“It was. But then you headed away and I thought I was free. But then I got to thinking about Clara. And your portraits. And how closely you must look at faces.” He spoke to the woman clutched to his chest, but he watched Gamache. “I knew if anyone would recognize me, you would, Clara. It might take some time, but you’d get there eventually. And then when you ran out of the diner, I knew you knew.”

“But she didn’t,” said Gamache. “She came here to see Peter.”

He watched as the reality dawned. Had Professor Massey stayed where he was. Had his nerves not failed him, he might have gotten away. But now here he stood, a knife to Clara Morrow’s throat.

“It’s too late,” said Gamache. “Let her go.”

“I haven’t painted in years, you know,” said Massey, as though Gamache hadn’t spoken. “Nothing. Empty.”

He looked at Gamache, and the former head of homicide’s heart froze. There was the face from the portrait. Filled with hate, for those who had what he did not. Not a canvas filled with paint, but a home, and friends and people who cared about the man more than the work.

Gamache edged a little closer. Massey’s knife didn’t waver. Didn’t lower.

Massey glanced quickly over to the bed.

Gamache shot a look at Peter. To warn him to stay still. As long as Massey was talking, they had a chance.

Behind Clara, behind Massey, Gamache saw movement.

Someone was coming. Still a distance away, but approaching.

Gamache knew the gait, recognized the shape.

It was Beauvoir.

Peter saw none of this. He only saw Clara.

“I love you, Clara,” he said, softly.

“Be quiet, Peter,” Gamache warned. He didn’t know what would set Massey off, but he knew it wouldn’t take much now.

“I’m sorry,” said Peter. To Gamache. Or to Clara.

Massey’s grip on Clara tightened. He was a man with nothing, and nothing to lose.

He was Death. And this was Samarra. After all.

Gamache knew it then.

His eyes darted over Massey’s shoulder, and he gave the faintest of nods. But it was enough.

Seeing this, Massey turned his head slightly. It was all Gamache needed. He sprung forward just as Clara ducked down and twisted away from the knife. But Massey still grasped her clothing.

Clara strained to get away, but without hope.

The knife moved swiftly forward, and struck.

Not Clara. Not Gamache.

Peter took the blow in the chest as he pulled Clara clear.

Gamache pinned Massey, kicking the knife away and hitting him so hard the man passed out.

Armand swung around. Clara was on her knees, beside Peter. Holding her hands to his chest. Gamache stripped off his jacket and, balling it up, he pressed it into the wound.