MY DAD WAS A MAN WHO could name every plant and flower, a man who never raised his voice, a man who loved wandering among forests—allegations of wrongdoing didn’t hang easily off him. My mum sensed my hesitation and responded to it with impressive sensitivity:
You mistrust that word?
Villain.
You think it sounds unreal?
Villains are real. They walk among us. You can find them on any street, in any community, in any home—on any farm.
What is a villain? They’re people who will stop at nothing in the pursuit of their desires. I know of no other word to describe the man I have in mind.
In this satchel is some of the evidence I’ve collected over the summer. There was more but this was all I could smuggle out of Sweden in such a rush. It makes sense to address each article of evidence in chronological order, starting with this—