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To avoid an Auberge crawling with suspects, they returned to the Gamache home.

Armand went into the kitchen to look for Reine-Marie, while Isabelle and Jean-Guy made themselves comfortable in the living room.

As he entered, Armand saw Haniya Daoud, a long blade in her hand. She was pointing it at Reine-Marie, whose back was turned.

He felt his heart skip a beat, and his muscles tense. The world slowed down, in a rush of terror and adrenaline. And then, as quickly as it came, it passed.

A vestige of the job. Fireworks were gunshots, and all knives were weapons, especially when pointed at someone he loved.

“I didn’t know you were here,” he said to Haniya.

“Clearly. And I can see your delight.”

He smiled. “No, you just saw my surprise. You’re always welcome.”

“Oh, hello, Armand.” Reine-Marie turned around. “I asked Haniya to stay for dinner. She was kind enough to come with me to the Horton place to return the last box.”

Armand kissed her lightly, then grabbed a wooden cutting board, a baguette, and a knife.

The kitchen smelled of simmering coq au vin and fresh basil, which Haniya had torn and placed on a platter, with the tomato and the burrata she was slicing.

Daniel and his family, along with Annie and the children, had gone back to their homes in Montréal. They’d offered to stay on, but both Reine-Marie and Armand had said it would probably be best if they returned when there wasn’t a murderer among them. Which, in Three Pines, might prove problematic.

“What else can I do?” Haniya asked.

“You can put that platter on the table,” said Reine-Marie. “Then pour yourself a drink and join the others in the living room. Dinner’s in about twenty minutes.”

Haniya placed the burrata and tomato on the pine table, but didn’t go into the living room. Instead she wandered down to the far end of the kitchen, pausing on the way to look at the art on the walls. Some portraits, some naïve works. Some landscapes.

And one modest little frame.

“Is this . . . ?”

“It is,” said Reine-Marie. “Took a long time to track one down. It’s an original.”

“One of a kind?” asked Haniya, leaning close to the small photograph of a single crystalline snowflake.

“How’d it go with the Hortons?” Armand asked.

As Reine-Marie told him, he watched Haniya. She’d made herself comfortable in one of the large chairs by the woodstove and was staring into the night.

“You didn’t tell them about their mother and Ewen Cameron?”

“No. Not all truths need to be told. They have the box, they can look into it if they want. I think they know there’s something in there, but this way they have a choice.” She looked at their guest and lowered her voice. “I think she wants to stop.”

“Stop what?” he asked. Killing?

“Being the Hero of the Sudan. Look at her. She’s barely more than a child. I think she wants to have a peaceful life. To wake up and meet Clara in the bistro for breakfast. To discuss books with Myrna. To drop by here for tea or dinner, and not have to worry about all the girls, all the women, out there waiting for her to rescue them.”

“To put down the cup,” said Armand.

She watched him put the kettle on. If only that were possible.

While Reine-Marie returned to the living room, Armand took a cup of tea to Haniya.

“May I?” He nodded toward the armchair across from her.

“Of course.”