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Though as he walked deeper into the basement, Armand could see the bumps in the rough stone wall, like the features of trapped creatures. Longing to get out. As monsters from the past always did.

The atmosphere in the bistro was muted. By now even those who hadn’t been at the party the night before were well aware of what had happened.

Gabri had decided not to wear his frilly pink apron, the one he put on just to annoy Olivier, who still wanted to pass as straight.

“In case his father ever drops by unannounced,” said Gabri. “Like he ever does.”

“Are you saying Olivier has never come out to his family?” asked Clara.

“Not in so many words.”

“And how does he explain . . .” She wagged her finger at Gabri.

“I’m a little afraid to ask.”

“What’s Olivier afraid of?” Myrna looked across the bistro to the handsome, perfectly groomed, slender man reorganizing the candy jars on the bar.

But the psychologist in her could guess.

Olivier was afraid of disapproval. He hated disapproval even more than he wanted approval. A vestige of childhood, Myrna knew. How horrible it must have been when the boy realized he was gay and destined for a lifetime of judgment.

At that moment, as though summoned by a promise of judgment, Ruth arrived.

She tossed a button onto the table, then sat on the sofa facing the huge fieldstone hearth with its blazing fire.

“What’s that?” Clara asked, picking it up. “Oh, I see. It’s a line from your poem ‘Alas.’ ” She closed her eyes and tilted her head back in an effort to remember. “Her voice, resigned, comes ragged from my throat / and in my heart her anger smolders still / amid the ashes—”

“Enough,” snapped Ruth. “We all know how it goes.”

“—of residual guilt,” Clara finished and opened her eyes. “A poem about your mother.”

Such a good way of putting it, thought Myrna, the ashes of residual guilt.

Though sometimes the ashes were in fact embers, waiting to leap back into flames. To do even more damage.

They all had it, residual guilt, though some were able to brush the ash off and move forward, while others were smothered by it. Like those poor souls caught in the eruption of Vesuvius. They had human form but were, in fact, hollow.

Myrna looked at the button. Or will it be, as always was, TOO LATE?

“That horrible woman is selling these,” said Ruth. “To raise money for her campaign.”

“Abigail Robinson?” asked Myrna.

“Amelia Earhart,” said Ruth. “We found her. She and Jimmy Hoffa are shacked up down the Old Stage Road. Yes, Abigail Robinson. Who else?”

Isabelle Lacoste put the mug of strong coffee down in front of Alphonse Tardif and introduced herself.

She’d made sure Édouard had seen his brother arrive. She’d watched as they resolutely refused to look at each other. The one walking between two Sûreté officers. The other behind bars.

Maître Lacombe was again there.

“Are you representing this Monsieur Tardif too?” asked Isabelle.

“Only until charges are laid, or not.”

Isabelle started off discussing conditions for snowmobile trekking in the Abitibi. She knew the area well and spoke knowledgeably. And apparently aimlessly.

She knew that the longer she took to get to the point, the more stressed the man in front of her would become. He was powerfully built, like his brother. But this Tardif was short and stocky and had the lined, puffy face and moist eyes of someone who drank too much.