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Humankind less so.

After years of skating, of balancing, of slipping and sliding, she thought she could finally pull herself to safety. Finally.

And then, at the last moment, disaster. Thanks to Gamache. That fucker. She could not afford another mistake. Another misjudgment. Another moment of weakness.

Though they were miles apart on this Saturday morning in early October, she in her office in downtown Montréal and Moretti in the north end of Montréal at the Jean-Talon farmers’ market, she could feel his eyes on her. Intense, penetrating. Strip-searching her. Removing layers, not just of her clothing but of her skin, tearing it off in strips as he searched for any lie she might be hiding in her flesh, in her bones, in her marrow.

After all these years, he still did not trust her. Despite all she’d done. He was like some predator that relied on instinct. Sniffing the air for the stench of betrayal, of approaching danger.

She wished she could stop there. Dismiss him as a wild creature, but the fact was, over the years, as she’d watched him closely, she’d seen not just the mafia boss’s cunning, his guile, his charm and brutality, but also his intelligence.

This was no madman, careering from crime to hideous crime. This was a man who could have been anything.

Had Joseph been born into any family other than the Morettis, any other dynasty, his life would have been different.

But now she wondered if that was true.

For all his education and intelligence, something was off. A screw was loose. Whether it was loosened by his upbringing or by genetics, she didn’t know. What she did know was that something rancid, something corrosive, was seeping through that opening.

“You say Gamache isn’t a problem,” said Moretti. “But he and his people managed to fuck up the first part of the plan. Killing six of my soldiers, including two made men, in the process. It would be over by now if he hadn’t interfered. The Five Families are getting worried. How much does he know? He found the notebooks, right?”

“Oui. He gave them to the prosecutors.”

“Did he read them?”

She was about to snap, How would I know? But pulled herself back.

“I suspect he did.” Her voice was calm. “But so did I. I don’t think he could tell much from that second book, even if he realizes it’s the one that matters.”

“You don’t think? You don’t think?” Moretti’s voice had risen, then suddenly dropped to a growl. “You should’ve had him killed in the church.”

“I wanted him to be the one to sound the alarm. They’d have believed him. He’s trusted.”

“Yeah, well, if he begins to suspect there’s more—”

“He won’t. Look, the investigation’s wrapped. No one is paying any attention. Especially not Gamache. As far as they’re concerned, it’s over.”

She was tired of his paranoia. It was exhausting. She was exhausted. So close to the shore, to the end, she could not afford a mistake now. Another one. Moretti was right. She should have had Gamache killed in the church.

She had to shut this down.

“The biologist is dead—” she began.

“I know that.” He was getting snippy.

You should, she thought. You’re the one who had him killed.

“He’s the only one who came close to figuring out what’s happening,” she continued. “But even he didn’t know it all. If he had, he’d have told Gamache when they met at Open Da Night. And even if Charles Langlois had worked it out, no one would have listened to him. Would you, if someone came to you with that story?”

She waited for the laughter, but none came.

“Non,” she answered her own question. “You’d have dismissed what he said as unbelievable, and Charles Langlois as crazy, delusional. Paranoid. He had a history of addiction, of mental illness. He’d be seen as a pathetic young man from a homeless shelter who was clearly out of his mind and had bought into one too many conspiracy theories. Ironically, the truth would have proven how crazy he was. No. He knew nothing of the plan.”

“He knew enough to contact Gamache,” Moretti pointed out. “Gamache listened to him, believed him.”

“True, but only about the lesser target. Voyons, his notebook is pretty much gibberish unless you know what to look for.”

“And Gamache doesn’t?”