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“These” were sheets of stickers. Unicorns. Angels. Fairies. Mythical, magical creatures. The same ones used as code beside the names of abusers.

“You?” she asked.

He shook his head and took another tour of the house. Finally, when there was nothing else to see, he returned to the living room.

“What’s bothering you?” asked Chernin, joining him.

“Pains were taken to lose the brick, but not the body. Why? I think whoever killed her wanted Clotilde to be found. The coroner says she was put in shallow water. That cove—the one place any visitor to the lake was likely to find her. If the killer had taken her that far, he could’ve carried her along the shore and dumped the body where it wouldn’t be found.”

“True. Maybe he thought the lake itself was far enough. No one would find her there.”

“But there’d been reports in the media that environmental activists would be scouting out the lake.”

“Yes. I’ve pulled copies of the articles and the interviews on local radio.”

“Do they say when?”

“This week.”

“And when did the reports appear in the news?”

“The first story was two days before Clotilde was killed.”

Gamache nodded. “So whoever put her body there probably knew that those environmentalists would be at the lake. And there’s only one road in. They were bound to find her. But not too soon.”

Chernin nodded, knowing where this was going. “Dagenais said if he’d killed her, he’d have made sure she was never found.”

“Oui. I think that’s true. Once the body was found, he had no option but to call us, and that was a disaster for him. No, if he killed her, he’d make sure she was listed as just one more missing woman. An addict and prostitute. A cursory search would be made, and the file closed.”

“Shit. You think he didn’t kill her?” When Gamache didn’t answer, she continued. “Then who did? The hiker? Could he be the kids’ father? You thought maybe … But they just arrived yesterday morning, and their car shows no signs of blood. We’ll have the DNA report later today. Still…”

Still. It seemed unlikely. They were the ones who reported the body.

“Suppose Clotilde was blackmailing one of her clients. That’s a pretty good motive for murder.”

“Yes,” said Gamache. “But he’d also have to find and destroy her records. No use killing Clotilde, then have us arrive and find the videos and the ledger. Dagenais was the only one who searched and found them.”

“Well, he might have been the only one who found them but not the only one who searched.”

Gamache’s brows rose. “That’s true.”

“Those kids lied to us about Dagenais, they might be lying about someone else. Someone who also threatened them if they told. It seems they’re so used to hiding the truth, it’s become second nature.”

“Agent Moel thinks they’ve been so damaged for so long they might not be able to tell the difference between lying and the truth,” said Gamache. “And maybe not between right and wrong.”

He leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees, his fingers knitted together as though praying. But what he was thinking, what had just entered his mind, was as far from divine as it was possible to be.

Two days later, and back in Montréal, Gamache listened to the handwriting expert who’d studied the record book. It seemed the ledger contained the handwriting of not one but three people.

Clotilde had partners.

He reread the interviews with the men arrested in the pedophilia sweep and reviewed, yet again, the evidence found in the house. Spending extra time with the stickers beside the names.

Finally, dropping his head and closing his eyes, he brought one hand up to his forehead. And massaged. Then, no longer able to avoid it, he gave the rest of the evidence to the handwriting expert.

Clotilde’s car had been found in the possession of one of those men. The one with the unicorn beside his name. The DNA evidence found in the vehicle proved it was how Clotilde’s body got to the lake.

The man had already been arrested, but now Gamache had another talk with him. And with Dagenais.