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Godin seemed confused now. Could it have been so recently? Just two days ago? Time made no sense anymore. Days, dates, they were meaningless and would be for the rest of his life. There would only be before Vivienne disappeared and after.

A firm line drawn against which all else would be measured. Until the day he died.

“What did she say?”

“She told me she was pregnant and was finally going to leave him. I was so happy I could barely speak. I said I’d come and get her, but she told me not to. She needed to pick the time. When it was safe. When he was gone or passed out. She told me she’d be here sometime that night or maybe Sunday morning. She made me promise not to come. So I just waited.” There was a long, long exhale. “I should’ve gone to get her. Why didn’t I?”

But there was no answer, and Gamache was not going to give this dignified man some drivel.

They sat silently, staring at each other. Vivienne’s father and Annie’s father.

“It’s my fault,” Homer whispered.

“Non, monsieur. This isn’t your doing.”

But Gamache knew that no matter what he said, Godin would spend the rest of his life in an endless loop. Skidding along the same ground. Going back over and over and over the last conversation. And what he did or did not do. What he could have done, what he should have done.

As I would, thought Gamache.

“You said you called all her old friends,” Gamache continued, “but do you know if she had a more recent friend? Someone special?”

If Godin caught his meaning, he chose to ignore it.

“No. No one.”

And Gamache was forced to be more blunt.

“Carl Tracey says she had a—”

“I know what Tracey says,” the man erupted. “He’s trying to make her sound like some sort of … some sort of…” He couldn’t bring himself to utter the word. “Vivienne wasn’t like that. She never would, would she?”

He appealed to Cloutier, who managed not to respond.

Godin looked down at his hands, gripped so tightly on the edge of the table that the entire thing rattled. Like a visitation from the other side.

He brought himself under control, though his knuckles remained white.

“Besides,” he said, his voice strained, “how would she meet anyone? He barely let her off the property.”

“We have to ask,” said Gamache. “If she did have a lover, she might’ve gone to him. Or he might be the one who—”

“She didn’t.”

“Though you say you hadn’t seen her in a while. She might have—”

“She didn’t,” he all but shouted. “I know her. Look, why’re you wasting time? If something’s happened to Vivienne, we all know who did it. If you won’t make him tell, I will.”

“That wouldn’t be wise, Monsieur Godin,” said Gamache, getting to his feet.

“Really? Really?” demanded Godin, also getting up and turning to face Gamache. “And what would you call ‘wise’? Was what I did on Saturday wise? Doing nothing? Maybe it’s time to do something stupid.”

There was silence.

“Imagine your Annie was pregnant. I want you to imagine that.”

“Monsieur Godin—”

“Now imagine her missing. Them missing.”