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Tea?

Gamache turned to him and … murmur. Murmur. Murmur. Not a word got past the howl in Beauvoir’s head and the jubilation on the television. Then the Chief Inspector left the room.

Leaving him alone with two grieving children??? What the fuck??

Get out, his mind screamed. Leave. Take the car, drive to the detachment. Hand in your resignation. Go back to civilization and take a job disarming bombs, or trucking toxic material. Or as a tightrope walker in Cirque du Soleil.

Where I’ll be safe. Where no one will look at me the way this girl is now.

The smell of lemon cleaner had become cloying. He could feel his gag reflex kicking in.

He needed to get away from the screaming contestants. Away from the look of despair on the girl’s face, and the boy’s rigid back. The bones of his spine visible through his thin shirt.

Away from the grief that was sucking up all the oxygen. Like a fire.

He looked outside. Still nothing, only some stranger staring back, wide-eyed, wild-eyed.

There would be no help.

CHAPTER 6

The kitchen was spotless. Or almost. There were some marks on the otherwise gleaming stove top where the enamel had been chipped away. There were burns on the counters and linoleum floor, made from smoldering cigarettes and joints.

Gamache put on the kettle, then pulled out his phone and checked. Yes, it had been Inspector Chernin.

Calling her back, he got the news that both search warrants had come through.

“Good. There’s no working vehicle here. Any sign of one by the lake? Hidden in the forest?”

“We’ll look, but no, nothing so far. She got to the lake somehow. We’ll go over the hikers’ car.”

Though both investigators knew few would be stupid enough to report a murder and still be in possession of the victim’s vehicle. Still, some people were just that stupid.

“When you drop them off at the station, find out if Captain Dagenais has arranged for a family friend to come be with the children. If not, then send Agent Moel.” She was trained in grief counseling and had worked with children in the past. “In fact, send her anyway.”

“Oui, patron.”

He hung up and slipped the phone back into his jacket pocket.

“I did it.”

Armand turned at the sound of the voice. Fiona was standing in the doorway.

“Pardon?”

“Cleaned. Sam helped. We wanted it clean and tidy for when she came home.”

Armand nodded. He understood, though it was actually the opposite of his reaction when at the age of nine his own parents had been killed by a drunk driver.

He’d grown hysterical whenever anyone tried to move anything. Change anything. Even cook. Or do the laundry. He refused to change out of the flannel pajamas his mother had put him in before she left. Before.

There was always, even now, a before and an after. As there would be for these children.

After days of this, Armand’s grandmother had had to sit him down and explain that his mother and father were not in the objects. They were not in the dust that was accumulating. They were not even in the home.

It was more permanent, far stronger than that.

“They’re here.” Zora touched his head. “And here.” She touched his heart. Then laid her thin hand over her own heart. “A house can change. Things can get lost or broken. But the love you keep inside you is safe, forever. They’re safe, inside you.”