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“While we were distracted by the countdown?” He heard Gamache hum agreement.

Beauvoir looked behind him. The attack had occurred within sight of the Auberge. He could see the Christmas tree, bright and cheerful, through the living room windows. He could see Annie and the others sitting quietly around the fireplace.

The party was over.

Dr. Harris stood up and indicated to the head of the unit that they could turn the body over.

They were in the Scene of Crime tent, erected around the body to protect evidence and privacy.

Sharon Harris stepped back and stood between Chief Inspector Gamache and Inspector Beauvoir, two Sûreté officers she knew well from previous investigations.

She’d arrived still dressed, under her long winter coat, in her party clothes.

“Bonne année,” she’d mumbled to Gamache as he greeted her.

Industrial lights had been installed as the homicide unit swung into their routine.

Thermoses of coffee were stuck upright in the snow for the agents unfortunate enough to be on call when the call was made.

Wind and snow beat against the sides of the tent, and the agents had to raise their voices to be heard above the buffeting. There was little talking anyway, beyond what needed to be said. Gamache had instilled in each of them that the site of every murder was to be treated as near sacred.

He understood perfectly well that joking was a way to deal with the trauma and stress. But there were better, more effective tools for coping.

To help them deal with the horrors of their job, Chief Inspector Gamache had brought a counselor into the homicide department and made it clear that he himself went to those private sessions once a month, sometimes more.

And slowly, slowly, most of the other officers did too.

Now he watched as the stiff body of Abigail Robinson was turned over.

He stared. Then looked at Jean-Guy. Who was also staring.

“Just a moment, please.” Gamache stepped forward and bent over the body, then looked up at Jean-Guy Beauvoir. Both men were surprised.

But not, perhaps, as surprised as Debbie Schneider.

Dr. Harris completed her initial examination of the body, then Beauvoir pointed toward the entrance of the tent.

“Must we?” asked Dr. Harris.

Still, she followed them outside, steeling herself against the elements.

Though they were ready for it, the wind and snow still yanked their breath away. The cold roared down their throats, burning their lungs. For a moment they couldn’t breathe, then all three coughed as their bodies fought back, trying to expel the icy air.

“Merde, Armand,” Dr. Harris gasped. “You sure know how to pick ’em.”

“Not my choice,” he rasped.

They were huddled together, as snow devils, tornados of flakes, swirled around them.

“What can you tell us?” Gamache’s words turned to vapor, which froze to the stubble on his face.

They were beginning to look like members of Scott’s Antarctic expedition. And that hadn’t ended well.

“Can we go inside?” Dr. Harris called above the wind. “It’s too cold out here to talk.”

Beauvoir motioned one of the agents over. “Come with us. You’ll need to take notes.”

“Inside, sir?” she said. It was, at that moment, better than winning Loto-Québec.