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“Of what?”

“That you’d think I was too close. That you’d take me off the case.”

“You’re right. I probably would’ve.”

Cloutier shook her head. “I’ve screwed up everything. I promised Katherine I’d look after her daughter. Keep her safe. I made that promise at the baptism, and I made it again at her deathbed. I didn’t do a good job of it, did I? But what I can do now is help catch her killer. That’s all I want.”

“And Homer Godin?”

“What about him?”

“More than professional interest?”

“Of course not.”

“You took his hand.”

“I was trying to comfort him. Haven’t you ever held the hand of the mother, or father, of a murder victim? To console them?”

Beauvoir had to admit he never had.

He’d seen Chief Inspector Gamache do it.

And he himself had reached out, come within inches of that brute sorrow, but something stopped him every time.

They were different men, with different strengths. And maybe, he thought, that was one of the many reasons he was leaving the Sûreté. Heading to Paris. He knew, deep down, that there was a level, deep down, he could never reach as an investigator.

While Jean-Guy Beauvoir explored the tangible, what could be touched, Armand Gamache explored what was felt. He went into that chaotic territory. Hunting. Searching. Tracking. Immersing himself in emotions until he found one so rancid it led to a killer.

Beauvoir stopped at the door. Gamache went through it.

Which wasn’t to say Beauvoir was insensitive to feelings. Watching Agent Cloutier, he’d picked up on hers.

There was something between her and Homer Godin, he was sure of it. Though he doubted Godin knew that. He wondered if Cloutier had even admitted it to herself.

“May I go with them, sir?” she asked again.

Beauvoir looked over at Homer. As though the day wasn’t bad enough, now he found himself alone in the back of a police car. While the man who killed his daughter was standing in the sunshine.

“Go.”

He might not be able to hold Homer’s hand, but he could offer comfort in other ways.

Clara, Myrna, and Ruth stepped back as the cop car passed them.

Ruth shook her head and looked over at Gamache and Beauvoir, conferring on the village green.

“Shouldn’t there be a third Stooge?” Just then another car arrived. “Never mind. Spoke too soon.”

Isabelle Lacoste got out and walked, limping slightly, over to her two colleagues.

“Was that Monsieur Godin in the back of the patrol car?” Lacoste asked. “Is he under arrest?”

Gamache explained to both of them what he’d done, and why.

“I know Reine-Marie won’t press charges. It was an accident. But maybe we can hold him long enough to collect evidence.”

“Against Tracey, oui,” said Beauvoir, glancing over his shoulder at the man lounging, like a reptile, in the early April sun.