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He nodded to Sam, who tucked Beauvoir’s gun into his belt and approached Gamache with the hunting knife.

“I’ve hated you from the first moment you came into our house,” said Sam. “When you ruined everything.”

Armand kept his eyes on Reine-Marie, and she on him. But he could see Sam getting closer.

Come on. Come on, Armand begged. Come get me.

“Look at me!” shouted Sam. His arm shot out, bringing the blade to Gamache’s throat. But Armand did not move his eyes from Reine-Marie.

Closer. Come closer. Come on, you little shit. Just one more step.

Another few inches and Armand could grab the gun from Sam’s belt.

Come on. Come on.

He could shoot Fleming before the man knew what was happening. And he could overpower Sam. He knew he could. The adrenaline was rushing through him. His senses in overdrive. True, the knife might slash his throat, but Gamache knew there’d be a few precious seconds of consciousness. And that was all he’d need.

He didn’t drop his eyes, didn’t want Sam or Fleming to know what he was about to do.

Come on.

“Wait, stop,” commanded Fleming. “Step away. Give me the gun.”

Sam did.

Fleming held it up and looked at Armand. “Well, that was close.”

Armand knew then that Fleming had done it on purpose. Allowed Sam to get within inches. Allowed Armand to hope, hope, that there was a chance.

Only to take it away.

Seeing this, Jean-Guy began to flail. Struggling to get his hands free. But he could not. The cords were tied too tight. In knots, he realized, he’d taught Sam after the boy had been kicked out of Scouts.

Jean-Guy had asked Sam why, but hadn’t asked the Scout leader. If he had, he’d have discovered that it wasn’t because Sam wet his bed during a sleepover, as Sam claimed. It was because the boy, all of twelve, had killed a cat, and the Scout leader had found out.

Had the Scout leader not taken pity on the boy, knowing his background, had the Scout leader warned the authorities, had the authorities warned the foster home. Had the foster home looked in the crawl space, they’d have found the other creatures Sam Arsenault had eviscerated.

Then none of this would have happened.

But none of that happened.

Instead, Jean-Guy had taken it upon himself to teach the boy some of the things he might have learned in Scouts. Like tying knots.

Armand had warned him not to get too close. But Jean-Guy did not agree with Gamache. He knew that Sam was the victim and Fiona was the dangerous one. The psychopath.

They were both right, and both wrong.

Jean-Guy rolled and thrashed, fighting to get loose. Honoré, Idola. Annie.

Annie. Honoré. Idola. Jean-Guy bucked and fought and struggled.

Tears of frustration and rage and terror blinded him. He howled his outrage.

Henri and Fred and Gracie were barking and scratching and throwing themselves against the study door.

Armand’s eyes fell on the picture his granddaughter had made when all seemed so dark, so hopeless, during the pandemic. When something as simple as going to the grocery store was a life-and-death act.

When something as simple as an act of kindness by children could give hope.