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“Yes, we had dinner there. Why?” Now his voice had risen.

“How did he seem?”

“How does Dad ever seem?”

“So the same as always?” asked Armand.

“Yes. What’s this about? Is something wrong?”

“I just need to speak to him.”

“At”—there was a pause—“twenty to seven in the morning?”

“Merci, Marc. Nothing to worry about.”

Move along, nothing to see here. Though there always was.

Just asking questions. No real reason. Though there always was.

Nothing to worry about. Though . . .

“Nothing,” said Beauvoir, when Gamache hung up.

Isabelle appeared from the other direction and agreed.

“What’s going on?” demanded Haniya, who was standing in the lobby beside Chancellor Roberge.

“Look outside,” Gamache said to Beauvoir and Lacoste, then turned to Haniya.

“Did you see or speak to Professor Robinson or Dr. Gilbert last night when you got back from our place?”

“No. I went right to my room.”

“And this morning? Did you hear or see anything?”

“I was asleep until you called. What’s happened?” She looked from the Chief Inspector to the Chancellor, who seemed troubled.

Beauvoir arrived back. “The agent saw the night shift leave at six thirty but didn’t check them.”

“There’re boot prints leading into the woods,” reported Lacoste, breathless.

“Toward the crime scene?” asked Gamache.

“No. Toward the cabin. Two sets.”

“Damn.” Gamache looked at his watch. “That was seventeen minutes ago.” He turned to Colette. “What’s his plan? What’s he going to do to her?”

The Chancellor was pale. Her breathing rapid. Her mind working. “Nothing. I’m sure of it.”

But of all the things she seemed, “sure” wasn’t one of them.

“There’re snowmobiles in the garage,” Gamache said to Beauvoir and Lacoste.

While they sprinted out, he turned to Colette and Haniya. “Stay here. Don’t follow us. I mean it, Colette. Do not follow us.”

They heard engines revving outside.

“Chief?” Lacoste called from the door.