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“Your white whale,” said Ruth, triumphant. “Thar she blows.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

@CarlTracey: I’ve put up more pictures of Carl’s work for you to see.

@NouveauGalerie: Who’s this? I thought I was communicating with Tracey.

@CarlTracey: Pauline Vachon. Carl’s partner.

@NouveauGalerie: Business or life partner?

@CarlTracey: Does it matter?

@CarlTracey: Hello?

@CarlTracey: Hello?

@CarlTracey: Both.

Gamache sat on the cot across from Homer Godin while Lysette Cloutier stood by the open door to the holding cell.

Homer looked sick. Gaunt. His eyes were bloodshot and puffy, his face blotched. Bright red in places, white, almost green, in others.

“We’ve come to release you,” said Gamache. “If you promise not to do anything to Carl Tracey.”

“Or yourself,” said Cloutier.

Homer continued to stare at his large hands, hanging limp between his knees.

When he finally spoke, his voice was remote. “I can’t promise.”

“Then I can’t release you,” said Gamache. He leaned forward and dropped his voice even further, so that Homer had to also lean forward. Had to make some small effort.

Which he did.

“You can do this,” Armand said softly.

“There’s only one thing I want to do.”

That sat between them. The silence stretching on. Until Homer finally broke it himself, lifting his eyes to Armand’s.

“How’m I gonna go on?”

Armand placed his hand on Homer’s. “You’ll come stay with us. We’ll keep you safe.”

“Really?”

And for a moment, a split second, Armand saw a glimmer amid the gloom. And then it was gone.

“I can’t come to your house.”

“Why not?”

The two men were quiet for a moment before Homer spoke again.

“You’ve been kind. Your wife—” Homer lifted his hand to his own face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

“I know. She knows. Are you worried about doing it again?”