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When Sam was well enough, he rejoined his sister at the home in Montréal where they were staying. Gamache, Beauvoir, and the counselor sat in the kitchen with the children, mugs of hot chocolate and tea in front of them. Inspector Chernin and Agent Moel sat in the next room, where they could follow what was happening but not overwhelm Fiona and Sam.

“How are you feeling?” Gamache started. His voice soft. Calm and calming.

“Okay,” they said, as one.

Gamache looked at Sam. The boy’s face was swollen and bruised from the beating in the alley. There was a bandage on the side of his head.

“Are you sure?”

Sam just nodded, not meeting the Chief Inspector’s gaze.

“I know you’ve been asked this before, but I want to ask again. Is there anyone we should be calling? Any family?”

Sam shook his head, and Fiona said, “It’s just us.”

Gamache caught the eye of the counselor. They both knew this was a hallmark of abuse. Isolation.

Armand had planned to tell them something he rarely talked about. His own childhood. That he’d lost both parents suddenly when he was about Sam’s age.

He wanted to open up to them in hopes they’d relax and open up to him. It was, he admitted, slightly manipulative. But more than anything, Armand wanted Fiona and Sam to know that while shocking and devastating, it was possible to survive. And even, with help, be happy one day.

Behind the children, he could see into the neat living room of the cheerful house. There, on the coffee table, was the new model plane he’d given Sam. Already built.

Armand was glad. Daniel, his son, had also loved making models. They’d done quite a few together. The model he’d chosen for Sam had looked like a good one.

But now he hesitated to tell them about his parents, for a number of reasons, not least of which was that this was about their loss, their pain. Not his. Though there was another reason, one that was instinctive and indistinct.

Instead, he asked, “Why did you run away?”

They looked at each other, each waiting for the other to speak. Finally Fiona said, “We were bored.”

It was not the answer any of them expected, but upon reflection Gamache realized their lives had been, from the moment of waking to going to sleep, chaotic. Filled with violence, anxiety, danger, pain. Uncertainty. Drama. Activity. People.

It’s not that they liked it. It was all they knew.

A nice, comfortable, safe, and calm home was completely foreign. Perhaps even frightening. It allowed thoughts and feelings to surface.

They wanted to get back to the distractions, to the devil they knew. So they’d headed to the inner city.

Though Gamache was not convinced. He thought there was another reason. Leaning forward, he repeated, “Why did you run away?”

“I told you,” said Fiona, clearly annoyed at being doubted.

“You didn’t take any clothes with you. You didn’t pack.” His voice remained calm, kindly even. But his eyes were steady. “You didn’t leave. You ran away. Why?”

Fiona looked at Sam.

“Tell us.” Beauvoir spoke gently, looking at the boy. “It’s okay. We won’t be mad.”

“We heard that you were coming over.” Sam’s eyes shifted now, landing on Gamache. “We didn’t want to see you.”

“Why not?” he asked, though he could have provided the answer.

He’d have been partly right, but mostly wrong. The answer, when it came, stunned him.

“Because we don’t like you, okay?” snapped Sam. That much Gamache expected. The rest he did not. “We’ve seen men like you. We know what you really want.”

Then the thin, bruised child made an obscene gesture.