He’d given them to Annie.

They’d just started their courtship, and these were the first flowers he’d offered.

“Stolen,” he admitted as she’d opened the door and he’d held them out to her. “Your father’s influence, I’m afraid.”

“It’s not the only thing you’ve stolen, monsieur,” she’d said with a laugh, stepping aside to let him in.

It had taken him a moment to realize what she meant. He watched her place the lilacs in a vase on her kitchen table, and fluff them a bit, trying to arrange them. He’d stayed the night. For the first time. And woke in the morning to the suggestion of lilac, and the realization that he had Annie’s heart in his chest. And she had his. And would keep it safe.

Beauvoir had kept his promise to Annie’s father, to the Chief. To not watch that video again. Until now. Until he’d found out what Superintendent Francoeur had been doing in the prior’s office. On the laptop.

Francoeur had brought the video with him. And was watching it.

Those were the voices Beauvoir had heard. The Chief’s, issuing orders. Commanding. Leading his agents deeper and deeper into that damned factory. After the gunmen.

Beauvoir had found the file on the laptop.

As he’d hit play, he’d known what he’d see. And, God help him, he’d wanted to see it again. He’d missed his misery.

Beauvoir stared at Francoeur in front of him on the misty shore. He’d brought that monstrosity into the monastery. To contaminate the last place in Québec, the last place on earth, that hadn’t seen the images.

And Beauvoir knew, at that moment, why despite the strangeness of the surroundings, the oddity of the monks, the mind-numbing dullness of the endless chants, he’d felt a kind of creeping calm here.

Because these men, unique in Québec, didn’t know. Hadn’t seen the video. Didn’t look at him and Gamache as though at men forever wounded, damaged. Instead, the monks looked at them as though they were just men. Like themselves. Going about their jobs.

But Francoeur had fallen from the skies and brought this blight.

But it would stop here. Now. This man had done enough damage. To Gamache, to Beauvoir, to the memories of those who died, and their families.

“You think I leaked that video?” Francoeur repeated.

“I know you did,” gasped Beauvoir. “Who else had access to the raw tape? Who else could influence that internal investigation? An entire Sûreté department devoted to cyber crime and all they came up with was that some unknown hacker had gotten lucky?”

“You don’t believe it?” asked Francoeur.

“Of course I don’t.”

Beauvoir moved, but stopped when Francoeur jutted his gun forward.

There’d be a better time, thought Beauvoir. In a moment, or two. When Francoeur was distracted. Just a blink, that’s all it’ll take.

“Does Gamache believe it?”

“The hacker theory?” For the first time Beauvoir was thrown off. “I don’t know.”

“Of course you know, you little shit. Tell me. Does Gamache believe it?”

Beauvoir said nothing, just stared at Francoeur. His mind taken up with only one question.

Was now the time?

“Is Gamache investigating the leak?” Francoeur yelled. “Or has he accepted the official report? I need to know.”

“Why? So you can kill him too?”

“Kill him?” Francoeur demanded. “Who do you think released that video?”

“You.”

“Christ, you really are thick. Why do you think I brought it with me? To enjoy my handiwork? The thing’s repulsive. It makes me sick just thinking about it. Watching it is…”

Francoeur was trembling now, almost erupting with rage.

“Of course I don’t believe the findings of that goddamned investigation. It’s ridiculous. Obviously a cover-up. Someone inside the Sûreté leaked the video, not some mythical hacker. One of us. I brought that fucking tape with me because I watch it every chance I get. So I don’t forget. So that I remember why I’m still looking.”

His voice had changed. The accent grew thicker, the sophistication fell off in hunks to reveal the man who’d grown up a village away from Beauvoir’s own grandparents.

Francoeur had lowered the muzzle of his gun. Just a fraction.

Beauvoir saw this. Francoeur was distracted. Now was the time.

But he hesitated.

“What’re you looking for?” Beauvoir asked.

“For evidence.”