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But it was Gamache’s reaction that interested her the most.

Instead of exploding, as she’d expected when she’d deliberately and clearly accused his family, attacked his family, he’d grown even calmer.

Claude Dussault, had he been there, would have recognized the warning signs.

But Irena Fontaine did not.

“It’s a legitimate question,” he said. “But let me make this clear. No one in this family would ever hurt someone, not for personal gain.”

The tone might be polite, but the force of his personality was almost overwhelming. The outrage so much more powerful for being contained. It was, Fontaine thought, like watching a centurion control a team of snorting and stamping warhorses. Prepared for battle, but holding back. Choosing, with infinite patience, his own time to take to the field.

“Not personal gain, you say. But there are other reasons they might kill?” Fontaine continued to provoke.

It seemed everyone else had faded into the furniture. And they were alone. Locked in a duel. This senior cop from Québec, with the strange accent. And her. The second-in-command of the cops in all fucking Paris.

She would outrank him, had they been in the same force. She tried to find comfort, and confidence, in that. Even as she felt herself wavering. Wondering if it had been such a good idea to cross that line.

But she had to know. Had to push him. The Prefect had instructed her to do all she could to find out what this man knew. And the best way was to hit him where it hurt.

“No,” said Gamache. “Nothing could make anyone here try to kill Stephen. At least”—his stare was unrelenting—“not any member of this family.”

Had he really just insinuated that she could be involved? she wondered. And that, by extension, the Préfecture could be involved?

Maybe even the Prefect himself?

He’d hit back, and hard.

She could now see why Monsieur Dussault had warned her about this man.

“Do you know the contents of his will?” she asked, trying to modulate her tone to match his.

“I’m one of the executors. Mrs. McGillicuddy and his personal lawyer are the others. But I haven’t seen the will.”

“He never mentioned any bequests to you or your family?”

“No.”

“Though it wouldn’t be unreasonable”—with great effort, she held his stare—“to expect something. Maybe even something substantial.”

“It’s certainly possible that Stephen’s left his billions to us. And it would be only human to imagine what that would be like.” He smiled. “Wouldn’t you?”

“Would you?”

“Me?” His smile faded until he looked almost wistful, and shook his head. “No. I never wanted anything from Stephen except his company.”

A snort of derision escaped her. But he continued to look at her, unapologetic. Almost, she saw now, in a kindly way.

Inviting her, it seemed, to understand. What it meant to love so completely that all you wanted from that person was companionship.

She remembered what he’d said while in Horowitz’s apartment.

Dead parents. Godfather. Nine-year-old boy.

And for a moment she understood what the crotchety financier must’ve meant to the boy. To the man.

She found that she believed him. But that didn’t mean his lawyer daughter and his banker son with the expensive new apartment hadn’t dreamed of riches beyond belief. And maybe even done more than dream.

Now Gamache leaned forward. “No one in this family had anything to do with the attacks. Think about it. Even if, even if ”—he stressed the “if ”—“we had a motive to kill Stephen, why murder Monsieur Plessner?”