reply to letters. They didn’t answer their phone. She was quite simply unable to contact them. And then she’d started noticing the bruises. To his face. His hands. She didn’t teach PE, so she hadn’t seen his body, but she suspected that he was bruised all over. She’d had a quick word with his PE teacher, but he was the old-fashioned type. Kids fall down and they get hurt. Especially unruly boys—what was she implying? She’d tried to question Tobias tactfully. Was he all right? How were things at home? Tobias had refused to open up, but she saw it in his eyes. Something was not right. There might be teachers who were prepared to overlook something like this, who didn’t want to get involved—the sanctity of the home and all that—but Emilie Isaksen was not one of them.
Tobias hadn’t been to school for a week. She had tried calling his home, but there’d been no reply. She’d asked around, discreetly, and discovered that his younger brother hadn’t been to school either. She had spoken to the school counselor without mentioning any names but asking for guidance. What was the policy? What action should she take? She’d been given rather vague messages; no one had wanted to tell her exactly what to do unless she had proof. You had to tread carefully. Emilie Isaksen had heard it all before, but she refused to let herself be put off. What harm could a visit do? She just wanted to drop off some homework. Have a quick chat with his mother. Perhaps arrange a meeting with his parents. There was no reason that meeting couldn’t take place in Tobias’s home if his mother found it difficult to leave the house. Unorthodox perhaps, but Emilie had made up her mind that it was worth the risk. She was going to be polite. She was not going to accuse anyone of anything. She was only trying to help. It would be fine. Perhaps they had gone away on holiday without asking the school if they could take the boys out. Perhaps both boys were ill; there’d been a spring bug going around the school, among both pupils and teachers. There could be so many reasons.
She drove up the old Ringvollveien until she found the address. “Address” might be an exaggeration, since it was just a lane that led deeper into the forest. A mailbox at the bottom of the road said IVERSEN & FRANK. She decided to leave her car there and walk the last stretch up to the house. The house was red and small and surrounded by other, even smaller buildings. A long time ago, it might have been a nice little cottage, but now the whole place was more of a junkyard. There were several rusting cars sitting about and piles of what she would call junk in several places. She walked up to the front door and knocked. There was no reply. She knocked again and heard a noise from the other side. The door opened, and a small, filthy face appeared.
“Hello?” the little boy said.
“Hi,” Emilie said, bending down so as not to tower over him. “Are you Torben?”
The little boy nodded. He had jam smeared around his mouth, and his hands were grubby.
“My name is Emilie, I’m Tobias’s teacher. Perhaps you’ve heard about me?”
The boy nodded again.
“He likes you,” Torben said, scratching his head.
“That’s nice. I’m looking for Tobias? Is he at home?”
“No,” the little boy said.
“Is your mother or your stepfather at home?”
“No,” the little boy said again.
She could hear that he was almost on the verge of tears.
“So are you home alone?”
The boy nodded. “There’s no more food,” he said sadly.
“How long have you been home alone?”
“I don’t know.”
“How many nights has it been? How many times did it get dark?”
The little boy thought about it. “Six or seven,” he said.
Emilie Isaksen could feel herself getting angry, but she decided not to show it. “Have you any idea where Tobias might be?”
“He’s with the Christian girls.”
“Where is that?”
“Up in the woods, by Litjønna. That’s where we hunt bison. I’m really good at it.”
“I’m sure you are. I bet that’s fun. How do you know that’s where he is?”
“He wrote me a note and left it in our secret hiding place.”
“You have a secret hiding place?”
The boy smiled faintly. “Yes, we’re the only ones who know about it.”
“How exciting. Please, can I see the note?”
“Yes. Would you like to come in?”
Emilie considered her options. Technically, she was not allowed. She could not enter someone’s home without permission. She glanced around. There was no sign of the adults anywhere. The little boy had been home alone for almost a week, and there was no food in the house. Surely that was reasonable cause.
“Yes, please.” Emilie Isaksen smiled and followed the little boy into the house.