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“I’m not exactly picky, am I?” said Pauline, smiling.

Lacoste realized she’d underestimated this young woman and how remarkable she really was.

This was strategic. Mix truth in with lies, so it became more and more difficult to tell them apart.

“It meant nothing,” Pauline explained. “Might not’ve been the smartest thing I’ve done, having sex with a client, but hey, people’ve done worse.”

“Like murder,” said Lacoste.

There could be no more doubt about the relationship between Tracey and Vachon, and neither was there any doubt about the relationship between interviewer and interviewee. One was in charge, the other in trouble.

Pauline Vachon looked down at the photographs, her lips compressing. “How did you get these?”

“You’ve been corresponding with NouveauGalerie, I believe,” said Lacoste.

“You?” said Vachon, looking first at Lacoste, then at Cloutier, who gave a curt nod.

The clotted makeup could not conceal the panic in her face.

Lacoste opened the file again and read, “Stuff’s in the bag. Everything’s ready. Will be done tonight. I promise. That was a message from Carl Tracey to you, around noon on the day Vivienne disappeared. And your reply?”

“Look, I had nothing to do with it.”

“Finally. Good luck. Don’t mess it up.” She looked up from the file. “But he did, didn’t he? He messed it up royally. That’s why you’re here, Pauline.”

The younger woman was flushed. But she tried one more twist to get off the hook.

“Those were about the clay Tracey was buying. He was going to do more pieces that night. I told him not to mess it up. He’d been promising some for weeks.”

Lacoste got up. “I’ll let you think about what you just said. Unless something happens in the next few minutes, like a meteor strikes, you’ll be charged with the murder of Vivienne Godin.”

She and Cloutier left the room. Leaving the file behind.

“We have her,” said Lacoste, walking up to Beauvoir, who was standing outside the meeting room. “Pauline Vachon doesn’t admit to being part of the murder—yet—but she will. I’m letting her stew for a few minutes. She was clearly shaken when she realized we’d seen the private account.”

“You should’ve seen her face,” said Cloutier.

Lacoste nodded. “She admits she used the abortion drug herself and was the one who told Carl Tracey how to get it on the black market.”

How Lacoste got the young woman to admit to a third abortion, never mind buying the black-market drug, still amazed Cloutier. It had been a masterful combination of guile, of guesswork, of knowing when to push and when to make nice. Until Vachon had nowhere to go but the truth.

Cloutier was looking at Lacoste with something close to awe. But there was caution there as well. She did not want to make the same mistake as Vachon.

Whether by natural instinct or honed skills, Isabelle Lacoste had the power to see things people wanted to hide.

And they all had them, as Lysette Cloutier knew only too well.

But while Cloutier was focused on Lacoste, Lacoste was focused on Beauvoir.

“What is it?”

He told them about the video.

Before Lacoste could react, the door opened and Gamache stepped out. He was pale but composed.

Every agent in the open room looked over at him.

They’d all read the Twitter feed and seen the doctored video that was blowing up online. They had yet to see the real video that had just been posted.