It was an area so beautiful, so unique, it had attracted visitors for centuries. At least one American president had had a summer home there. But what Charlevoix mostly attracted were artists, Québec artists, Canadian artists. Artists from around the world.

And now it had attracted Peter Morrow.

*   *   *

“How long will you be gone?” Reine-Marie asked a few minutes later, as she helped Armand pack a suitcase.

He paused, his hand full of socks. “Hard to say. It’ll take the better part of the day to drive there, and then we need to find out where he’s staying.”

“If he’s still there,” she said, placing shirts in the suitcase. After considering, she added one more.

Through the sitting room window, Gamache could see Jean-Guy loading two suitcases into the Volvo. Perplexed, Gamache slipped the small book into the pocket of his satchel and they went outside.

As he walked down the path, Gamache saw Clara and Myrna standing by the car. Clara had Peter’s rolled-up canvases in her hand, and Myrna had a map.

“You’re here to see us off?” asked Gamache, but he already knew that wasn’t true. Clara shook her head and looked toward their suitcases, already in the Volvo.

“You’re coming with us?” Gamache asked.

“No,” said Clara. “You’re coming with us.”

It was said with a smile, but the distinction was clear.

“I see,” said Armand.

“Good.” Clara watched him closely. “I’m not kidding, Armand. I’m going to find Peter. You can come if you’d like, but if you do, you have to agree that I make the final decisions. I don’t want this to turn into a power struggle.”

“Believe me, Clara, I have no wish for power.” He paused and became so still that Clara also stilled. “I’m not bringing any art supplies.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m not an artist.”

“And I’m not an investigator,” she said, grasping his meaning.

“You don’t know what you’ll find,” he said.

“No, I don’t. But I need to be the one looking.”

“And what will you do when we get there?” he asked.

“I’ll find out where Peter’s staying.”

“And suppose he isn’t still there?”

“Are you treating me like a child, Armand?”

“No. I’m treating you like a responsible adult, but one who’s trying to do something she’s unprepared for. Not trained for. I can’t paint a very good picture. You can’t conduct a very good investigation. This is your life, yes. But it’s what we’ve done for a living.” He paused and leaned so close to her no one else could hear. “I’m very good at it. I will find Peter.”

And she replied, so close that he felt the warm words in his ear, “You might know how to investigate, but I know Peter.”