“Dreadful waste of a life, I agree,” smiled the Chief.

“Well,” she looked down at the papers, “I guess I can’t count on another body showing up. I might just have to read these now.”

She looked around. Peter had gone inside and Clara wondered if she should too. To read the reviews in peace and quiet. In secret.

Instead, she thanked Gamache and walked toward the bistro, hugging the heavy papers to her chest. She could see Olivier out on the terrasse, serving drinks. Monsieur Beliveau sat at a table, with its blue and white sun umbrella, sipping a Cinzano and reading the Sunday newspapers.

Indeed all the tables were taken, filled with villagers and friends enjoying a lazy Sunday brunch. As she appeared most eyes turned to her.

Then looked away.

And she felt a stab of rage. Not at these people, but at Lillian. Who’d taken the biggest day of Clara’s professional life and done this. So that instead of smiling and waving and commenting on the big celebrations, now people turned away. Clara’s triumph stolen, yet again, by Lillian.

She looked at the grocer, Monsieur Beliveau, who quickly dropped his eyes.

As did Clara.

When she raised them again a moment later she almost leapt out of her skin. Olivier was standing within inches of her, holding two glasses.

“Shit,” she exhaled.

“Shandies,” he said. “Made with ginger beer and pale ale, as you like them.”

Clara looked from him to the glasses then back to Olivier. A slight breeze picked at his thinning blond hair. Even with an apron around his slender body he managed to look sophisticated and relaxed. But Clara remembered the look they’d exchanged while kneeling in the corridor of the Musée d’Art Contemporain.

“That was fast,” she said.

“Well, they were actually meant for someone else, but I judged it was an emergency.”

“That obvious?” smiled Clara.

“Hard not to be, when a body appears at your place. I know.”

“Yes,” said Clara. “You do know.”

Olivier indicated the bench on the village green and they walked over to it. Clara dropped the heavy newspapers and they hit the bench with a thump, as did she.

Clara accepted a shandy from Olivier and they sat side-by-side, their backs to the bistro, to the people, to the crime scene. To the searching eyes and averted eyes.

“How’re you doing?” asked Olivier. He’d almost asked if she was all right, but of course she wasn’t.

“I wish I could say. Lillian alive in our back garden would have been a shock, but Lillian dead is inconceivable.”

“Who was she?”

“A friend from long ago. But no longer a friend. We had a falling out.”

Clara didn’t say more, and Olivier didn’t ask. They sipped their drinks and sat in the shade of the three huge pine trees that soared over them, over the village.

“How was it seeing Gamache again?” asked Clara.

Olivier paused to consider, then he smiled. He looked boyish and young. Far younger than his thirty-eight years. “Not very comfortable. Do you think he noticed?”

“I think it’s just possible,” said Clara, and squeezed Olivier’s hand. “You haven’t forgiven him?”

“Could you?”

Now it was Clara’s turn to pause. Not to reflect on her answer. She knew it. But on whether she should say it.

“We forgave you,” she finally said and hoped her tone was gentle enough, soft enough. That the words wouldn’t feel as barbed as they could. But still she felt Olivier stiffen, withdraw. Not physically, but there seemed an emotional step back.

“Have you?” he said at last. And his tone was soft too. It wasn’t an accusation, more a wonderment. As though it was something he quietly asked himself every day.

Was he forgiven. Yet.

True, he hadn’t murdered the Hermit. But he’d betrayed him. Stolen from him. Taken everything the delusional recluse had offered. And some he hadn’t. Olivier had taken everything from the fragile old man. Including his freedom. Imprisoning him in the log cabin, with cruel words.

And when it had all come out, at his trial, he’d seen the looks on their faces.

As though they were suddenly staring at a stranger. A monster in their midst.

“What makes you think we haven’t forgiven you?” asked Clara.

“Well, Ruth for one.”

“Oh, come on,” laughed Clara. “She’s always called you a dick-head.”

“True. But you know what she calls me now?”