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FOUR YEARS AGO
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THREE YEARS AGO
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THREE YEARS AGO
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THREE YEARS AGO
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THREE YEARS AGO
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THREE YEARS AGO
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THREE YEARS AGO
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TWO YEARS AGO
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TWO DAYS LATER
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
In a universe of infinite possibilities, the only constant is love.
—Henri Thibault, PhD
TWO YEARS AGO
In the quiet moments since his world was shattered, Jonas Cullen would reflect that fate had a sense of humor, which wasn’t exactly a quality he associated with a supernatural power—nor, for that matter, was an appreciation of irony. But both were applicable in ways that alternated between comedic and tragic. In the midnight hours, when sleep refused to come, he’d think back on that night, which started off as the best of his life—filled with milestones he had aspired to only in dreams—yet ended as the worst, the stuff of nightmares.
He had stood backstage at Aula Magna, the largest auditorium at Sweden’s Stockholm University, cracking his knuckles against his rising anxiety. His wife, Amanda, had never managed to cure him of the fixation, but he found the habit oddly calming, the bones of his hands giving way with a series of satisfying pops, like kernels of corn or plastic packaging bubbles, as he imagined his stress evaporating into the air.
The Aula Magna was built deep into the ground, which served to hide its massive size. Outside, visible beyond its glass facade, old oaks rose from the ground like giants, their limbs burdened with tufts of snow. The night sky was black silk festooned with diamonds.
The building had been designed by Ralph Erskine, a British architect who had lived in Sweden for most of his life. The Aula Magna wasn’t the first project that Erskine had undertaken for Stockholm University, but it was the last one completed before his death. Jonas felt that that piece of trivia lent the building an air of pathos. So appropriate, he thought, that a great man’s final achievement should serve as the site to mark the achievements of other men and women.
The speech that Jonas had labored over to acknowledge his own accomplishment pressed against him: four single-spaced pages, triple folded to fit inside the pocket of his tuxedo jacket. He told himself he didn’t need them. He could almost recite the entire thing from memory. His subject was a topic to which he had devoted the previous three years of his life. To expound on it, he reassured himself, was like describing walking or breathing or seeing. And yet his heart punched at the confines of his chest, and his hands felt clammy, and his stomach cursed the glass of champagne he had been convinced to drink at the party held in his honor less than three hours earlier.
For the umpteenth time, Jonas reminded himself that he was comfortable speaking in public. The life of a college professor required at least one lecture a day. But this was no ordinary lecture, and those in attendance weren’t his students. This was the most important speech he would ever give in his life.
Consequently, his tuxedo felt three sizes too small, as confining as a straitjacket. The starched collar grated against his throat. His tie felt like a noose. Even the patent leather shoes were punishing him for anxiously shifting his weight from one foot to the other and back again. Jonas found himself running out of ways to calm his nerves and wished for another glass of champagne—or two—despite the protestations of his gut.
He cracked his knuckles again, working one hand with the other, kneading it like dough.
“Stop that. You’ll give yourself arthritis.”
He turned to see Amanda approaching. She looked resplendent in her evening gown, the creation of some designer Jonas couldn’t name even upon pain of death. His wife had no interest in high fashion, but they had both been amused by the offer of free couture. The gown—which was truly a work of art—could be mistaken for the reason she appeared so radiant tonight, but Jonas knew better. There was something different about her that would have come across even if she’d been wearing a baggy sweat suit. She had a glow that was independent of her wardrobe. At thirty-four, Amanda Cullen could hardly be considered old, but this evening she seemed as though—while Jonas had been swilling champagne—she had sipped from the fountain of youth. Her eyes had a sparkle about them. She seemed brightened. Renewed.
“That’s a myth,” Jonas rebutted, not for the first time. “No science to it at all.”
Amanda beamed. They were both riding the night’s special high. “I’m going to be right out there. Front row, center. If you get nervous . . .”
