“Why’re you saying this?” Beauvoir demanded, his head in a whirl. Everything was suddenly topsy-turvy.

“Because I think you need to hear it. You can’t always save him.” Myrna looked at the tired young man across from her. He was suffering, she knew. And she also knew only two things could produce such pain so long after the event.

Love. And guilt.

“Things are strongest where they’re broken,” she said.

“Where did you hear that?” He glared at her.

“I read it in an interview the Chief Inspector gave, after the raid. And he’s right. But it takes a long time, and a lot of help, to mend. You probably thought he was dead.”

Beauvoir had. He’d seen the Chief shot. Fall. And lie still.

Dead or dying. Beauvoir had been sure of it.

And he’d done nothing to help him.

“There was nothing you could do,” said Myrna, rightly interpreting his thoughts. “Nothing.”

“How do you know?” demanded Beauvoir. “How can you know?”

“Because I saw it. On the video.”

“And you think that tells you everything?” he demanded.

“Do you really believe there was more you could’ve done?”

Beauvoir turned away, feeling the familiar ache in his belly turn into jabs of pain. He knew Myrna was trying to be kind but he just wished she’d go away.

She hadn’t been there. He had, and he’d never believe there was nothing more he could have done.

The Chief had saved his life. Dragged him to safety. Bandaged him. But when Gamache himself had been hurt it had been Agent Lacoste who’d fought her way to him. Saved the Chief’s life.

While he himself had done nothing. Just lay there. Watching.

*   *   *

“You liked her?” Gamache asked.

They’d come full circle and were now standing on the village green, just across from the terrasse. He could see André Castonguay and François Marois sitting at a table, enjoying lunch. Or at least, enjoying the food if not the company. They didn’t seem to be talking much.

“I did,” said Suzanne. “She’d become kind. Thoughtful even. Happy. I didn’t expect to like her when she first dragged her sorry ass into the church basement. We weren’t exactly best friends before she’d left for New York. But we were both younger then, and drunker. And I suspect neither of us was very nice. But people change.”

“Are you so sure Lillian had?”

“Are you so sure I have?” Suzanne laughed.

It was, Gamache had to admit, a good question.

And then another question occurred to him. One he was surprised he hadn’t thought of earlier.

“How did you find Three Pines?”

“What do you mean?”

“The village. It’s almost impossible to find. And yet, here you are.”

“He drove me down.”

Gamache turned and looked to where she was pointing. Past the terrasse and into a window, where a man stood, his back to them. A book in his hand.

Though the Chief Inspector couldn’t see his face Gamache did recognize the rest of the man. Thierry Pineault was standing at the window of Myrna’s bookstore.

NINETEEN

Clara Morrow sat in the car, staring at the decrepit old apartment building. It was a far cry from the pretty little home the Dysons had lived in when Clara knew them.

For the whole drive in she’d been remembering her friendship with Lillian. The mind-numbing Christmas job they got together sorting mail. Then later, as lifeguards. That’d been Lillian’s idea. They’d taken the lifesaving courses and passed their swim exams together. Helping each other. Sneaking out behind the life preserver shed for smokes, and tokes.

They’d been on the school volleyball and track teams together. They’d spotted each other at gymnastics.

There was barely a good memory from Clara’s childhood that didn’t include Lillian.

And Mr. and Mrs. Dyson were always there too. As kindly supporting characters. In the background, like the Peanuts parents. Rarely seen, but somehow there were always egg salad sandwiches, and fruit salad and warm chocolate chip cookies. There was always a pitcher of bright pink lemonade.

Mrs. Dyson had been short, rotund, with thinning hair always in place. She’d seemed old but Clara realized she was younger than Clara was now. And Mr. Dyson had been tall, wiry, with curly red hair. That looked, in the bright sunshine, like rust on his head.

No. There was no doubt, and Clara was appalled at herself for ever questioning it. This was the right thing to do.