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“And?”

“Destroyed them.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t want anyone else finding them.”

“Why not?”

Here Comeau paused. “If one of the Fillmores found them and realized what she was doing, she’d be in trouble.”

“You did it to protect her?”

“Why not?”

Gamache’s gaze was so intense, Comeau once again blushed.

“You mentioned a cassette. What was that about?”

“Why should I do all your work for you, patron?”

“I’m not your patron.” The balance of power seemed to be fluid, ever shifting between them. At the moment, it appeared to belong to Comeau.

“All right, Chief Inspector. But no more information until you reinstate me.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me. I made a mistake. There, I admit that. But so did you. And yet I’m the one out of a job? Does that seem fair?”

Armand Gamache grew very quiet. Very still. Had Comeau been reincarnated from a wildebeest, he’d have recognized the look in the lion’s eyes.

Gamache stood up. Comeau scrambled to his feet just as Gamache took a step closer. Then another. And another.

Comeau backed up. A step. Then another. He tripped over a hassock, but righted himself, and retreated until his back was to the wall, tipping an old oil painting askew.

Gamache was within a few inches of Comeau’s face. His dark eyes digging into him. Comeau didn’t think there could be anything more terrifying than the bullets and explosions and mayhem. Anything worse than the horror of feeling the gun against his temple. At times, he still felt it. It came upon him in the shower. On the bus and Métro. In the janitors’ room.

He felt it over Sunday dinners. The metal pressing into his flesh.

But he’d finally found something to equal that. The look in the eyes of his former mentor, his patron.

And Comeau realized then that the Chief Inspector knew him for what and who he really was. Had always been. Had covered up since childhood under a spray of extreme competence. His excellence waved at everyone, Over here, look over here.

Trying to distract from his one great failing.

He’d fooled even himself. Talked himself into applying for the Sûreté academy. To prove to anyone who doubted. They were wrong. The whisper that slithered out from under the locked door of his longhouse was wrong.

He was not a coward.

Now, with his former Chief within an inch of him, Comeau felt that odd disconnect. The familiar scent of sandalwood and rose water brought back pleasant memories of dinners at the academy. Gamache would invite students to join him at the long refectory table. Instead of talking, he’d listen as they opened up about their lives, their experiences. Their fears.

His calm, thoughtful gaze would rest on them, and each one would know they were heard. They were seen. They were safe.

Comeau inhaled the scent and felt calm, even as he looked into those eyes and was very afraid.

“Tell me,” Gamache growled. “Where. Is. The. Cassette?”

“I don’t know, pa—Chief Inspector.” Comeau’s heart pounded. “I don’t know. I think Jeanette found it, or some transcription. Or maybe Fillmore did. It wasn’t clear. I never had it.”