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She shook her head. “We’re all right.”

He held her eyes. “I’m afraid I have news of your mother.”

As he spoke, the sound on the television increased. The cheering became manic, the applause an assault. The walls of the small room almost shook.

Beauvoir’s ears began to buzz. He wondered if maybe they were bleeding.

“She was found a few hours ago,” Gamache said, having to raise his voice, but trying, trying, to keep his tone steady. Gentle. Even as his ears also began to ring.

And still the sound increased. The game show host was shouting a question. There was a pause, while the contestant considered and the live audience fell silent. There was just the loud ticktock of the game show clock counting down.

Gamache took advantage of the near silence to say, “I’m so sorry to have to tell you that your mother is dead.”

The contestant answered.

Please, please, thought Beauvoir. Let it be the wrong answer. But it was not.

The audience, the television, exploded with cheering and applause. Canned celebratory music filled the tiny living room.

It was grotesque. But worse was to come.

“I’m afraid there’s more,” the Chief Inspector was saying. He was leaning closer to Fiona, his focus complete. As though the noise weren’t happening. While Sam stared straight ahead, at the leaping, joyous woman on the screen.

Dear God, thought Beauvoir, now glaring at Gamache. Do you have to tell them everything now?

Again, Gamache had to raise his voice, to shout this. He wished with all his heart he didn’t have to tell them this next bit, but they’d hear it soon enough. Best, he knew, to get it over with.

“Your mother was murdered.”

Are you a monster? thought Beauvoir, staring in disbelief at the Chief Inspector.

But the monster was yet to appear.

Gamache waited a moment, to let the children take in what he’d just said, though he was not certain that Sam had heard for the sound blaring out of the television.

Fiona’s eyes had widened, her mouth opened. Not to speak but to breathe.

Gamache wanted to take her small hands in his, but did not. He said something else, but Beauvoir, just a couple feet away, would never know what. The words were drowned out by more applause, and the howl in Agent Beauvoir’s head.

“I am so sorry,” said Gamache, his voice steady, his gaze intense. “We’ll find out who did it.” He paused. “People can blame themselves when something like this happens. I want you to know”—he held her eyes—“there was nothing you could have done to prevent this.”

He knew that loved ones often added guilt to the burden of grief. Making it even more crushing. Managing, against all evidence, to find things they could have, should have, done differently. That would have, could have, averted the tragedy. He wanted to spare these children that, if possible.

Fiona nodded, but he doubted she took it in.

The phone in his pocket vibrated. Probably Chernin, he thought, but didn’t answer. He sat there, waiting. Giving Fiona space and time. Every now and then, he glanced over to the boy Sam, who sat stiff-backed, eyes forward. Staring at the contestant, now grabbing the host and dancing him around the stage.

These children would need help. Lots of it. But first, they’d need someone here, preferably someone they knew, who could comfort and look after them.

He looked out the window. Nothing. No one came. No one cared.

These children were well and truly alone in the world. His heart ached for them, and he wished there was something he could do to ease their pain.

What he could do was not make it worse. But he couldn’t even do that. He had questions for them, things he needed to know about their mother. About her movements on her last day. But not just yet.

As Agent Beauvoir watched, Gamache got to his feet. Were they leaving? Beauvoir wondered. Could they leave now? Was it over?

The Chief said something to Fiona. Something about tea. Was that possible? Beauvoir thought he must have misheard.