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Each morning Armand sat in that fear and forgiveness and pulled the copy he’d made of Charles’s notebook from his pocket, struggling to see what he was missing. Fighting to understand what was written in those pages by another young man who’d also given his life for others.

Armand knew if he got it wrong, it would be unforgivable.

All this Jean-Guy also knew as he turned away from the peaceful view and entered the church.

The lines between Armand’s brows deepened.

There was still so much they did not know, but what was clear to the head of homicide for the Sûreté du Québec was that something else was planned. Which meant there were others still out there. Those who had avoided arrest. And to do that, their influence must extend to the highest levels of government, the judiciary, industry. Organized crime.

The police.

Even, he feared, within the Sûreté. He didn’t know who, though he had suspicions. Some officers had been arrested in that first sweep, but where there were bad apples, the rot spread. Which was why Armand kept the fact he had not stopped investigating to his tight circle. Only a few knew. Very few. A carefully chosen few.

“There must be more,” Armand had whispered that morning as he’d gripped the side of the sink and stared at his reflection.

There must, he’d thought as he’d entered the quiet church, followed by the small parade of creatures. And the ghosts that never left.

“There must,” he muttered as he stood very still and stared straight ahead. As he fought to understand what was happening. What was about to happen.

If anything.

A part of him still hoped he was wrong. Hoped he was reading far too much into a dead man’s indecipherable notes. Had the screaming in his ear, in his head, made him deaf to reason?

Everyone else was convinced the danger was over. The plotters had been arrested. Were in prison. Including the man behind it all.

The former Deputy Prime Minister of Canada.

Marcus Lauzon denied he was involved, but the evidence against him was overwhelming. While the evidence against Don Moretti had evaporated. Disappeared.

How could that be? How could that man, that murderer, not even be arrested?

The answer was, of course, clear. Someone high up had corrupted the process.

But following that train of thought brought Gamache to an even more troubling question: Why had Moretti gotten off while Marcus Lauzon had been convicted? Would Lauzon, as the Black Wolf, not make sure the evidence against him disappeared, and Moretti fell?

Why the other way around? Why?

There were, of course, two possible answers.

Lauzon preferred to be in prison, beyond suspicion, when something else happened.

Or …

Armand closed his eyes and, teetering on the edge, he took a deep breath, then took the plunge.

Or … he’d been wrong. Marcus Lauzon was not the Black Wolf.

After the inquiry wrapped a few weeks earlier, Armand had called the head of the Sûreté’s Organized Crime division. In person was always better, but for now, video and virtual would have to do.

“I have the same questions, Armand.” Evelyn Tardiff’s words were transcribed at the bottom of the screen for him to read. “It seems incredible that Moretti got off. Who else is involved? And why did the head of the crime family even agree to work with anyone? He’s notorious for killing rivals, not partnering with them.”

“Oui. He murdered his own father for doing the same thing.”

“Unfortunately, that could never be proven. God knows I tried. As you know, I was the arson investigator on that case.”

“Oui.”

There was something else he knew. At the time of the fire that killed Moretti’s father, then Agent Tardiff had been approached by the head of the Sûreté to let young Moretti know she’d be open to a bribe. To make the investigation go away.