“You know my point. I’d be a fool to ignore what just happened. And so would you. It was, on the surface, a small thing. He got up on a chair, you chastised him. He got off. And if I didn’t know you, didn’t know what had happened, I would’ve thought nothing of it. But I do know you. And I know Jean-Guy. And I know that ‘broken’ means more to you, and him, than to most people.”

They stared at each other, Gamache not relenting. Not accepting that Myrna could be right.

“It’s just a chair,” he said, his voice low but not soft.

Myrna nodded. “But it’s not just a man. It’s Jean-Guy.”

“If the chair had broken he wouldn’t have been hurt,” said Gamache. “He was a foot and a half off the ground.”

“I know that. You know that,” said Myrna. “But it’s no longer a matter of knowing, is it? If life was purely rational there’d be fewer wars, or poverty, or crime. Or murders. Fewer things would be broken. Your reaction wasn’t rational, Armand.”

Gamache was silent.

She looked at him closely. “Is this too much?”

“Too much? Do you have any idea what I’ve seen? And done?”

“I have an idea,” she said.

“I don’t think you have.” He stared at her and a wave of images washed over Myrna. Of mangled bodies. Of glassy eyes. Of harrowing scenes. Of the very worst one person can do to another.

And it had been his job to follow the bloody trail. Into the cave. To face whatever was in there.

And then to do it again. And again.

The miracle wasn’t that the killer was caught, but that the man before her had kept his own humanity throughout it all. Even after he himself had been dragged into the cave. And so deeply hurt.

And now he was offering to get up and help once again.

And she was offering to give him a pass. But he wasn’t taking it.

“I’m not that fragile, you know,” said Gamache. “Besides, this is simply a missing person, not a murder. Easy.”

He tried to sound relaxed and managed to sound simply weary.

“Are you so sure?” she asked.

“That it’s not a murder?” he asked. “Or that it’s easy?”

“Both.”

“No,” he admitted. “And you’re right about one thing. I’d rather stay here in Three Pines. Sleep in, enjoy a lemonade at the bistro, or garden—”

He held up his hand to stop her from commenting on his so-called gardening.

“I’d love to only do what Reine-Marie and I want.”

As he spoke, Myrna could feel the depth of his longing.

“Sometimes there’s no choice,” he said softly.

“There is a choice, Armand. There’s always a choice.”

“Are you so sure?”

“Are you saying that you can’t refuse to help Clara?”