“Both murdered,” said Gamache. “One on the west coast, the other on the east. No police force would connect the two.”

“Exactly,” said Beauvoir. “In fact, the first was considered a suicide, but the cause of death was changed to murder later. No one was arrested.”

“James Hill,” said Gamache. He got up from the bench and started walking slowly around the edge of the village green. Beauvoir joined him and listened as the chief thought out loud. “He got his job so he could find the four young people in the pickup. And when he found them, he killed them.”

“Didn’t just kill,” said Beauvoir. “He executed them. Sentenced them to death.”

Gamache thought of the young men and women in the truck that night. How horrible it must have been for them. Did the guilt weigh them down? Or were they so scared they hid it away? Comforted themselves with the lie that the accident wasn’t their fault.

But Gamache knew what happened when a terrible truth was buried. It didn’t just go to sleep. No. It grew. Big. It became huge. Monstrous. It ate away a person’s insides.

And left him hollow. Empty.

That’s what had happened to those four kids. That’s what had happened to James Hill, too. He’d died in the car that night, with his wife and daughter. Hill had died in spirit and Arthur Ellis had been reborn in him. Now he had one goal. To punish the young men and women who had killed his wife and daughter.

Chief Inspector Gamache put his hands behind his back and thought as he walked.

“James Hill used his position at the Department of Records to track down two of the people in the truck, and he killed them,” Gamache said. “What about the other two?”

“I think one of them is here,” said Beauvoir. “He tracked him here and intended to hang him.”

“That’s why he was asking about young men?” Gamache asked.

“Yes. But that doesn’t make sense,” said Beauvoir. “If the kids were sixteen when this happened, they’d be almost forty now. Not exactly young.”

“True. When was the last time you visited your mother?”

“Oh, Jesus, she hasn’t gotten to you, too?”

Gamache smiled. “No. I’m just wondering.”

“A couple of weeks ago. We went over for dinner. Why?”

“What did she make?”

“My favourite. What she always makes when I visit. Beef stew.”

“She’s made it for you since you were a kid, right?”

“Right. Why are we talking about my mother?”

“When our children come home, we do the same thing. Make their favourite foods. Annie had to explain the other day that pink cupcakes aren’t actually her favourite anymore. We knew that, but still we make them.”

“Is this going anywhere, or have you finally lost your mind? Sir.”