“I think people can do terrible things,” said Beauvoir. “Lash out. Hurt or even kill someone they love. That man is coming apart.”

“From grief,” said Clara.

“From something,” said Beauvoir.

Once in the car, Beauvoir turned to Lacoste. “Did you notice anything strange about the Lepages?”

Lacoste had been quiet, thinking. Now she nodded.

“Neither of them asked about the gun,” she said.

Beauvoir nodded. “Exactly.”

*   *   *

They spent the balance of the afternoon following up on the interviews and checking facts and details.

Isabelle saw Gamache leave his home with Henri, first glancing in the direction of the old train station, then turning away and walking out of sight.

A few minutes later she found him on the bench above the village, Henri sitting by his side.

“You aren’t avoiding me, are you?” she asked, joining Gamache on the bench. “Because this isn’t a very good hiding place.”

He smiled. His face creasing with amusement.

“Perhaps I am,” he admitted. “It’s not personal.”

“It’s professional,” she said, and nodded. “It must be strange not to be in charge of the investigation.”

“It is, a little,” he admitted. “It’s hard not to slip back into the old roles. Especially since—” He spread his large hands, and she understood the enormity of his struggle. “Laurent.”

She nodded. This murder had hit home.

“You need your space, Isabelle. It’s your investigation. I have no desire to return, but—”

“But it’s in the blood.”

She glanced down at his hands. Those expressive hands. That she’d held, as he lay dying. As he’d sputtered to her what they both knew would be the last thing he’d say.

Reine-Marie.

She’d been the vessel into which he’d poured his final feelings, his eyes pleading with her to understand.

And she did.

Reine-Marie.

She’d held his hand tightly. It was covered in his own blood and that of others. And it mingled with the blood on her hands. Her own, and others.

And now catching killers was in their blood.

Chief Inspector Gamache hadn’t died. And he’d continued to lead them for many investigations. Until the time had come to come here.

He’d done enough. It was someone else’s turn.

Hers.

“You and Madame Gamache seem happy here.”

“We are. Happier than I ever thought possible.”

“But are you content?” Isabelle probed.

Gamache smiled again. How different she was from Jean-Guy, who’d come right out and demanded, “Are you going to stay here doing nothing, or what, patron?”

He’d tried to explain to Jean-Guy that stillness wasn’t nothing. But the taut younger man just didn’t understand. And neither would he have, Gamache knew, in his thirties. But in his fifties Armand Gamache knew that sitting still was far more difficult, and frightening, than running around.