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“But I did find something.” Isabelle reached into the satchel on the floor beside her armchair. It was warmed by the fire. “After some persuasion, the girl brought out the box with the things Frederick left behind. Most of it’s junk. Old trophies. Souvenirs from concerts and family vacations. A few photographs. Including…”

That was when she placed the picture on the pine table. Its corners were curled, and there was a small puncture in the top where it had probably been pinned to a corkboard at one time.

Armand picked it up. “It’s a class photo.”

“From fourth grade,” said Jean-Guy, reading the sign at the sneakered feet of those in the first row.

He looked up at Isabelle, his brows raised in a So?

“I didn’t get it either, until I turned it over.” She did so now and handed it back to the Chief.

It took just a moment for his own brows to rise. He passed the picture to Jean-Guy.

There in the back row was nine-year-old Frederick, grinning mischievously. Unrecognizable as the arrogant young man Jean-Guy had met. Frederick’s arm was slung lazily over the shoulder of the boy next to him.

Buddies.

It was, according to the chart on the back—

“Charles Langlois,” said Armand.

“Fucking hell,” Jean-Guy whispered into the mound of Saint André cheese almost at his lips.

“As soon as I saw this, I asked the Castonguays about Langlois. They looked blank at first, but when I showed them the photo, Frederick’s mother remembered him, but not his name. The boys were best friends for a while, but there was a falling-out over something when they were still kids. But then the daughter—”

“Lapin,” said Beauvoir.

His daughter had her own nickname. When she was born, Honoré couldn’t get his mouth around “Idola” so had taken to calling her “Lala.”

Idola did not yet speak, though they had hopes that with her therapy she would one day. And maybe even, one day, be able to correct her epically lazy brother.

Most children with Down syndrome, he and Annie had learned from doctors and other parents, did eventually speak. Though the older Idola got, the less they worried or noticed. The little girl communicated clearly in every other way. Mostly through laughter.

“Oui, Lapin,” confirmed Isabelle. “She remembered that over Sunday dinner a while ago Frederick mentioned he’d run into an old friend from school. One who wasn’t doing so well.”

“He didn’t give a name?” Beauvoir asked. Incredibly he held another piece of bread, this one with a crumbly Bleu bénédictin cheese on it.

“If he did, none of them could remember. It didn’t seem a big deal, just a passing comment.”

The class photo was back on the pine table, the flickering light of the wood fire playing over the children’s faces. Almost animating them. Armand was reminded of the stained-glass young men in the church window. Also frozen in time. Forever young.

But each year, on a precise day, as the very first rays of the sun hit the window just so, the boys appeared to move, for a moment. It was, of course, an optical illusion. One not many had witnessed. But Armand had.

He’d woken early that day, troubled by a homicide that he could not seem to get a handle on. He’d gone to the church, not to pray, but to commune with his thoughts.

It had been September 18 of that first year he and Reine-Marie had moved to Three Pines. A day that was no longer summer. Not yet fall.

He’d walked up to the church in darkness, past the homes with sleeping friends and new neighbors. Past the three tall pines. As he climbed the wooden steps and reached for the door of the white clapboard church, he turned and looked over the village. There was a softening of the sky just at the tree line.

As he watched, the elderly poet was making her way to the bench, to help in the birthing of a new day.

Then he went into the church. Soon he’d drive into Montréal and meet again with the parents of Katie Vaslov, the young girl who’d been killed. He’d listen to their pain. He’d absorb, again, their sorrow. Their rage, now directed at him. And he’d have to admit he and his team were still searching for her killer. He’d reassure them he would find whoever had done it. However long it took.

But for that moment he’d sat in the pew beneath the boys and closed his eyes. Hoping for clarity. Hoping to see what had so far eluded him.

A movement, a slight shimmering of light across his lids, made him open his eyes. The blues and greens and bright brittle reds were undulating across the polished wood, moving toward him. And when the light reached him, it rested warm and bright on his hands. As though holding them.

He looked up and could have sworn the boys were watching him. Just for an instant. And then they’d frozen again.