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“But not that night.”

Still, Gamache’s gloved hand was held out. Steady. It would not move until Cameron’s weapon was placed in it.

“Are you afraid I’ll use it, patron?” asked Cameron.

“Give it to me,” said Gamache.

“I didn’t kill her.”

“Give it to me.”

And finally Cameron reached behind him and brought out the gun. And placed it in the Chief Inspector’s hand.

“Merci.” Gamache put it in his coat pocket. “Before we get to how it ended, tell me how it began.”

Superintendent Lacoste pointed to a chair at the kitchen table.

They’d moved from the living room into the kitchen, where Homer, still in his bedroom, couldn’t hear what they were saying.

“Sit down, please.”

Agent Cloutier raised her brows but did as she was told.

Her mentor stared at her for what seemed an eternity. Chief Inspector Beauvoir was also there. Looking at her. His face stern. His eyes watchful.

She knew that look.

It was the one he gave suspects. She didn’t have to wait long to have it confirmed.

“As you know, Agent Cloutier, when we investigate a murder, we look for motive. You have a motive.”

“Pardon?”

“Homer Godin.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Of course you do. You understand too well. I can see it in your eyes.”

Agent Cloutier was silent.

“Tell me about your relationship with Homer Godin,” said Lacoste.

“There is no—”

“Enough. It’s time for the truth. You clearly care for him. His wife’s been gone for five years now. He’s free. You’re free. Have you told him how you feel? Or is something, or someone, stopping you?”

But still Cloutier remained mute. Partly out of fear of saying too much. But also, now, she found herself incapable of describing feelings that had run so deep, for so long. That had been the undercurrent of her life, for so long. And with each passing day, week, year, getting stronger.

She could feel herself growing fonder and fonder of her best friend’s husband. Even while Kathy was alive. And yes, part of it was the tenderness Homer showed his infant daughter. His patience. His gentleness with her, so in contrast to Kathy’s abruptness. Her efficient care. Her rules and rigid structure for the day.

Kathy couldn’t help it. It was who she was. And Homer was who he was. And Lysette was who she was.

She never acted on her feelings, but she did visit when she could. To see Kathy. To see her goddaughter. To see him.

And then, after Kathy died, that heady mixture of guilt and excitement. Of hope and longing.

Allowing herself to imagine what life might be like. If—