Gamache’s arm stopped. Henri, tail wagging his entire backside, stared as the hand and the ball slowly lowered.

Then Gamache threw, and both the ball and the dog sailed into the meadow.

Peter had left his home, physically, emotionally, and creatively. He was turning his back on everything familiar, everything safe.

Where once Peter used muted colors, now he used bright, clashing colors.

Where once Peter’s images were tightly controlled, now they were chaotic, unruly. Slapdash.

Where once his paintings were almost painfully self-satisfied and even pretentious, now they were silly, playful.

Where once Peter stuck to the rules, now he broke them. His first act of destruction. Experimenting with color, perspective, with distance and space. He wasn’t very good, yet. But if Peter kept trying, he’d get to where he wanted to be.

This new Peter was willing to try. Willing to fail.

Gamache stepped forward, approaching the answer. Seeing it just ahead of him. Henri had lost the ball in the thick growth and was rooting around, his bottom high and his nose down.

Every now and then he looked over at Gamache, for guidance, but Armand had his own search.

Where once Peter’s paintings were abstract, now … now.

Henri lifted his head in triumph. The ball in his mouth, along with a good chunk of wildflowers and grass.

Henri stared at Gamache. And Gamache stared at him. Both had what they were looking for.

“Well done,” Armand said to Henri. He took the slobbery tennis ball and clipped the shepherd on to the leash. “Well done.”

They hurried back to Three Pines, Gamache’s thoughts racing ahead.

Though he’d lived in the countryside, Peter had kept nature at arm’s length, eschewing it as the territory of amateurs. Still lifes, landscapes. All too figurative, too obvious. Unworthy of a great artist. Like himself. Who saw the world as more complex. As abstract.

Gamache had assumed the splashes of paint on Peter’s latest works were exercises but still abstracts. They were the first attempts of a tidy mind to be messy.

But if Peter had left everything else behind, why not his style as well?

Suppose they weren’t abstract?

Suppose Peter was painting what he saw?

Gamache knocked on Clara’s door, then opened it.

“Clara?”

There was no answer.

He scanned the village green, then looked over to the bistro.

“To hell with it,” he said, and walked into Clara’s home. He and Henri found the paintings where they’d been left, nailed to the kitchen wall.

He stared at them, then walked over to the pictures still on the kitchen table, their corners kept from curling by salt and pepper shakers and chipped coffee mugs.

Pulling out his device, he took photos, then left.

He drove to Cowansville, where he could connect to high speed and email the photos. He looked at his watch.