Mrs. Morrow was rolling in money and yet she’d never once bought a painting by her own son, even when they were all but starving. She’d offered to give them money, but Peter had sidestepped that mine.

Clara watched as Marianna Morrow wandered to the piano. Thomas had abandoned it and was now reading a newspaper. Marianna sat, swept her shawl over her shoulder and held her hands over the keys.

This should be good, thought Clara, awaiting the clunks and bangs. Anything to break the crackling silence. Marianna’s hands hovered, bouncing slightly, as though playing air-piano. For God’s sake, shouted Clara’s mind. Can’t they do anything for real?

Clara glanced around and saw Bean alone.

“What’re you reading?” she asked, joining the serious child on the window seat.

Bean showed Clara the book. Myths Every Child Should Know.

“Wonderful. Did you find it in the library?”

“No, Mommy gave it to me. It was hers. See.” Bean showed Clara the first page, inscribed, For Marianna on her birthday, from Mother and Father.

Clara felt tears sting her eyes again. Bean stared at her.

“I’m sorry,” said Clara, dabbing her eye with a cushion. “I’m being silly.”

But Clara knew why she wept. Not for Julia, not for Mrs. Morrow. She wept for all the Morrows, but mostly for parents who gave gifts and wrote “from.” For parents who never lost children because they never had them.

“Are you all right?” asked Bean.

It had been Clara’s intention to comfort Bean.

“It’s just very sad,” said Clara. “I’m sorry about your aunt. How about you? Are you all right?”

Bean’s mouth opened and music came out. Or so it seemed for an instant.

Turning round Clara stared at the piano. Marianna had dropped her hands to the keys, and they were doing the most remarkable thing. They were finding the notes. In the right order. The music was astonishing. Fluid and passionate and natural.

It was gorgeous, but it was also typical. She should have known. The untalented brother was a brilliant painter. The mess of a sister was a virtuoso pianist. And Thomas? She’d always presumed he was as he seemed. A successful executive in Toronto. But this family was fueled by deceit. What was he, really?

Clara glanced around and saw Chief Inspector Gamache standing at the door, staring at Marianna.

The music stopped.

“I’m going to ask you all to stay at the Manoir for at least another day, perhaps longer.”

“Of course,” said Thomas.

“Thank you,” said the Chief Inspector. “We’re collecting evidence now and sometime today one of my agents will interview each of you. Until then feel free to wander the grounds. I’d like to speak with you. Will you walk with me?”

He gestured to Peter, who rose.

“We’d like to go first,” said Sandra, her eyes anxiously flitting from Peter to Gamache and back.

“Why?”

This seemed to surprise her. “Do I need a reason?”

“It would help. If there’s a pressing need then I’ll ask the Inspector to get to you first. Is there one?”

Sandra, deflated and compressed by far too many pressing needs all her life, was silent.

“We don’t want to speak to the Inspector,” said Thomas. “We want to speak to you.”

“Flattering as that is, I’m afraid it’ll be Inspector Beauvoir who’ll interview you. Unless you’d prefer Agent Lacoste.”

“Then why does he get you?” Thomas jerked his head toward Peter.

“This isn’t a competition.”

Thomas Morrow stared at Gamache with a look designed to wither. A look practiced and perfected on secretaries who’d traded self-respect for a salary and trainees too young to know a bully from a boss.

As he headed out the screen door Gamache looked back at the Morrows, staring after him like a tableau vivant. Out of that tableau, Gamache knew, a murderer would one day walk. And Gamache would be waiting for him.

Agent Isabelle Lacoste organized the officers from the local Sûreté detachment and handed out assignments. One team would search the staff rooms and outbuildings, another would search the Manoir and her team would handle the guest rooms.

She’d warned them to be careful. They were looking for evidence, but they were also looking for a murderer. It was possible he was hiding on the grounds. Unlikely, but possible. Agent Lacoste was a cautious woman, by nature and by training. And now she conducted the search, always with the expectation that the monster was indeed under the bed or waiting in the wardrobe.