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“Frederick Castonguay.”

Armand had taken Jean-Guy aside as soon as they’d entered the house and whispered those words.

Beauvoir, who had not seen the bag being opened by Isabelle, stared, then gave a curt nod. Absorbing the news. They had other priorities at the moment, and Lacoste was more than capable of doing what was necessary with the body.

Still, it was unexpected, and Beauvoir struggled to keep his expression neutral.

He and Gamache were obviously thinking the same thing: How had the young assistant to Jeanne Caron ended up in a green garbage bag in a forest?

At one time, indeed until a few minutes ago, Gamache had wondered if Frederick Castonguay wasn’t deeply involved in the plots. Might he even be the one behind it all? It was unlikely, though wasn’t that often the way?

But Armand now knew he’d been at least partially mistaken. And partly right. Castonguay was not the leader, but he was obviously involved somehow and considered so dangerous that he needed to be silenced.

Frederick Castonguay had had access to all of Jeanne Caron’s documents, and she, in turn, as Lauzon’s Chief of Staff, had access to all the former Deputy Prime Minister’s papers and emails. She had control over his movements and even his finances. Or so she’d thought.

And Castonguay, as her assistant, had access to all of that.

Could he have sidestepped his immediate boss and been working directly with Lauzon? Was he the conduit for the money? Was Frederick Castonguay, that nondescript young man, one of the main conspirators?

By the same token, it would be equally easy for Frederick Castonguay to plant evidence. To plant that money. To set up Marcus Lauzon. To make it look like the Deputy PM was the one behind the plots. And leave the real conspirators free to finish what they started.

So, thought Armand as he slowly removed his coat and put on the old cardigan, so far there was a possibility Marcus Lauzon was, or was not, behind the plots. There was a possibility the dead man was, or was not, work- ing with him. There was a possibility the dead man was, or was not, working against him.

They did not seem further ahead.

What he did know was that there was a direct line from the man now standing in the heart of their home in Three Pines, looking around with interest, and the young man dead and decomposing hundreds of kilometers north. From Lauzon to Caron to Castonguay.

Quite a lineage.

Too many things led back to the former politician for Gamache not to wonder if Lauzon wasn’t the Black Wolf after all. The one who fed people’s fears, paranoia, greed, rage. He fed them and, in turn, was fed on them.

And few knew better than Armand Gamache what a bloated ruin this man was.

So why, why, he wondered as he watched Marcus Lauzon, did he harbor doubts? He was clearly the only one who did. Even his own team thought him mad to think Lauzon might have been wrongly convicted.

He put on the ragged old slippers and was aware everyone was looking at him. Waiting for him to take the lead. He glanced at Beauvoir, who also seemed distracted. Clearly struggling with the questions that emanated from that putrid find at the northern lake.

What was Frederick Castonguay looking for at the lake? How did he know that lake was of interest? Unless … was there some connection between the two young men?

Whose side was Frederick Castonguay on?

Who had followed, found, and killed him?

Who—

Armand’s phone alarm went off, startling everyone in the room. And just like that, the questions retreated, and his attention was brought sharply back home.

He turned to Marcus Lauzon. “That’s the chicken. It’s ready to be taken out. Let’s go into the kitchen.”

Beauvoir and Evelyn Tardiff exchanged glances. Were they mistaken, or did this sound like two friends about to prepare a meal together?

“I’m very good at gravy,” said Lauzon as he followed his host. “Should you need it.”

“As it turns out, that’s my specialty too,” said Armand, “but I’ll hand that duty over to you today. Perhaps best I carve.”

Lauzon actually laughed.

The kitchen smelled of tradition and safety and comfort. Of childhood dinners with family around the table. And yet Jean-Guy found that his stomach had soured. Probably because while the scent was of safety, this reeked of danger.