“Please, just do it.”

“But what are we supposed to do? We’ve already done a thorough investigation. It was an accident.”

“It was not,” said Gamache, his voice gruff. “And it’s not just the stick. We went to the site yesterday afternoon and searched, but something else struck me. How his body was lying. If you assume, as we have, that he was riding his bike down the hill and hit a bump, he’d have flown headfirst, right?”

“Which he did. Hit his head. I’m sorry, Chief, but where’s this going?”

“He was pointed in the wrong direction, Jean-Guy. Your own photos confirm it.”

“What?”

Gamache could hear Jean-Guy scrambling, and tapping on his computer to bring up the file and the photos.

Then there was silence.

“Christ,” he finally said, exhaling the word like a sigh. “Are you sure?”

“If you go to the site you’ll see immediately. Laurent could not have been heading down the hill when he fell.”

“And the other direction?”

“Is flat. He might’ve hit his wheel against a rock or a pothole and fallen, but at worst he’d have skinned a knee, maybe broken an arm. He could never have flown that far.”

“Jeez, you might be on to something. But now what?”

“If he was killed, the murderer made a huge mistake. He moved the body but left the stick. If we can find the stick, we might know where Laurent was killed.”

“And who did it,” said Beauvoir. “But even if all this is true, how in the world are you going to find a stick in the forest?”

Gamache looked out the window and raised his eyes past the village green, past the old homes. To the woods. The forest. Hundreds of square miles radiated out from the village. With millions of sticks on the ground.

But Laurent was nine years old, and nine-year-olds, even with bicycles, didn’t travel hundreds of square miles. And they sure didn’t go all that far into the forest.

If he was murdered, it was close by.

“You were playing soccer on the village green when Laurent came running into the village a few days ago.”

“Right,” said Jean-Guy.

“Which direction did he come from?”

“He came past the old train station,” said Beauvoir.

“Over the bridge,” said Gamache. “Yes, I remember him saying that. We’ll start there.”

“Why there?”

“You asked me the other day why anyone would kill a nine-year-old boy,” said Armand. “And there’re only two things I can think of. It was either for no reason except the pleasure of the killer. A psychopath. Or there was a reason.”

“But again,” said Jean-Guy. “Why?”

“Look at Laurent,” said Armand. “What did he do? He made up stories. All sorts of stories. All of which were in his imagination. Myrna thinks he wanted attention. The boy who cried wolf. But even he was finally telling the truth. Suppose Laurent was too.”