The touch had been soft, gentle. Intimate.
Armand broke the eye contact and looked toward the stage and the gathering graduates.
He was determined not to sully the day. A day, an event, he and Reine-Marie had worked toward for years. And that had, years earlier, seemed impossible.
As a sort of palate cleanser, Armand did what he always did. He looked at Reine-Marie. She too had seen him, though Sam Arsenault had less of an effect on her. In fact, she didn’t really understand Armand’s aversion to the pleasant young man.
She took his hand and squeezed.
Armand could not explain it to Reine-Marie or anyone else. He’d looked into the faces of some of the worst humans possible. Truly vile, truly terrifying people. But it was this boy, this young man, who had somehow found the cracks, and a way into Gamache’s head. And messed around in there. Only one other person had managed to do that, and he was in prison for life.
Armand tried to remember when it had begun. When he’d first had an inkling.
“What’re you doing?” he said, staring at Fiona.
“You’ve been so kind,” she said, her voice soft. Inviting. “And you look so sad. I just wanted, just want, to comfort you.”
It was grotesque. And clearly the expression on his face told Fiona she’d misjudged. But still, she came forward, even as Gamache backed up.
“Stop,” he said. His voice held so much authority that she did. Staring at him, perplexed. She was not used to this reaction.
“You’re safe now, Fiona,” he said, keeping his distance and looking into her eyes. This girl had been raised, groomed, to replace feeling with touching. To confuse caring with caressing. And more.
“I’m not here for that. You don’t need to do that anymore.”
“Do what?” she asked, her schoolgirl persona now fully in place. Her head at a coquettish angle. Her voice innocent. And yet dripping with sexuality.
He tried not to show his revulsion.
He knew, of course, what this was about. Had suspected since he’d seen the studio photo in Clotilde’s wallet. Of the teen made up to look like a little schoolgirl, and the boy with seductive eyes. The photo was in the space where Clotilde’s money was kept.
These children were currency. Investments. As was the studio photo. Not a school picture, like most parents kept, like he and Reine-Marie had in their wallets. This was an advertisement.
He’d hoped, as he’d stood beside that lake, beside the corpse, that maybe he was wrong and his time among the worst of humanity had twisted his perceptions.
But he knew in his heart, a heart that ached now as he looked at the confused girl, that he was not wrong. What Fiona just did, an unmistakable, intentionally clumsy, practiced invitation, confirmed it. She was offering herself to him. As her mother had taught her.
Had Clotilde Arsenault walked through the door at that moment, Armand Gamache was far from sure he’d have been able to control himself.
But she was gone and had left behind a deeply damaged daughter. And a son no doubt equally, if not more, broken.
In the living room, Jean-Guy continued to stare at Sam’s back.
The boy turned around once, but thankfully not to look at the uncomfortable Sûreté officer. Sam had glanced at his sister. It was fleeting. A look Jean-Guy could not decode. She got up and left. Following the Chief Inspector to the kitchen.
It was a relief.
Now he only had the boy to deal with, and Sam seemed completely absorbed in the game show. Though Jean-Guy was not quite so thick as to believe that.
Just as he was beginning to relax—to believe maybe he could handle this, at least until the Chief came back with the tea, tea? tea??—Sam moved.
Picking up the remote, he lowered the sound to a normal level. Then the boy’s head dropped until his chin touched his chest and hair flopped over his eyes.
Beauvoir watched as Sam’s thin shoulders rounded. Then lifted. And fell. Lifted. Fell.
“Sam?” said Jean-Guy, quietly.
The boy turned around and Jean-Guy saw a child. Not a chore.
Sam’s face had crumbled. Tears were streaming down his cheeks. Had been, Jean-Guy could now see, for a while.
Sam looked at Jean-Guy. Jean-Guy looked at the boy.
Then he opened his arms and Sam rushed into them. Clinging to Beauvoir. Sobbing. His breath coming in heaves and shudders as Jean-Guy rubbed his back and whispered, “Ça va bien aller. It’ll be all right. It’ll be all right.”
It wasn’t.
Gamache returned to the living room with Fiona. He realized that while he needed to protect these children, he also needed to protect himself. The girl could easily accuse him of coming on to her. And worse. Even if easily disproved, the accusation alone would be enough.
He could not give her that opportunity. She was so clearly unbalanced. And who wouldn’t be?
As he entered the room, he saw the boy in Beauvoir’s arms and stopped dead. Could…?
“Agent Beauvoir.” But even as he spoke, he knew there was nothing sexual about this embrace, at least not on Beauvoir’s part. It was clear he was just trying to comfort the sobbing child.
Beauvoir looked over, then released Sam, whispering again, “It’ll be okay, buddy. Right?”
“Oui,” sniffed the child.
As he pulled away, Sam looked at his sister, a questioning glance. Then at Gamache. And smiled. Just for an instant. But it was enough to freeze the head of homicide for the Sûreté in place.
Headlights appeared, and a few moments later Agent Hardye Moel came through the door.
Gamache took her aside. “We’re going to need the provincial guardian. Someone needs to take charge of these children. We’re trying to track down family, even close friends, but so far nothing.”
“I’ll put in a call,” she said, and took out her phone.
“And Hardye, there’re signs these children have been abused.”
“Physically?”
“And sexually.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” She exhaled and shook her head.
“I need to question them.”
She stared at him for just a moment, then nodded. “I’ll be in in a minute.”
And she was, saying quietly to Gamache, “Someone will be sent, but probably not until the morning. I can stay with them until then.”
“Merci,” he said.
Agent Moel introduced herself and took a seat beside Fiona, who moved a few inches away, while Sam remained stuck to Agent Beauvoir’s side.
“Do you mind answering some questions now?” the Chief Inspector asked, looking from Sam to Fiona.
Sam shrugged and Fiona nodded.
He started off with some simple questions. How long had they lived there? What school did they go to? What grades were they in? Questions with clear, definite answers. Ones without, he hoped, an emotional resonance.
Then he moved to the next level.
“Is your father part of your lives?”
The brief report on Clotilde did not list a husband or partner, or father to the children.
“No,” said Fiona. “Mom never talked about him.”
“And we never asked,” said Sam. “We don’t want to go live with him, if that’s what you’re getting at. You can’t pawn us off on him.”
“No, that wasn’t what I was thinking.”
In fact, the thought that had come to Armand in the kitchen was what the children’s father would have done if he found out what Clotilde had done to the children.
Would he have lost his mind? Lost his head? Would he have found his hand closing around a brick? Had he lashed out, killing her?
But if that was the case, the father would have to be someone visiting from elsewhere, not a local man. Someone for whom this situation would be news. Someone the children might not have even met.