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He understood. But still, young Armand needed something more tangible. As long as everything stayed exactly as it was when they’d left for dinner that night, then maybe, maybe nothing else would change.

Maybe they’d come home. It was his job to keep it just the way it was. In case. But if something, anything, changed, then the spell would be broken. And it would be his fault.

It wasn’t so much irrational as magical. And powerful. Only his trust in his grandmother allowed him to loosen his grip. But it took time.

Yes, he understood Clotilde’s children and their need for some control over a situation fast spinning way out of control.

They’d had to do something to survive the long, interminable, cruel hours of waiting. To take their minds off, however briefly, what was becoming inescapable.

And so they’d scrubbed the place clean. For when their mother returned.

“I’m sorry,” he said, holding her gaze. “If you want to talk about what’s happened, I’m here. I’ll give you my number.” He took a card out of his jacket pocket. “I promise we’ll find out who did this. But I’m afraid, Fiona, I’m going to need your help. We have questions that need answering.”

She nodded in her solemn way.

He’d just turned back to warm up the teapot when he felt a hand on his hand. He leapt away and stared at her.

The touch had been soft, gentle. Intimate.

Armand broke the eye contact and looked toward the stage and the gathering graduates.

He was determined not to sully the day. A day, an event, he and Reine-Marie had worked toward for years. And that had, years earlier, seemed impossible.

As a sort of palate cleanser, Armand did what he always did. He looked at Reine-Marie. She too had seen him, though Sam Arsenault had less of an effect on her. In fact, she didn’t really understand Armand’s aversion to the pleasant young man.

She took his hand and squeezed.

Armand could not explain it to Reine-Marie or anyone else. He’d looked into the faces of some of the worst humans possible. Truly vile, truly terrifying people. But it was this boy, this young man, who had somehow found the cracks, and a way into Gamache’s head. And messed around in there. Only one other person had managed to do that, and he was in prison for life.

Armand tried to remember when it had begun. When he’d first had an inkling.

“What’re you doing?” he said, staring at Fiona.

“You’ve been so kind,” she said, her voice soft. Inviting. “And you look so sad. I just wanted, just want, to comfort you.”

It was grotesque. And clearly the expression on his face told Fiona she’d misjudged. But still, she came forward, even as Gamache backed up.

“Stop,” he said. His voice held so much authority that she did. Staring at him, perplexed. She was not used to this reaction.

“You’re safe now, Fiona,” he said, keeping his distance and looking into her eyes. This girl had been raised, groomed, to replace feeling with touching. To confuse caring with caressing. And more.

“I’m not here for that. You don’t need to do that anymore.”

“Do what?” she asked, her schoolgirl persona now fully in place. Her head at a coquettish angle. Her voice innocent. And yet dripping with sexuality.

He tried not to show his revulsion.

He knew, of course, what this was about. Had suspected since he’d seen the studio photo in Clotilde’s wallet. Of the teen made up to look like a little schoolgirl, and the boy with seductive eyes. The photo was in the space where Clotilde’s money was kept.

These children were currency. Investments. As was the studio photo. Not a school picture, like most parents kept, like he and Reine-Marie had in their wallets. This was an advertisement.

He’d hoped, as he’d stood beside that lake, beside the corpse, that maybe he was wrong and his time among the worst of humanity had twisted his perceptions.

But he knew in his heart, a heart that ached now as he looked at the confused girl, that he was not wrong. What Fiona just did, an unmistakable, intentionally clumsy, practiced invitation, confirmed it. She was offering herself to him. As her mother had taught her.

Had Clotilde Arsenault walked through the door at that moment, Armand Gamache was far from sure he’d have been able to control himself.

But she was gone and had left behind a deeply damaged daughter. And a son no doubt equally, if not more, broken.