Was that the secret? Not that one of the sisters lived, but that someone else must have died, and been buried.

He completely forgot he was on the bridge, meters from the long drop to the slushy river. His mind was now occupied by this puzzle. Again he went back over the case, looking for some elderly woman. Almost eighty. There were a few elderly men. The priest, Father Antoine. The uncle, André Pineault. But no women, except Ruth.

For a moment Gamache toyed with the thought that Ruth was indeed a missing Quint. Not an imaginary sister, as Ruth had claimed, but a real one. And maybe that explained why Constance had visited Ruth, had formed a bond with the embittered old poet who’d written a seminal poem about the death of whom? Virginie Ouellet.

Was it possible? Could Ruth Zardo be Virginie? Who hadn’t thrown herself down the stairs, but down a rabbit hole, and popped up in Three Pines?

As much as he liked the idea, he was forced to dismiss it. Ruth Zardo, for all her snarling demands for privacy, was actually fairly transparent in her life. Her family had moved to Three Pines when Ruth was a child. As much fun as it would be to arrest Ruth for murder, he had to grudgingly give up that idea.

But then another thought settled. There was one other elderly woman on the periphery of the case. The neighbor. The one who lived with her husband, next door, and who’d been invited onto the porch for lemonade. Who’d befriended, as much as that was possible, the very private sisters.

Could she be Virginie? Or even Hélène? Escaping the life of a Ouellet Quint? Tunneling out through the grave?

And he realized they only had the neighbor’s word for it that she hadn’t been invited further into the home. Perhaps she was more than a neighbor. Perhaps it was no coincidence the sisters had moved into that home.

Gamache was finally off the bridge. He took the first exit and pulled off the road to call Lacoste.

“The medical records check out, Chief,” she said from her home. “It’s possible they were forged, but we both know that’s a lot more difficult than it sounds.”

“Dr. Bernard could have arranged for it,” said Gamache. “And we know the weight of the government was behind the Ouellet Quints. And that might explain why the death certificate was so vague, saying it was an accident, but hinting at possible suicide.”

“But why would they agree to such a thing?”

It was, Gamache knew, a good question. He looked at the dry cheese sandwich on the seat next to him. The white bread curled up slightly on the cellophane. The snow was piling up on the windshield and he watched the wipers swish it away.

Why would Virginie want to fake her death, and why would Bernard and the government help?

“I think we know why Virginie would want to do it,” said Gamache. “She seemed the most damaged by the public life.”

Lacoste was quiet, thinking. “And the neighbor, if she really is Virginie, is married. Maybe Virginie knew the only hope for a normal life was to start again, fresh. As someone else.”

“What’s her name?”

He heard clicking as Lacoste brought up the file. “Annette Michaud.”

“If she is Virginie, then Bernard and the government must have helped her,” said Gamache, musing out loud. “Why? They probably wouldn’t have done it willingly. Virginie must have had something on them. Something she was threatening to tell.”

He thought again of that little girl, locked out of her home. Turning a wretched face to the newsreel camera, begging for help.

If he was right, that meant Virginie Ouellet, one of the miracles, was also a murderer. Perhaps a double murderer. One years ago that let her escape, and one days ago, to keep her secret.

“I’ll interview her again tonight, patron,” said Lacoste.

In the background Gamache could hear shrieks of laughter from Lacoste’s young children and he looked at his dashboard clock. Six thirty. A week before Christmas. Through the half moon of cleared snow on his windshield he saw an illuminated plastic snowman and icicle lights out in front of the service station.

“I’ll go,” he said. “Besides, it’s closer for me. I’m just across the bridge.”

“It’ll already be a long night, Chief,” said Lacoste. “Let me go.”

“It’ll be a long night for both of us, I think,” said Gamache. “I’ll let you know what I find. In the meantime, try to find out as much as you can about Madame Michaud and her husband.”

He hung up and turned his car back toward Montréal. Toward the congested bridge. As he slowly made his way back into the city he thought about Virginie. Who might have escaped, but just to the house next door.