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Harriet’s breathing came in short, sharp gasps.

She was crouching on the ground, her arms clasped tightly around her knees, making herself as small as possible. Her eyes were wide, though she could see nothing. If she hadn’t been able to feel the ground beneath her, she wouldn’t know which way was up.

But what her sense of sight lacked, her hearing made up for.

Every snap of a twig became a gunshot. The claws of chipmunks running up trees became monsters approaching. All around her there were howls as one creature chased another. And shrieks when they were caught.

But the loudest sounds were the pounding of her heart and the chattering of her teeth as the cold settled into her bones.

Above her there was a cry and the scrape of sharp nails.

Harriet got up and ran. And ran.

Amelia gave the cutlery and glass to the coroner.

The cutlery was labeled, Sam Arsenault and Fiona Arsenault, and had come from the bistro. The glass she’d lifted from the caretaker’s makeshift bedroom in the church basement.

It had taken Amelia just a moment to realize that the Chief Inspector’s fingers hitting the table wasn’t involuntary. He was tapping out a message. One he knew she’d be able to follow from all the times she’d used her tongue stud to send some Morse code message.

Generally Fucking liar. Sometimes Shithead. Never directed at the Chief Inspector himself, often about some suspect.

She hadn’t realized that he’d understood. Now she did, and she’d clicked out her reply.

I understand.

Amelia had left the bistro, gone quietly to the church to do as he’d ordered, then driven directly to the coroner to drop the items off.

“Do you want to wait for the results?” Dr. Harris asked. “Shouldn’t take too long.”

“Non, merci. You can message them to the Chief.”

Dr. Harris looked over, but the young agent was already gone. She shook her head. What Gamache had been thinking admitting her into the Academy, then into homicide, was beyond her.

It was just after ten p.m.

Beauvoir was upstairs, keeping watch on Mongeau, while Armand settled into his office after checking and double-checking the doors and windows. Again. All were locked. No one could get in.

And no one could get out.

Sam Arsenault wondered if he dared risk breaking the glass ball but decided against it.

It would be more fun to do it in front of Gamache. So that the cop could see. Could slowly grasp. Could understand what was about to happen.

He looked at his watch and settled in.

Not long now. Time was almost up.

He tossed the Christmas ornament back and forth, then bobbled it and reached out. But it slipped between his fingers.

Armand heard a sound.

It seemed to be coming from the basement.

Getting up, he cocked his head. Listening closely. He looked toward the wall safe, hidden behind the bookcase, where he kept his service gun.

Should he?

He, better than most, knew the dangers of a loaded gun in a private residence. While he knew how to use it, and how to defend himself, Armand also knew how often even cops were disarmed. With catastrophic results, and not just for the cop.