Page 24

While dreary, the home was neat and tidy. And clean. Almost sparkling. Given how Clotilde looked after herself, he’d expected her home, her children, to be in the same state of neglect.

And Gamache was reminded, yet again, of the folly of expectation. Especially in his job. How easy it was to go down the wrong road and turn his back on the real threat escaping down another path. Or creeping up behind.

The girl’s sweater and jeans were worn but washed. Her hair, no longer in pigtails, was long and blond and shiny. Not with grease but from a recent shampoo. Fiona Arsenault was about the same age as Annie, his daughter. Slightly younger, but close.

He wished he were anywhere else but here. Doing anything but this. But here he was, and there was no turning back.

Fiona paused in the hallway, uncertain.

“May we go into your living room?” Gamache asked, his deep voice kind but still firm.

Don’t do it, thought Beauvoir. How can you do this to her?

To them.

A boy was in the living room watching a huge television. He turned to them but didn’t stand up. He just stared.

Beauvoir almost gasped. He’d never seen such a handsome child. Like his sister, he was small for his age. His eyes were large and deep brown and thoughtful, almost soulful. His hair was light brown, thick and wavy around his face. His features looked like something an artist would draw, of a perfect waif.

Given what was about to happen, Beauvoir felt himself suddenly light-headed. To destroy such innocence seemed itself a murder.

“Are you Samuel?” Gamache asked.

“Sam. Oui.” The boy now looked suspicious.

Gamache again introduced himself. “May we sit down?”

Fiona indicated chairs.

“Not there!” Sam shouted. Beauvoir twisted away, a split second before his bottom hit the seat cushion.

While neither child said anything, it was clear that had been their mother’s chair. It still had her outline in it. And that sheen where her unwashed head had rested.

“Do you mind?” Gamache nodded toward the television.

He’d had to raise his voice to be heard. This was difficult enough without having to shout the news of their mother’s death, her murder, at the children.

“No!” snapped Sam when Fiona went to turn the TV off.

She stared at him, then relented, putting the remote down on a table. Sam snatched it up and held it tight to his chest. It reminded Beauvoir a little of the Chief Inspector’s white-knuckle grip on the phone when talking to the captain.

He glanced out the window, hoping to see another vehicle draw up. Someone who would stay with these children and absorb their grief and anger. So he didn’t have to.

But all he saw was his own reflection in the window, and darkness outside. Where the hell were they?

Gamache waited to see if Sam would turn down the TV. But nothing happened. The game show continued, with its cheering and applause and cheerful music when a contestant got an answer right. It was macabre, but probably necessary.

The child might need, Gamache suspected, some sense of control over something, if only the television.

He let it go.

While her brother stared at the TV, Fiona continued to stare at the senior cop.

As Gamache began to speak, Sam slid a glance his way. Where there was fear in Fiona’s face, there was something else in the boy’s. It was unmistakable.

It was, Beauvoir could see, loathing. And why not, he thought as he watched the riveting child. He loathed himself and the Chief at that moment too.

“You’re alone here?” Gamache asked, and when Fiona nodded, he went on, “Is there someone you can call? A friend of the family? One of your friend’s mothers? A neighbor? Someone who can come over?”