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“Their private Instagram account.” Cloutier was beaming.

Lacoste was not.

“What’ve you done?”

“I asked if we could communicate privately, and she gave me access.”

“To a cop?”

“Well, not exactly. Like you said, we didn’t want her erasing anything that could be evidence, so I pretended I was someone else.”

“Who?”

Now Lysette Cloutier clicked again, and another website came up. An art gallery in Old Montréal called NouveauGalerie. Specializing in modern Québécois art.

It was a slick, minimalist site. Very cool.

“Who’re they?” Lacoste asked.

“They’re me. I created it.”

“Wait a minute,” said Lacoste, trying to keep up. “You’re pretending to be this NouveauGalerie?”

“Oui. I showed interest in his work, asked to speak privately. After refusing a few times, this Pauline finally give me access to their private Instagram account.”

“Why would she do that?”

“So we can discuss business,” said Cloutier. Her tone said that must be obvious.

“Why wouldn’t she just pick up the phone?”

“Phone? Young people don’t talk on phones. Everything’s done through texts and social media. And with the private Instagram account, she can show galleries—me—” said Cloutier with a smile, “works in progress. Things they might not want public yet. Besides, she’s trying to pretend she’s Carl Tracey. God knows, you don’t want that asshole talking to galleries.”

“Got it,” said Lacoste. “So private Instagram it is.”

Where anyone could take on a false identity. And often did.

Lacoste didn’t know whether to be pleased with the brilliance of this or angry that Cloutier had disobeyed orders.

Before she made up her mind, Cloutier said, “Look at this.” She clicked again. “Voilà.”

Up came photographs and posts. Private messages between Carl Tracey and Pauline Vachon. Just the two. No one else, it seemed, had access to the private account.

Except, now, NouveauGalerie.

And one thing was immediately obvious.

“They’re lovers,” said Lacoste.

“Oui.”

“Can you zoom in on this picture, please,” said Lacoste, leaning closer.

It was a selfie Pauline Vachon had taken. She was lying on a sofa in a very suggestive pose.

“There. And there,” said Lacoste, reaching out and moving the image until it showed a close-up of the woman’s bare arm.

Bruises.