“Peter?” Jean-Guy called.

Peter Morrow, frozen in place, stared.

“My God, it is you,” he said.

Peter was disheveled, his hair unruly, unkempt. The normally well-groomed man had two days’ stubble on his face, and purple under his eyes.

He hugged the post and looked like he’d buckle to the ground if he let go. When Gamache was within reach, Peter let go of the post and gripped Armand.

“You came,” Peter whispered, afraid to blink in case they disappeared. “Armand, thank God. It’s you.”

He squeezed Gamache’s arms to make sure this wasn’t some illusion.

Armand Gamache stared into Peter Morrow’s blue, bloodshot eyes. And saw exhaustion and desperation. And perhaps, just there, the tiniest glint of hope.

He took Peter by the shoulders and sat him in a chair on the porch.

“Is he inside?” Gamache asked, and Peter nodded.

“Stay here,” said Beauvoir, though it was clear that Peter Morrow had absolutely no intention of going anywhere.

*   *   *

Inside the one-room cabin, Armand Gamache and Jean-Guy Beauvoir stared down at the bed.

A pillow lay over the head of the body. And from underneath it the blood had poured, flooding out, turning the white sheets a brilliant red.

But that had stopped hours ago, the investigators could tell. When the heart had stopped. Hours ago.

Gamache felt for the man’s pulse. There was none. He was cold as marble.

“Did you put the pillow over his face?” Gamache called out the door.

“God, no,” came the reply.

Gamache and Beauvoir exchanged glances. Then, steeling himself, Armand Gamache lifted the pillow, as Jean-Guy recorded the events.

And then Gamache sighed. A long, long, slow exhale.

“When did Professor Massey arrive?” the Chief asked, staring down at the bed. The dead man’s mouth was slightly open, as though a thought had occurred to him in the instant before he died.

What would he have said? Don’t do it? Please, please, for God’s sake. Would he have begged for his life? Would he have screamed recriminations? Empty threats?

Gamache doubted it. Rarely had he seen a man so apparently at peace with being murdered. With being driven to Samarra and dumped in front of Death.

But perhaps, Gamache thought as he looked at those calm eyes, this appointment was fated.

Two men whose lives had crossed decades before, walking to this terrible moment in this desolate place.

“He arrived a couple days ago, I think.” The voice drifted in through the open door as though the wider world was speaking to them. “I’ve lost track of time.”

“When did this happen?” Beauvoir asked. “Not a couple of days ago. He died fairly recently.”

“Last night. Early this morning maybe. I found him like that this morning.”

There was a pause and Gamache walked to the door. Peter was sitting, collapsed in the chair, stunned.