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Beauvoir watched as his father-in-law took several photos of the room, then moved aside a chair to get at a large oil painting. Leaning it against the wall, he stared at it. Then he turned it around and looked at the brown paper, slashed to expose the canvas behind.

Another painting was examined, the front and back photographed by Gamache.

“We did wonder if the intruder found something hidden behind the paintings,” said Juneau, joining them.

“I don’t think so,” said Gamache as he put a Rothko back on the wall.

“Why not?” asked Juneau.

“Because the intruder kept searching after he’d slashed them,” said Beauvoir.

He pointed to the remaining art on the floor. Some almost hidden beneath splayed books and pillows.

“Good point,” said Juneau. Though he didn’t sound so happy that the Québec guy had seen it and he hadn’t.

Gamache spent the next few minutes digging out the paintings, photographing them, and replacing them on the wall.

Juneau walked over to Beauvoir. “Is he okay?”

Gamache was just standing there, staring at the paintings.

“Ça va, patron?” asked Beauvoir.

“Yes, yes,” said Gamache. “Everything’s fine.”

Though he sounded distracted. Not exactly upset, but definitely preoccupied as he returned to the art.

Then he looked at his watch and turned abruptly. “I’m afraid I haven’t been any help. I can’t see that anything’s missing.” He stripped off the gloves and held out his hand to Juneau. “We need to be going. Thank you for your understanding.”

“Thank you, Chief Inspector.”

“If the backs of the paintings were slashed, that means the intruder thought something was hidden there,” said Beauvoir as they left. “Papers. Documents.”

“I agree,” said Gamache. “The paintings are important.”

Annie Gamache was staring out their apartment window at the Tour Eiffel in the distance.

Daniel, Roslyn, and the girls had left, and Honoré was sitting at his little table having applesauce.

Her hands rested naturally, protectively, on her belly. On her baby. Their daughter.

She dropped her eyes to the fromagerie across the street. At least soon she’d be able to eat all the cheese. And she planned to.

Then she stood up straighter.

There he was. She’d spotted him earlier and now there he was again. The man. Looking up. At the window. At her. There was no mistaking it this time.

She grabbed her phone, but by the time she brought up the camera he was gone.

Just then her phone rang. It was the office returning her call.

Annie listened, interrupting only once to ask, “Are you sure?”

Hanging up, she sank into a chair.

From across the room came the sound of Honoré’s squeeze toy. Saying what they all feared and suspected.

“I agree,” she said to him. “This’s all ducked up.”