Ghost Music by Graham Masterton

great-grandparents, sitting on the window seats, looking out over Norrstrom Harbor. And myself, too, when I was a child, in a little sailor suit.”
    He led me into the living room. He lifted seven or eight hardwood logs out of a large brass scuttle beside the fireplace, and stacked them into the grate. Then he took a copy of
Dagens Nyheter
from the magazine rack, crumpled it up, and pushed it underneath the fire basket.
    â€œI understand that Felicia is good at music,” I told him. He was patting his pockets, looking for his matches.
    â€œFelicia? Yes . . . she won a school prize for her singing.”
    I sipped my beer. I was going to have to be careful how I phrased this. The beer, incidentally, tasted like watered-down Bud. Or even watered-down water.
    â€œHave you known Kate for long?” I asked him.
    â€œKate? Hm, for a little while.” He scratched a match into flame and lit two corners of the crumpled-up newspaper.
    â€œI guess I was just wondering why she invited me here to meet you.”
    There was a long silence. Axel stood up, staring down at the hearth, while the dancing flames were reflected in his eyes.
    â€œYou are a friend of hers,
ja
?”
    â€œYes. A new friend, admittedly. But a very
good
friend. At least I hope I am, anyhow.”
    Axel sat down in a large armchair opposite me. The arms of the chair were carved like oak leaves, and he kept rubbing them, and fondling their curves. In the fireplace, the dry logs began to spit and crackle, and sparks flew up the chimney.
    â€œDo you have a family?” Axel asked me. “Do you have children of your own?”
    â€œNo. Never quite happened. But I guess I still have plenty of time.”
    â€œYes. But maybe, until you have children of your own, you cannot understand what sacrifices you are prepared to make to keep them safe.”
    I waited for him to explain himself, but he didn’t. Instead, he said, “You are enjoying your Lapin Kulta?”
    I raised my glass. “Terrific. Never quite tasted anything like it.”
    â€œBe careful,” he cautioned me. “It’s strong. We don’t want you falling over.”
    The fire blazed more fiercely. One of the logs began to make a high, piping noise, like an asthmatic child fighting for breath.
    â€œYou still haven’t told me why Kate invited me here,” I coaxed him.
    He looked me in the eye for the first time since he had started to light the fire. “You have to witness what happened for yourself. There is no other way around it. I cannot explain. I cannot accuse.”
    â€œAccuse? I don’t understand you. Accuse
who
? Of what?”
    But before he could answer me, Kate and the girls came into the living room. The girls were dressed differently from before—Elsa in a scarlet sweater and a short denim skirt, Felicia in a skinny blue sweater and jeans. Felicia kept putting the neck of her sweater into her mouth and chewing it, the way kids do.
    â€œIt’s all coming together in the kitchen,” said Kate, perching herself on the arm of my chair and running her fingers into the back of my hair. “How are you two getting along?”
    â€œWell, we’re trying to find some common ground,” I told her. “Gynecology and song writing—they’re kind of opposite ends of the conversational spectrum. Unless you count, ‘Yes, Sir, She’s My Baby.’”
    I was trying to lighten the mood, but Axel didn’t seem to get the joke. “Elsa—Felicia—” he said. “Please set the table in the dining room.”
    â€œWhich place mats, papa?”
    â€œAny you can find.”
    Once the girls had gone, Kate and Axel and I sat together in front of the fire. I tried to think of a way to explain that I had talked to Elsa and Felicia here in the living room, before they had actually come home. But Axel had talked so gravely about protecting his children that I thought he would probably