At home again Yvette Nichol unpacked her suitcase, putting the dirty clothing into her drawers. Her father stood at the doorway, getting up his courage to speak. To start the New Year with the truth about fictional Uncle Saul.

‘Yvette.’

‘What is it?’ She turned round, a dull gray sweater bunched into a ball in her hands. Her voice was petulant, a tone he’d heard her use with others with some satisfaction, but never with himself. Now he noticed the smell of smoke. It seemed to get stronger as he approached her, as though his daughter had been scorched.

‘I’m proud of you,’ he said. She’d told him about the fire, of course. But hearing her on the phone describing it from Three Pines had seemed unreal. Now, actually smelling the smoke, imagining her that close to the flames, he felt overcome with terror. Had he really come that close to losing her? For a lie? A fictitious Uncle Saul?

‘I don’t want to talk about it any more. I told you everything already.’ She turned her back to him. For the first time. In one fluid, vicious, calculated move she changed his life for ever. She turned away from him.

Gutted, barely able to speak, Ari Nikolev tried to find the courage to tell his daughter she’d almost lost her life because of a lie he’d told. And retold. All her life.

She’d hate him, of course. Nikolev, staring at his daughter’s back, had a vision of his life stretching forward for years, bleak and cold. All the warmth and laughter and love turned to ice and buried beneath years of lies and regret. Was the truth worth it?

‘I want—’

‘What do you want?’ She turned back to him now, willing him to ask her again. To get her to open up. To get her to tell him again and again about the devastating fire until it became a part of the family lore, its jagged edges worn and softened by repetition.

Please, please, please, she silently begged him. Please ask me again.

‘I want to give you this.’ He reached into his pocket and dropped into her free hand a single butterscotch candy, its cellophane crackling as it landed, like the very beginning of a fire. As he walked down the gloomy corridor the smoke clung to him, in the way his daughter once did.

‘Who were you speaking to?’ Reine-Marie asked, getting into the car.

‘Michel Brébeuf.’ Gamache put the car into gear. The plan begins, he thought. As they drove out of Three Pines they passed a motorist who waved.

‘Was that Denis Fortin?’ asked Gamache, who knew the art dealer slightly.

‘I didn’t see, but that reminds me,’ said Reine-Marie. ‘I met a friend of yours in the bistro. He said it was good to see you again.’

‘Really? Who?’

‘Billy Williams.’

‘And you understood what he said?’ asked Gamache in amazement.