“That’s why. I sat in the parking lot of the SHU, staring at those walls.” She shook her head. “I couldn’t go inside that godforsaken place.”

Both of them could see that building, a terrible monolith rising out of the ground.

“You continued counseling prisoners at the other penitentiaries,” he said. “Murderers, rapists. But you stopped eventually and came here. Why?”

“Because it was too much. It wasn’t their failure, it was mine. They were too damaged. I couldn’t help them.”

“Maybe some can’t be repaired because they were never damaged,” he suggested.

Through the window he could see splashes of astonishing color in the forest that covered the mountains. The maple and oak and apple trees turning. Preparing. That was where the fall began. High up. And then it descended, until it reached them in the valley. The fall was, of course, inevitable. He could see it coming.

“Coffee?” he said, hauling himself out of the chair and stepping over Henri.

“Please.”

As he poured he spoke. “John Fleming was arrested and tried eighteen years ago.”

“Crimes like those don’t fade, do they?” said Myrna, taking the mug and finishing his thought. “Do you know him?”

“I followed the case,” said Gamache, retaking his seat. “He committed his crimes in New Brunswick, but he was tried here because it was felt he couldn’t get a fair trial there.”

“I remember. Is he still here?”

Gamache nodded. “At the Special Handling Unit.”

“That’s why you asked me about the SHU?”

Gamache nodded.

“Is he getting help?” Myrna asked.

“He’s beyond help.”

“Believe me, I’m not saying he’d ever be a model citizen,” said Myrna. “I’m not saying I’d ever trust him with a child of mine—”

It was subtle, but Myrna, who knew every line of Armand’s face, was sure she saw a movement. A flinch.

“—but he’s a human being and he must be in torment, to have done those things. It’s possible, with time and therapy, he can be helped. Not released. But helped to release some of his demons.”

“John Fleming will never get better,” Gamache said, his voice low. “And believe me, we don’t want his demons released.”

She was about to argue with him, but stopped. If anyone believed in second chances, it was the man who sat before her. She’d been his friend and his unofficial therapist. She’d heard his deepest secrets, and she’d heard his most profound beliefs, and his greatest fears. But now she wondered if she’d really heard them all. And she wondered what demons might be nesting deep inside this man, who specialized in murder.

“What do you know, Armand, that we don’t?”

“I can’t say.”

“I also followed the court case—” She stopped, and regarded him.

Then it dawned on her. What he was really saying by not saying anything.