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It was December 6, 1989. And it was not a drunk student.

“Bonjour, Armand.”

He turned, startled. “Nathalie!”

They embraced, then examined each other. There was gray in their hair now. And lines down their faces.

It was what happened naturally when people were allowed to grow older.

Nathalie Provost had been a young engineering student when they’d first met.

She was going about her day, going to her classes near the end of the semester as they prepared for the Christmas break. When it happened.

Armand was not that much older than she was. Than all of them. When they first met. When it happened.

Nathalie looked around the crowded auditorium before turning to Reine-Marie and hugging her too. Old friends by now.

“A beautiful day,” Nathalie said, and they knew she meant more than the fine spring weather.

“It is,” said Reine-Marie.

“I hope you’re staying for the reception.”

“We wouldn’t miss it.”

Just then Myrna arrived. She was hard to miss in her exuberant caftan of bright pink and lime green. Reine-Marie waved her over. She moved through the crowd like an ocean liner and docked beside Reine-Marie, who introduced her to Nathalie.

“Landers,” said Nathalie. “Any relation to Harriet?”

“My niece. I take full credit for her brilliance.”

Nathalie laughed.

Myrna’s eyes went to the stage, where a huge bouquet of white roses sat in a vase on a table. Nathalie’s eyes followed.

“We must never forget,” Myrna said.

“No danger of that,” said Reine-Marie.

“I hope you’re right,” said Nathalie. “But I’m not so sure. We see how easy it’s becoming to move backward and call it progress. No, we need to do more than just not forget. We need to remember.” She studied the woman in front of her. “Myrna Landers. You’re the psychologist.”

“Retired.”

“Not completely,” said Nathalie. “I read the report Armand asked you to write about Fiona Arsenault. You supported her taking her degree today.” Nathalie looked more closely at the woman in front of her. “You look uncomfortable. Is something wrong? Was your report not accurate?”

“No, no, it was accurate. As far as it went.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I guess I wish the issue hadn’t come up.” Myrna shot Armand a look. “It’s difficult. Psychology isn’t an exact science, unlike engineering.”

“And even then, buildings and bridges still collapse.”

There was an awkward silence as Nathalie Provost twisted the thin ring on the little finger of her right hand.

When Agent Gamache and his supervisor had arrived at the École Polytechnique that December evening, they found chaos.

The sun had set, and the place was lit with the glare of headlights bouncing off banks of snow and hitting the imposing engineering building.