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He’d known, when he’d let her into the academy, that if she succeeded, she had the makings of a remarkable Sûreté officer. A street kid, a junkie turned cop.

It had given her a huge advantage. She knew things other agents never could. She knew them not just in her intellect but deep in her gut. She had contacts, credibility, the language of the streets etched into her very skin. She could get to places and people no one else could reach.

And she knew the despair of the streets. The cold, lonely deaths of opioid addicts.

Gamache had hoped Amelia Choquet shared his profound desire to stop that plague. But now he wondered just how big a misjudgment he’d made. And how big a mistake he was about to make.

While in the gutter, Amelia Choquet had read the poets, the philosophers. She was an autodidact, who’d taught herself Latin and Greek. Literature. Poetry.

Yes, if she succeeded, she’d go far. In the Sûreté. In life.

But he’d also known if she failed, it would be equally spectacular.

And it seemed, so close to the finish line, Amelia Choquet had failed. Spectacularly.

She knew, of course, when she walked in that they’d found the drugs.

Having them there was an act of self-destruction.

Gamache closed his eyes. A decision had to be made. No, he realized, that was wrong. The decision he’d already made had to be carried out. No matter how distasteful.

Sitting in the Commander’s office, he could smell wet wool and hear the tapping of snow as it fell.

Opening his eyes, he turned to the Commander. “We need a blood test, to confirm and to build the case against Cadet Choquet.”

“Look, give me another chance,” she said. “It was a mistake.”

“A mistake?” said Gamache. “Is that what you call it? A parking ticket is a mistake. This is…” He searched for the word. “Ruinous. You’ve ruined your life, and this time there’ll be no more chances. You’ll be arrested and you’ll be charged. Like anyone else.”

“Please,” she said.

Gamache looked at the Commander, who made a subtle gesture. It was the Chief Superintendent’s call.

“Where did you get the stuff?” Gamache asked.

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Oh, I think you can, and you will. Tell us that and we might go easier on you.”

There was a pause, as everything hung in the balance.

And then Amelia Choquet tipped that balance.

“I got it from you.”

Gamache’s eyes widened just a little as he glared at her. Warning her.

Go no further.

The scent of fresh croissants. Holding Reine-Marie in my arms, in bed, on a rainy morning. Driving across the Champlain Bridge and seeing the Montréal skyline.

“What do—” began the Commander.

“You don’t even know, do you?” she said to Gamache, cutting off the Commander. “You don’t know if this’s the shit you let in. You’ve lost track of it, haven’t you?” Now she leaned toward Gamache, her pupils dilated. “What the fuck did you think would happen when you made that choice? Is that why you’re so angry? Is that why you want to punish me? For your own mistake?”

“This isn’t a punishment, Cadet, it’s a consequence. Do I want to find the drugs? Absolutely. But I never thought it would start with you.”

“Save it. You knew who I was when you let me in.”

“We should consider ourselves lucky, I suppose, that you didn’t burn the place down.”

“How do you know I haven’t?”

Her words froze him for a moment.

“Where did you get it from? Who sold it to you?” he asked, menace in his voice now.

“What a fucking shitshow you’ve made of being Chief Superintendent.”

“Cadet,” warned the Commander.

“Why’re you even consulting him?” she asked the Commander, acknowledging him again, jabbing her finger at Gamache. “He’s on suspension. You’re nobody now, patron.”

The last word was spit out. And in the silence the clicking began again. This time metronome-slow. Counting the passing moments. While Gamache sat perfectly still.

“If I’m going down, I’m just following you,” Amelia said, leaning even further forward. “You’re a ruin, old man.”

She must be out of her mind, thought the Commander. Stoned. Suicidal. Insane.

“Feel better?” asked Gamache, his voice steady. “Getting the bile out? Spewing over someone else?”

“At least I chose someone my own size,” said Amelia.

“Good. And now we can talk reasonably.”

While Chief Superintendent Gamache’s voice was calm, the Commander felt the force of his personality. So much stronger than the young cadet’s. If he wanted to, the Commander knew, Gamache could crush her.

But what he felt vibrating off the Chief Superintendent wasn’t what he expected. He expected anger, rage.

There was, certainly, some of that, but there was something else. Something even more powerful.

Concern. Far greater than Gamache’s anger was his caring.

Good God, thought the Commander. He’s going to try to talk sense into a junkie.

But the Commander was wrong.

“We will take a blood test,” said Gamache.

“You don’t have my permission,” said Amelia. “And unless you’re willing to tie me down, you won’t get anything out of me. And I’ll sue your ass.”

Gamache nodded. “I see.” He turned to the Commander. “I suggest Cadet Choquet wait outside, supervised, while we talk.”

* * *

Myrna set down her ham sandwich on croissant as the phone rang.

From deep in the armchair in her bookstore, she looked over at it. Hauling herself up with a grunt, she went to the counter.

“Oui, allô.”

“I spoke to the oldest son. Anthony Baumgartner. He’s arranged for his brother and sister to be at his place today at three o’clock.”

“Who is this?” asked Myrna pleasantly, though she knew perfectly well who it was.

“It’s Lucien Mercier. The notary.”

Out the bay window of her shop, Myrna Landers saw puffs of snow being lifted, then falling onto the massive banks that now circled the village green. They were so high, Myrna could no longer see who was doing the shoveling. Just the bright red shovel and the cloud of snow.

It felt as though she was ringed in by a newly formed mountain range.

“Three o’clock,” repeated Myrna, writing it down. She glanced at the clock. It was now one thirty. “Give me the address.” She wrote it too. “I’ll let Armand know to meet us there.”

Myrna replaced the phone and turned to look out the window again, watching the small eruptions all around the village green.

Then she put in a quick call to Armand, giving him the time and place of the meeting with the Baroness’s family. After wolfing down the last of her sandwich, she headed back outside.

“My turn,” said Myrna, taking the shovel from Benedict, who was both sweating and freezing.

“My God,” said Clara, leaning on her shovel and surveying the amount still left to be cleared. “Why do we live here?”

The day sparkled and their noses dripped and their feet froze, and their inner layer of clothing clung to their bodies in perspiration while their outer layer froze brittle. As they dug the village out.

Beside her, Myrna heard Clara muttering. Each word contained in a puff, accompanied by a shovelful of snow.

“Barbados.”

“St. Lucia,” said Myrna.

“Jamaica,” came the response.

“Antigua,” both women said, leaning into their job.

When they’d run out of Caribbean islands, they went on to food.

Mille-feuilles.

Lobster. Lemon posset.

These things they loved.

* * *

Armand hung up just as the Commander returned to his office.

“She’s sitting on the bench in the anteroom. My assistant is watching her.”

“Does your assistant have a Taser?”

The Commander gave one brief laugh and pulled a chair up to face Gamache.