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“And if someone refuses or gets in their way?”

“They’ll be moved aside, one way or another. Often, they’re brought on side, only because it’s easier, less messy, more fun. They’re adept at making something untrue appear reasonable. They could make someone believe red curtains are bright blue. Then swear to it.”

“What if the person refuses to see the bright blue curtains?”

“That’s where you come in.”

For a moment, her answer puzzled him. And then he, the head of homicide for the Sûreté, understood.

“They’re smart, often brilliant,” said Myrna. “Cunning, certainly. Their thoughts and actions are uncluttered by any question of morality. Uncluttered by the existence of others. They’re not only the most important person in the universe, they’re the only one. Everyone else only exists in relation to themselves.”

“Like a black hole.”

Myrna considered and nodded. “In a way, yes.”

“And what happens if they’re ignored?”

Myrna was silent before saying, “They’d go crazy.”

What fresh horror would that be, Gamache wondered. A lunatic going crazy.

“What would that look like?” he asked.

“I think you’ve seen what it looks like. If they’re denied, they’re like an angry child. An upset, frustrated child will throw toys and dishes, breaking everything they can get their hands on. A psychopath, ignored and frustrated, breaks people.”

Sam stared at the image of the Gamaches’ bedroom on the phone, then at Beauvoir.

He’d never seen the cop angry. Frustrated at times, annoyed, perhaps. It was hard for Sam to distinguish the difference.

But anger he recognized by the lines down faces that looked so much like cracks. He saw crevices deepening on the cop’s face. Yes, Beauvoir was very angry.

Sam shook his head and dropped his eyes. “I didn’t take those.”

“Look at me.” When Sam did not, Beauvoir repeated, raising his voice. “Look. At. Me.”

Sam raised his eyes.

“What’s this picture doing on your phone?”

“When someone sends a photo, it’s automatically saved to my phone. That’s what happened.”

Beauvoir put the device on the table with such force, other patrons in the bistro looked over. “What’s it doing up?”

“Okay. While I waited for you, I was looking at the pictures.”

“Pictures? There’re more?”

Sam picked up his phone and offered it to Jean-Guy. “I have nothing to hide. Scroll along.”

Jean-Guy did. Sure enough, there were other shots of the house. Then he stopped at the picture of the picture. The one from Christmas the year before.

He and Annie had the same framed photo, a gift from Armand and Reine-Marie. It showed the whole family, and Ruth, in front of the tree.

His hand clasped the phone, tight. Overcome with anger over this violation.

“I didn’t take it, I swear, Monsieur Beauvoir. Fiona sent it to me.”

“Why would she do that?” Jean-Guy’s voice was almost a snarl. “And not just this one, but the others, of the whole house.”