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Simone Fleury regarded Beauvoir.

A bundle of coiled energy she found repulsive. Here was a young guy promoted beyond his competence. Just beginning to develop a paunch. Probably going to seed, she thought.

He was good-looking, clean, well groomed, but Madame Fleury had trained herself to look beyond what could be seen.

Probably went home and whaled on his wife when the Habs lost. Or after he’d had a few. Or just because.

Simone Fleury did not like cops. She tolerated Gamache. Barely.

“What can you tell us about Vivienne Godin?” Beauvoir asked, placing the photo of her on the table so that the blank-faced young woman was looking up at them.

“Tea, please,” said Madame Fleury to the waitress.

Beauvoir ordered one as well, while Gamache took a coffee.

The waitress had looked Madame Fleury in the eye as she ordered. Brief enough, meaningless enough. Except she hadn’t made eye contact with either Beauvoir or Gamache.

“I’ve seen that,” said Madame Fleury, pushing the photograph back across the table to Beauvoir. “You sent it to me, Armand. I asked around. She didn’t show up at any of the shelters, and if she called, she didn’t use her own name. Most don’t.”

“So she could’ve called but didn’t give her name.”

“Isn’t that what I just said? We get twenty-six thousand calls a year.” She let that sink in and was gratified to see the look of surprise on Beauvoir’s handsome face. “Most never give their name. Most never show up.”

“Why not?”

“Most women, when they call for help, don’t want to leave the relationship. They just want the beating, that beating, to end.”

It was, Gamache knew, exactly what Cameron described with Vivienne.

“But they must know there’ll be another,” said Beauvoir. “Why—”

“Don’t,” Madame Fleury snapped. “Don’t you dare ask why they don’t leave. Don’t you dare judge these women for staying.”

“But it’s a legitimate question, isn’t it?” He looked from Madame Fleury to Gamache.

“There’s an implied criticism,” said Madame Fleury. “That these women are weak or stupid.”

“I never said that.”

“No, but you think that. Why don’t they leave? Because they’ve been conditioned to believe it’s their fault. Because they’ve been isolated. They have no money and no support. Because they have a shred of hope or delusion. Because they actually love the guy. Because they’re stuck. Because they’re terrified. And for good reason. Because it’s all they know and all they think they deserve. Because they believe there’s nothing better out there. You can see it in her face. That dazed look. As telling as bruises.”

She jutted her slender hand toward the photo on the table. The picture had been taken before Vivienne was married, but Gamache didn’t bother to correct her.

“That’s why the law was changed,” he said instead. “With Madame Fleury’s help. So that when police show up, they can use their discretion and arrest the abuser. The woman doesn’t have to be the one to lay charges.”

“Yeah, right,” said Madame Fleury. “But how often does that actually happen? Goddamned cops. You need ‘sufficient information.’ I think that’s the phrase, right?”

“You know it is,” said Gamache.

“Did she call the cops?” asked Madame Fleury, looking from one to the other.

“She did,” said Beauvoir. “Charges were never laid.”

“Insufficient information,” said Madame Fleury. “How long before she was killed was that?”

“First time? Thirteen months. There were other calls after that, but no arrest.”

“And then he kills her.”