“So,” said Gilles as they walked the short distance to Clara’s home, their feet crunching on the snow. “Where’s your little buddy?”

A few kids were skating on the frozen pond. Gabri scooped up some snow, made it into a ball and tossed it for Henri, who sailed over the snow bank after it.

“Gilligan?” asked Gamache, keeping his voice light. In the darkness he heard Gilles guffaw.

“That’s right, Skipper,” said Gilles.

“He’s on another assignment.”

“So he finally made it off the island,” said Gilles, and Gamache could hear the smile in his deep voice. But the words came as a bit of a shock.

Had he inadvertently made the famed homicide department of the Sûreté an island? Far from saving the careers of promising agents, had he in fact imprisoned them, kept them from the mainland of their peers?

The kids on the pond saw Gabri’s snowball and stopped to make some of their own, throwing them at Gabri, who ducked but too late. Snowballs rained down on all of them and Henri was almost hysterical with excitement.

“You gol’darned kids,” said Gabri. “Dagnabbit.” He shook his fist at them in such a parody of anger that the kids almost peed themselves with laughter.

*   *   *

Jean-Guy Beauvoir couldn’t be bothered to shower. He wanted one, but it was just too much effort. As was laundry. He knew he reeked, but he didn’t care.

He’d come in to the office but had done no work. He only wanted to get away from his dreary little apartment. From the piles of dirty clothing, from the rotting food in the fridge, from the unmade bed and food-encrusted dishes.

And from the memory of the home he’d had. And lost.

No, not lost. It had been taken from him. Stolen from him. By Gamache. The one man he’d trusted had taken everything from him. Everyone from him.

Beauvoir got to his feet and walked stiffly to the elevator, then to his car.

His body ached and he was alternately famished and nauseous. But he couldn’t be bothered to pick up anything from the cafeteria or any of the fast food joints he passed on his way.

He pulled into a parking spot, turned the car off, and stared.

Now he was hungry. Starving. And he stank. The whole car reeked. He could feel his clammy undershirt sticking to him. Molding itself there, like a second skin.

He sat in the cold, dark car and stared at the one lit window. Hoping for a glimpse of Annie. Even just a shadow.

Was a time he could conjure up her scent. A lemon grove on a warm summer day. Fresh and citrony. But now all he smelt was his own fear.

*   *   *

Annie Gamache sat in the dark, staring out the window. She knew this was unhealthy. It wasn’t something she’d ever admit to her friends. They’d be appalled and look at her as though she was pathetic. And she probably was.

She’d kicked Jean-Guy out of their home when he refused to go back to rehab. They’d fought and fought, until there was nothing left to say. And then they fought some more. Jean-Guy insisted there was nothing wrong. That her father had made up the whole drug thing, as payback for him joining Superintendent Francoeur.

Finally, he’d left. But he hadn’t actually gone. He was still inside her, and she couldn’t get him out. And so she sat in her car and stared at the dark window of his tiny apartment. Hoping to see a light.

If she closed her eyes she could feel his arms around her, smell his scent. When she’d kicked him out she’d bought a bottle of his cologne and put a dab on the pillow next to hers.

She closed her eyes and felt him inside her skin. Where he was vibrant and smart and irreverent and loving. She saw his smile, heard his laugh. Felt his hands. Felt his body.

Now he was gone. But he hadn’t left. And she sometimes wondered if that was him, beating on her heart. And she wondered what would happen if he stopped.

Every night she came here. Parked. And stared at the window. Hoping to see some sign of life.

*   *   *

“It’s hardly the first time you’ve had a ball in the face,” said Ruth to Gabri. “Stop complaining.”

Ruth was in Clara’s living room when they arrived. Not really waiting for them. In fact, she’d looked pissed off when everyone came in.

“I was hoping for a quiet night,” she muttered, swirling the ice cubes around in her glass so forcefully they created a Scotch vortex. Gamache wondered if one day the old poet would be sucked right into it. Then he realized she already had.

Henri ran to Rosa, who was seated on the footstool beside Ruth. Gamache grabbed his collar as he took off, but needn’t have worried. Rosa hissed at the shepherd then turned away. If she could have raised one of her feathers to him, she would have.