The Scene of Crime team arrived and got to work. Jean-Guy directed them while Chief Inspector Lacoste walked around the rest of the house. Looking into rooms but not touching anything.

It was a modest single-story home with a basement. Even that had been ripped apart. It must’ve taken hours. The further she got into the house the more convinced Lacoste became this was not a simple robbery, and Antoinette Lemaitre not a random target.

Carpets had been ripped up, floorboards lifted. Paneling hung from the walls. A chair stood in the middle of the hall beneath an opening in the ceiling. Lacoste got on it and shone her light into the attic. She heard scampering and got off the chair.

If she had to she’d go up, but that was one of the perks of being Chief Inspector. She could assign someone else to do that now.

“The forensics team and Scene of Crime are doing their job,” said Beauvoir, joining her. “Time to talk to Brian.”

Jean-Guy had spoken with him briefly on his way to find Lacoste.

“How does he seem?” Lacoste asked.

“Stunned. Numb.”

But neither was under any illusion. As they walked back down the hallway, both seasoned homicide investigators knew they were about to speak to their main suspect.

Brian Fitzpatrick got to his feet when they entered. He was about to say something, but then looked as though he’d forgotten how to speak.

“I’m so sorry, Brian,” said Isabelle Lacoste. “This is terrible.”

He nodded. His eyes darted from one to the other.

“What happened?” he asked, sitting back down on his chair at the Formica table.

Lacoste looked at the agent from the local Sûreté detachment, standing bored by the doorway.

“Can you make a pot of coffee?” she asked. The agent looked put out, but agreed.

The kitchen had also been ransacked, though the damage did not seem as great. Mostly flour, sugar and cornflakes spilled out onto the counter, and drawers opened and emptied.

It seemed more pro forma, as though the robber-turned-killer had run out of steam or was running out of time. Or conviction.

Brian looked at them, all eyes, wide and red.

“What time did you find her, Brian?” Lacoste asked.

“I left Montréal about seven thirty this morning, so I got here about nine.”

“You were in Montréal last night?” asked Lacoste.

“Yes, at a meeting. I stayed over. I wish I hadn’t.” He had that haunted look people got when alternate endings began to appear. Endings in which they did something different. What might have been, if only …

“What did you find when you got home?” Lacoste asked.

Jean-Guy had assumed the role Chief Inspector Gamache favored in interrogations, of just listening. And watching. Occasionally contributing, but mostly absorbing what was being said, or not said.

“The door wasn’t locked—”

“Did that surprise you?” asked Lacoste.

“Not really. Antoinette would’ve been up and working by nine. She’d have unlocked the door already. But it did seem strange that the curtains were still closed.”

“She was a translator, is that right?” said Lacoste.

“Yes. She works from home.”

There was a conflict of tenses that would resolve itself with time.

“So you opened the door,” Lacoste prompted.

“I yelled ‘Hi,’ but there was no answer. Of course.” He seemed to deflate a little at those last two words. “I hung up my coat and walked toward the living room and saw—” he gestured, but Chief Inspector Lacoste did not fill in the blank. “Everything was all over the place. I think I sorta went blank. Froze. And then I panicked and started shouting for Antoinette. I ran into the room and must’ve tripped because I ended up on the floor. That’s when I saw…”

“Saw what, Brian?” asked Lacoste quietly when the silence had gone on.

“Her foot. I’m not sure what happened next. I’ve been sitting here trying to put it together but it just seems like…” He struggled for the word. “I remember seeing her face, and her eyes. And knowing. I think I might’ve touched her because I remember feeling cold. And then thinking I was about to pass out. It was just too…”

He stared out the kitchen window and seemed to have ground to a halt, overwhelmed.

“What did you do then?” Lacoste asked.

She had the impression that had she not prompted him, Brian would have spent the rest of his life staring out that window. Stuck.

Lacoste glanced over at Jean-Guy, who also sat very still, absorbing it all.