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The home had already been smudged by the time they got there.

Everyone was now in the living room.

Ruth had stuck the sage stick into the vase of bee balm and sweet pea and was pouring herself a scotch.

“Ruth,” said Reine-Marie. “It’s only…” She looked at the clock on the mantel. “Oh, what the hell.”

She poured drinks for everyone, while Armand stared at the framed picture Florence had made. The one with the rainbow. The one Fiona had taken off the wall and held that night almost a month ago. Her finger had been pointing to the words his granddaughter had written in her careful hand.

Ça va bien aller.

Armand hadn’t known for sure, but he’d thought, wondered, hoped, prayed that Fiona was sending him a message. That yes, she had helped her brother, helped her father. But unlike them, she had limits. And had reached them.

She would not help them murder the Gamaches.

All would be well.

That was Armand’s last hope. The one he clung to even as time was running out. Ran out.

When Fiona had left the home, he knew it could mean one of two things. Either she was, as she said, looking out for the police to warn the others. Or she was going to flag them down, guide them to the house. Which was what she’d done.

The three women together—Fiona, Amelia, and Harriet—had saved their lives.

On their way home from the lake house, Reine-Marie had asked Armand to stop at the women’s prison where Fiona was being kept. She would spend many years behind bars for her role in what had happened.

Armand knew he would speak, once again, on her behalf. On behalf of John Fleming’s daughter. Though he wasn’t ready to see her. Not yet. But Reine-Marie wanted to. Needed to.

When she returned to the car, she was pale. But calm.

“What happened?” he’d asked.

Armand went over to Myrna.

“Drink?” she asked, lifting hers.

“Please. Scotch, neat. Can I borrow this?” He’d picked up the still smoldering smudge stick from among the flowers.

“You can have it. It’s done its job.”

“Not quite.”

He went downstairs for the first time since the confrontation with Fleming. As he descended, he could smell the musky sage and sweetgrass. Here too had been cleaned and cleansed. Washed, sanitized. Exorcised. But he needed to be sure.

Armand knew that ghosts could be stubborn.

Walking around the room, he wafted the smoldering sage stick toward the walls, the floors. The boxes of Christmas ornaments. He spent extra time on the pile of bricks, the ones he’d meant to get rid of. But had not.

The head of homicide for the Sûreté du Québec went through the ancient ritual, solemnly smudging every corner of the room.

Then Armand turned to the bolted door and punched in the code: 1206. December 6th. The date of the shootings at the École Polytechnique.

Standing in the middle of the little room, surrounded by secrets, he closed his eyes and wafted the sweet smoke over himself. As men and women had done for thousands of years.

Then, noticing that Fred had followed him down, he picked up the smelly old dog and carried him upstairs.

That night a bonfire was lit on the village green in front of the three huge pines, celebrating Canada Day as they’d also celebrated, a week earlier, St-Jean Baptiste.

“Whatever happened to the women?” Harriet asked. “Anne Lamarque and the others.”