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“Did you ever see this?”

Monsieur Godin looked at it, then shook his head. “It’s strange, old. And that stuff about bricking up the room. But why are you showing it to me? Does it have anything to do with Pat?”

“We don’t know. We do know the letter came here first, then your wife forwarded it to Monsieur Williams here.”

“So? An old letter came here by mistake and she sent it on. People do.”

“Did your wife mention this letter?”

“Non. How could this have anything to do with her death?” He held Gamache’s eyes. “That is what you’re thinking.”

Gamache now showed him the Post-it note. “Is this your wife’s handwriting?”

“No.” It was so unequivocal, Gamache raised his brows. Seeing this, Godin got up. “Pat had terrible handwriting. I can show you.”

Godin returned with a shopping list his wife had made and stuck to the fridge with a magnet. He clearly wasn’t yet ready to throw out anything she’d touched.

Godin was right. Her handwriting was almost unintelligible.

“Merci,” said Armand, taking the list. “Do you mind if I keep this?”

Godin shook his head and watched as the Chief Inspector placed it in a baggie, along with the Post-it.

Gamache had one more question. “Do you have Billy Williams’s address?”

“His?” Monsieur Godin pointed to Billy. “If you need it, why not just ask him?”

“Non,” said Gamache, almost smiling. “I mean, would your wife be able to forward mail to him?”

“I doubt it.” He turned to Billy. “We had your parents’ address in the seniors’ home, but that was years ago and I know they’ve since passed away. We never had yours. Besides, nothing’s arrived for your family in years.”

“Merci.” Gamache got to his feet. He now had a pretty good idea why Madame Godin was killed. Like most murders, it had started long ago, and in the most banal of ways.

When she and her husband had bought a home. This home.

He picked up the envelope and looked at the crossed-out address and the new one, Billy’s, added. In the hand of her killer.

Patricia Godin was murdered not to stop the letter, but to make sure it was sent on. To the people who needed to see it.

Then he looked at the Post-it note, also written, he was sure, by her killer.

I think this might interest you.

It was almost, Gamache thought, as though the words were meant for him.

“You weren’t kidding.”

As soon as Jean-Guy Beauvoir arrived in Three Pines, Gamache had taken him up to Myrna’s loft to see the no-longer-hidden room.

The two men stood in front of the painting and were joined by Myrna, who now felt a certain ownership over it.

“Quite something, isn’t it?” she said, with a mixture of pride and uncertainty.

Jean-Guy was shaking his head, trying to get his mind around it. Then he leaned closer and pointed.

“Why put a poster in the painting?” asked Jean-Guy.

“Why put anything?” asked Myrna. “Why remake a masterpiece?”