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“I came back to help—”

“You disobeyed orders,” snapped Beauvoir, striding over. Blood was traveling up his cheeks, like a cartoon thermometer. Half of her expected his head to explode. The other half was aware that blood was also mounting her own cheeks.

Beyond Amelia, Armand saw Fiona and Sam walking to the bistro. His mind worked quickly.

“Come with me,” he said to Amelia, then turned to Jean-Guy. “Stay here and make sure Robert is all right. We’ll be at the bistro. You’re armed?”

“Oui.”

“I won’t be long.”

As they walked down the path toward the road and the village green, Amelia could feel the Inspector’s eyes boring into her back.

“You promised,” said the Chief, not looking at her as he strode across the green.

“Pardon?” she said, jogging beside him.

“You said you’d protect Madame Gamache, but you didn’t. You left her.” His voice was soft, calm. It was this very calm that chilled her core.

“Désolée,” she said. “But Madame Gamache—”

He stopped abruptly and turned to her, on her, as she skidded to a halt. “Is not the head of homicide. Madame Gamache does not have the information I have.” The effort to keep his voice down, and keep his anger in check, made the words raspy. “Madame Gamache does not give you orders. Madame Gamache”—he paused, marshaling himself—“must. Be. Protected.”

The Gamaches’ feelings for each other were plain for anyone to see, but in that instant Amelia saw more. She saw into his soul. And there, smiling, her arms open, was Madame Gamache.

And Amelia almost burst into tears, so painful was the thought of one losing the other. And it being her fault.

Madame Gamache had told her to return. To protect her husband.

And Amelia had done it. Partly because Madame Gamache had insisted, and partly because of what she owed this man. But now she realized her great mistake.

If “Désolée” ever described anyone, it was Amelia Choquet at that moment.

“I’ll leave right now,” she said. “I’ll go back up.”

“You’ll stay right here until I tell you to leave.”

Gamache stepped away, turned away, and brought out his phone.

Robert Mongeau was right. While he often told Reine-Marie that he loved her, he hesitated to say that he missed her, out of fear she’d feel guilty when she left to visit family or friends.

He never, ever wanted her to feel that. And so he’d kept that last bit to himself. But now he saw he’d been wrong. Whatever happened, and Armand knew that it would be soon, he wanted nothing left unsaid.

I love you, he typed. I miss you. Terribly.

He erased the “terribly.” Then put it back in and quickly hit send before he spent half the night erasing and adding, erasing and adding that one word. And never sending the message.

Then he turned back to Agent Choquet. “Let’s go.”

Myrna and Clara were standing by their table, and Myrna glanced at Gamache and Choquet when they arrived in the bistro, but her eyes were drawn to Sam Arsenault, who was sitting with his sister.

“Don’t,” said Clara. “You’ll just make it worse.”

But it was too late. Myrna was already on the move.

“Where’s Harriet?” she demanded when she was only halfway across the room.

Seeing her weaving between tables, patrons lurched forward to protect their wineglasses and plates from the juggernaut.