Only Gilles had his back to the door. He gazed out the rear windows. Those curtains were open and Gilles could see the snow-covered garden and the woods. And the tall trees that whispered to him. Comforted him. Forgave him.

He continued to look into the forest even as the first footsteps sounded on the front verandah. The squeal of boots on hard snow.

They saw a shadow pass the curtains.

Then the footsteps stopped at the door.

And there was a knock.

THIRTY-SEVEN

Armand Gamache pulled into the driveway of the little home. Christmas lights hung off the eaves, a wreath was on the front door. All the seasonal decorations were in place. Except comfort and joy. Gamache wondered if the pall was obvious even to someone who didn’t know what grief this home held.

He rang the doorbell.

And waited.

*   *   *

Superintendent Thérèse Brunel walked to the door. Her back was straight and her eyes determined. She held her gun behind her back and opened the door.

Myrna Landers stood on the verandah.

“You have to come to my place,” she said quickly, looking from Thérèse to the people grouped behind her. “Hurry. We don’t know when they’ll arrive.”

“Who?” asked Jérôme. He was stooped over, holding on to Henri’s collar.

“Whoever you’re hiding from. They’ll find you here, but they might not look in my place.”

“What makes you think we’re hiding?” Nichol asked.

“Why else would you have come here?” asked Myrna, getting more and more antsy. “You didn’t seem on vacation, and it wasn’t for the outlet stores. When we saw you working all last night in the schoolhouse, then bringing document boxes back here, we guessed that something had gone wrong.”

She studied the faces in front of her. “We’re right, aren’t we? They’ve found out where you are.”

“Do you know what you’re offering?” Thérèse asked.

“A safe place,” said Myrna. “Who doesn’t need that at least once in their lives?”

“The people who’re looking for us don’t want a simple chat,” said Thérèse, holding Myrna’s eyes. “They don’t want to negotiate, they don’t even want to threaten us. They want to kill us. And they’ll kill you too, if we’re found in your home. There is no safe place, I’m afraid.”

She needed Myrna to understand. Myrna stood before her, clearly frightened, but determined. Like one of the Burghers of Calais, thought Thérèse, or those boys in the stained-glass window.

Myrna gave one decisive nod. “Armand wouldn’t have brought you here if he didn’t think we’d protect you. Where is he?” She peered into the room.

“He’s leading them away,” said Nichol, finally understanding why the Chief had chosen to take a car and a cell phone that would obviously be followed.

“Will it work?” Myrna asked.

“For a while, perhaps,” said Thérèse. “But they’ll still come looking for us.”

“We thought so.”

“We?”

Myrna turned to look at the road and Thérèse followed her glance. Standing on the snow-covered path were Clara, Gabri, Olivier, and Ruth and Rosa.

The end of the road.

“Come,” said Myrna.

And they did.

*   *   *

“Bonjour. My name’s Armand Gamache. I’m with the Sûreté du Québec.”

He spoke softly. Not in a whisper, but his voice low enough so that the girls he could see staring at him from down the corridor, behind their father, didn’t hear.

Gaétan Villeneuve looked done in. Standing up only because if he fell he’d land on his children. The girls weren’t yet in their teens and they watched him wide-eyed. Gamache wondered if the news he was about to bring them would help, or hurt. Or make barely a ripple in their ocean of grief.

“What do you want?” Monsieur Villeneuve asked. It wasn’t a challenge. There wasn’t enough energy there for a challenge. But neither was he letting the Chief Inspector across the threshold.

Gamache leaned in a few inches, toward Villeneuve. “I’m the head of homicide.”

Now Villeneuve’s weary eyes widened. He examined Gamache, then stepped aside.

“These are our daughters, Megan and Christianne.”

Gamache noticed that Villeneuve had not yet moved to the singular.