Then everything would shift. All was forgiven and Lillian and Clara would be best friends again. Clara was invited back into the shelter that was Lillian.

“When did you first suspect?” Gamache asked.

“Suspect what?”

“That Lillian was not your friend.”

It was the first time she’d heard the words out loud. Said so clearly, so simply. Their relationship had always seemed so complex, fraught. Clara the needy, clumsy one. Dropping their friendship, breaking it. Lillian the strong, self-reliant one. Forgiving her. Picking up the pieces.

Until, one day.

“It was near the end of high school. Most girls fell out over boys or cliques, or just misunderstandings. Hurt feelings. Teachers and parents think those classrooms and hallways are filled with students but they’re not. They’re filled with feelings. Bumping into each other. Hurting each other. It’s horrible.”

Clara moved her arms off the Adirondack chair. They were baking in the sun. Now she folded them across her stomach.

“Things were going well for Lillian and me. There didn’t seem the wild ups and downs anymore. Then one day in art class our favorite teacher complimented me on a piece I’d done. It was the only class I was any good in, the only one I really cared about, though I did quite well in English and history. But art was my passion. And Lillian’s too. We’d bounce ideas off each other. I see now we were really muses for each other, though I didn’t know the term then. I even remember the piece the teacher liked. It was a chair with a bird perched on it.”

Clara had turned to Lillian, happy. Eager to catch her friend’s eye. It had been a small compliment. A tiny triumph. She’d wanted to share it with the only other person who’d understand.

And she had. But. But. In that instant before the smile appeared on Lillian’s face Clara had caught something else. A wariness.

And then the supportive, happy smile. So fast Clara almost convinced herself her own insecurity had seen something not really there.

That once again, it was her fault.

But looking back, Clara knew that the fissure had widened. Some cracks let the light in. Some let the darkness out.

She’d had a brief glance at what was inside Lillian. And it wasn’t nice.

“We went on to art college together and shared an apartment. But by then I’d learned to downplay any compliments I got about my work. And spent a lot of time telling Lillian how terrific her work was. And it was. Of course, like all of our stuff, it was evolving. We were experimenting. At least, I was. I sort of figured that was the point of art college. Not to get it right, but to see what was possible. To really be out there.”

Clara paused and looked down at her hands, fingers entwined.

“Lillian didn’t like it. My stuff was too weird for her. She felt it reflected on her, and said people thought that if she was my muse then my paintings must be about her. And since my paintings and other pieces were so strange, then she must be strange.” Clara hesitated. “She asked me to stop.”

For the first time she saw a reaction from Gamache. His eyes narrowed just a bit. And then his face and demeanor returned to normal. Neutral. Without judgment.

Apparently.

He said nothing. Just listened.

“And I did,” said Clara, her voice low, her head down. Speaking into her lap.

She took a ragged breath and exhaled, feeling her body deflate.

That was how it had felt back then too. As though there was a small tear and she was deflating.

“I told her time and again that some of the works were inspired by her, some were even a tribute to our friendship, but they weren’t her. She said it didn’t matter. If others thought they were that’s all that mattered. If I cared about her, if I was her friend I’d stop making my art so strange. And make it attractive.

“So I did. I destroyed all the other stuff and started making things that people liked.”

Clara rushed ahead, not daring to look at the people listening.

“I actually got better grades too. And I convinced myself it was the right choice. That it would be wrong to trade a career for a friend.”

She looked up then, directly into Chief Inspector Gamache’s eyes. And noted, again, the deep scar by his temple. And the steady, thoughtful gaze.

“It seemed a small sacrifice. Then came the student show. I had a few works in it, but Lillian didn’t. Instead she decided to write a piece for credit in the art criticism course she was taking. She wrote a review for the campus paper. In it she praised a few of the student pieces but savaged my works. Said they were vacuous, empty of all feeling. Safe.”