It was grotesque. But worse was to come.
“I’m afraid there’s more,” the Chief Inspector was saying. He was leaning closer to Fiona, his focus complete. As though the noise weren’t happening. While Sam stared straight ahead, at the leaping, joyous woman on the screen.
Dear God, thought Beauvoir, now glaring at Gamache. Do you have to tell them everything now?
Again, Gamache had to raise his voice, to shout this. He wished with all his heart he didn’t have to tell them this next bit, but they’d hear it soon enough. Best, he knew, to get it over with.
“Your mother was murdered.”
Are you a monster? thought Beauvoir, staring in disbelief at the Chief Inspector.
But the monster was yet to appear.
Gamache waited a moment, to let the children take in what he’d just said, though he was not certain that Sam had heard for the sound blaring out of the television.
Fiona’s eyes had widened, her mouth opened. Not to speak but to breathe.
Gamache wanted to take her small hands in his, but did not. He said something else, but Beauvoir, just a couple feet away, would never know what. The words were drowned out by more applause, and the howl in Agent Beauvoir’s head.
“I am so sorry,” said Gamache, his voice steady, his gaze intense. “We’ll find out who did it.” He paused. “People can blame themselves when something like this happens. I want you to know”—he held her eyes—“there was nothing you could have done to prevent this.”
He knew that loved ones often added guilt to the burden of grief. Making it even more crushing. Managing, against all evidence, to find things they could have, should have, done differently. That would have, could have, averted the tragedy. He wanted to spare these children that, if possible.
Fiona nodded, but he doubted she took it in.
The phone in his pocket vibrated. Probably Chernin, he thought, but didn’t answer. He sat there, waiting. Giving Fiona space and time. Every now and then, he glanced over to the boy Sam, who sat stiff-backed, eyes forward. Staring at the contestant, now grabbing the host and dancing him around the stage.
These children would need help. Lots of it. But first, they’d need someone here, preferably someone they knew, who could comfort and look after them.
He looked out the window. Nothing. No one came. No one cared.
These children were well and truly alone in the world. His heart ached for them, and he wished there was something he could do to ease their pain.
What he could do was not make it worse. But he couldn’t even do that. He had questions for them, things he needed to know about their mother. About her movements on her last day. But not just yet.
As Agent Beauvoir watched, Gamache got to his feet. Were they leaving? Beauvoir wondered. Could they leave now? Was it over?
The Chief said something to Fiona. Something about tea. Was that possible? Beauvoir thought he must have misheard.
Tea?
Gamache turned to him and … murmur. Murmur. Murmur. Not a word got past the howl in Beauvoir’s head and the jubilation on the television. Then the Chief Inspector left the room.
Leaving him alone with two grieving children??? What the fuck??
Get out, his mind screamed. Leave. Take the car, drive to the detachment. Hand in your resignation. Go back to civilization and take a job disarming bombs, or trucking toxic material. Or as a tightrope walker in Cirque du Soleil.
Where I’ll be safe. Where no one will look at me the way this girl is now.
The smell of lemon cleaner had become cloying. He could feel his gag reflex kicking in.
He needed to get away from the screaming contestants. Away from the look of despair on the girl’s face, and the boy’s rigid back. The bones of his spine visible through his thin shirt.
Away from the grief that was sucking up all the oxygen. Like a fire.
He looked outside. Still nothing, only some stranger staring back, wide-eyed, wild-eyed.
There would be no help.
CHAPTER 6
The kitchen was spotless. Or almost. There were some marks on the otherwise gleaming stove top where the enamel had been chipped away. There were burns on the counters and linoleum floor, made from smoldering cigarettes and joints.
Gamache put on the kettle, then pulled out his phone and checked. Yes, it had been Inspector Chernin.
Calling her back, he got the news that both search warrants had come through.
“Good. There’s no working vehicle here. Any sign of one by the lake? Hidden in the forest?”
“We’ll look, but no, nothing so far. She got to the lake somehow. We’ll go over the hikers’ car.”
Though both investigators knew few would be stupid enough to report a murder and still be in possession of the victim’s vehicle. Still, some people were just that stupid.
“When you drop them off at the station, find out if Captain Dagenais has arranged for a family friend to come be with the children. If not, then send Agent Moel.” She was trained in grief counseling and had worked with children in the past. “In fact, send her anyway.”
“Oui, patron.”
He hung up and slipped the phone back into his jacket pocket.
“I did it.”
Armand turned at the sound of the voice. Fiona was standing in the doorway.
“Pardon?”
“Cleaned. Sam helped. We wanted it clean and tidy for when she came home.”
Armand nodded. He understood, though it was actually the opposite of his reaction when at the age of nine his own parents had been killed by a drunk driver.
He’d grown hysterical whenever anyone tried to move anything. Change anything. Even cook. Or do the laundry. He refused to change out of the flannel pajamas his mother had put him in before she left. Before.
There was always, even now, a before and an after. As there would be for these children.
After days of this, Armand’s grandmother had had to sit him down and explain that his mother and father were not in the objects. They were not in the dust that was accumulating. They were not even in the home.
It was more permanent, far stronger than that.
“They’re here.” Zora touched his head. “And here.” She touched his heart. Then laid her thin hand over her own heart. “A house can change. Things can get lost or broken. But the love you keep inside you is safe, forever. They’re safe, inside you.”
He understood. But still, young Armand needed something more tangible. As long as everything stayed exactly as it was when they’d left for dinner that night, then maybe, maybe nothing else would change.
Maybe they’d come home. It was his job to keep it just the way it was. In case. But if something, anything, changed, then the spell would be broken. And it would be his fault.
It wasn’t so much irrational as magical. And powerful. Only his trust in his grandmother allowed him to loosen his grip. But it took time.
Yes, he understood Clotilde’s children and their need for some control over a situation fast spinning way out of control.
They’d had to do something to survive the long, interminable, cruel hours of waiting. To take their minds off, however briefly, what was becoming inescapable.
And so they’d scrubbed the place clean. For when their mother returned.
“I’m sorry,” he said, holding her gaze. “If you want to talk about what’s happened, I’m here. I’ll give you my number.” He took a card out of his jacket pocket. “I promise we’ll find out who did this. But I’m afraid, Fiona, I’m going to need your help. We have questions that need answering.”
She nodded in her solemn way.
He’d just turned back to warm up the teapot when he felt a hand on his hand. He leapt away and stared at her.