“I’m hearing rumors that Antoinette’s death and Laurent’s might be connected,” she said, and watched Myrna lower the newspaper just enough to stare at her. “And might have something to do with that gun in the woods.”

Myrna crumpled the paper onto her lap.

“Really?” She took off her glasses. “But how could that be? Antoinette’s death was during a robbery probably, or maybe something to do with the play—”

Clara shook her head. “The police don’t think so anymore.”

“Who’d you hear this from?”

“Gabri. He was talking to Brian, who overheard Armand and Jean-Guy talking to that CSIS woman last night. Fighting with her, apparently.”

“Fighting?”

“Well, arguing. Gabri told me this in confidence. Shhhh.”

“Shhhh?” asked Myrna. “Is that the sound of secrets escaping from you?”

The two women stared at each other, but hanging between them, like a hologram, was the gun. The big, goddamned gun. In the woods. Neither had seen it, but both women imagined what such a thing might look like. And wondered how it could kill so many people just by being.

“How could Antoinette have been involved with the gun?” Myrna asked.

“I don’t know and Gabri couldn’t tell me,” said Clara. “It’s strange that no one remembers it being built. You’d think some of the older residents might remember. Ruth, for instance.”

“Ruth? You expect Ruth to remember anything?”

“She is a bit of a loose cannon herself,” Clara admitted.

“Maybe she was left behind by the builders,” said Myrna. “A failed first attempt.”

Clara gave a short laugh, then sighed. “I wish we knew more. It’s so easy to start imagining the worst.”

“It doesn’t take much imagination,” said Myrna, her eyes drifting past Clara and out the window.

“What do you see?” Clara asked, turning to look.

She saw the village green, the three tall pine trees, the homes. She saw storm clouds and shafts of light and a gaggle of hungry birds and an elderly man sitting on the bench feeding them.

“I see answers,” said Myrna.

*   *   *

“I’ll get it,” called Reine-Marie. She was in the study doing some research when she heard a tentative knock on the door.

It was so tentative she thought she must’ve misheard. But then she heard it again. A more confident rap. When she opened the door, Brian Fitzpatrick was standing there.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Is it too early?”

“No, of course not. Come in. You must be cold.”

The clouds that had moved in overnight threatening rain had brought with them a cold front with winds and a chill that burrowed under the skin and into the bones.

“When Gabri came to pick me up last night, I tossed a few things into a suitcase, but I wasn’t thinking straight,” said Brian, hugging himself. “I have three pairs of shoes, but only one pair of socks. And no sweater or jacket.”