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“No, it’s not time, Maman.” For the past week every time she had called, her mother asked, Is it time? “But can you come over?”

“Is everything all right? Are you all right?”

“Yes, but I just need to show you something.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Reine-Marie threw on a coat and left behind all the things that still needed doing for their dinner that night with the Dussaults.

The emails between Beauvoir’s boss, Carole Gossette, and the Luxembourg project engineer were ambiguous.

“See here,” said Beauvoir. “She writes, We need to be careful. We don’t want anything to go wrong. That could mean anything. Could mean there’s a cover-up.”

“Or it could mean the opposite,” said Gamache. “That she’s making sure all the plans, all the safety measures, are in place.” He shook his head. “Go back to the previous email, please.”

They leaned in. But it was blurred on Beauvoir’s camera.

“Looks like they’re talking about something unique.” Gamache pointed to a word. “Is that word ‘not’? Is she saying it’s not unique?”

“I can’t tell. But again, he could be referring to the weather for all we know. Or some government official who was actually helpful.”

Gamache took a long, deep breath. Then, exhaling, he took off his glasses and stepped away. “We need to send these to Lacoste back at the Sûreté. They can get a clearer picture.”

Just then Madame Béland called up the stairs. “Got something.”

Reine-Marie read the email from Annie’s office, about their dealings with Alexander Francis Plessner.

Then she raised her eyes to her daughter.

“What should we do?” Annie asked. “Should we talk to him?”

Reine-Marie shook her head.

“We can’t go to the police,” said Annie, her voice rising.

“No, of course not.” At least that much was clear. “But we do need to tell your father.”

“And Jean-Guy.”

“Yes. Do you two have plans tonight?”

“No.”

“We have guests. I’ve asked the Prefect of Police and his wife for dinner. We’ll call you when they’ve left.”

Gamache and Beauvoir stared at the screen.

“There,” said Madame Béland.

They had to watch it three times before seeing what she saw. The slightest fluctuation.

“If I slow down the time stamp, you can see it jumps one one-hundredth of a second. That’s where they made the splice.”

“On all the cameras?” asked Beauvoir. He was almost cross-eyed by now and had to open his eyes wide, then screw them shut just to see her properly.

“No. The ones in the elevators and outside Monsieur Horowitz’s suite haven’t been tampered with. Only the ones in the lobby, then into the Galerie lounge.”

“So what happened in the Galerie?” asked Jean-Guy. “Something did. Yesterday at … ?”