“I wonder,” murmured Gamache, and turned to look out the window. And through it he saw stars. And the lights of Baie-Saint-Paul.

It was not possible to tell which was which. Which lights were celestial, which were of this earth.

“Where’re we going to stay?” Myrna whispered to Clara.

“I don’t know.”

Myrna nodded, and stared out the windshield at the starry, starry night.

She missed her loft. She missed her bed. She missed her tisane and chocolate chip cookies.

But she knew that Clara missed all those things too. And she also missed Peter. Peter, who’d suddenly felt both very, very close while they’d stood on that cliff, and very, very far away.

Myrna looked over at Clara. She was staring straight ahead, concentrating on the windy road. Trying to keep them on track.

Trying not to go over the edge.

Myrna leaned back in her seat and took a deep breath. And calmed herself by looking at the stars. Or at the lights of the village. She couldn’t quite tell which was which. And it didn’t matter. Both were calming.

As they got closer, the lights of Baie-Saint-Paul grew brighter and the stars dimmed. Then they were back at La Muse bistro. It was now nine in the evening and they were starving. They ordered dinner, and while Myrna stayed at their table, the other three walked up and down the streets, checking at the auberges and B and Bs to see if there were any cancellations.

There were not.

They returned just as their dinners arrived.

Steak frites all around, the steaks char-grilled and thick. The fries thin and seasoned.

Beauvoir, while no fan of sleeping in cars, wasn’t really worried. This was the great benefit of seeing worse. Fewer things worried him now.

“What next?” he asked as he took a forkful of tender steak and melting garlic butter.

“We know for sure Peter was here,” said Clara. “Now we need to know if he’s still here, and if not, where he went.”

By “what next” Jean-Guy had meant “what’s for dessert,” but he was happy to talk about the case. For case this was, in his mind. And, he could see, in the Chief’s as well.

There’d been no mistaking the look in Gamache’s eye as he’d surveyed the cliff. Once their awe had passed, the Chief’s brain had kicked in.

Scanning. Assessing.

Where could a body be? If a person fell? If a person was pushed?

Where would he end up?

When the meal was over and their coffees had arrived, Gamache turned to Clara.

“Would you like to hear what I think?”

She studied him for a moment. “Probably not, judging by your face.”

Gamache gave a curt nod of agreement. “I think we should speak to the local police. Get them involved.”

“In finding out where Peter might be staying?”