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“Homer?” said Armand.

But the man had left the warm kitchen. There was a whistle from the living room. Fred lifted his head, struggled to his feet, and followed the sound.

“Please stay here,” said Armand to the others.

Homer was on the front porch with the old dog.

It was five in the afternoon, and the shadows were long. The temperature was dropping with the sun.

Woodsmoke rose from the homes, slightly scenting the chilly early-evening air.

Armand held the door open, and, at a nod, out shot Henri, followed by Gracie, who was looking, and behaving, more and more like a chipmunk every day.

They caught up with Homer and Fred, who were walking with a measured pace along the edge of the village green. Neither in nor out of the circle.

Lights were on in homes around Three Pines, and Armand could see the glow from the old railway station across the still-swollen river and knew that Jean-Guy and Isabelle were in there, working to solve a crime that seemed to be getting away from them.

Then he turned to the grizzled man, walking through the twilight.

“I’m sorry,” he said as he fell in beside Homer, keeping slow pace with him.

But Homer didn’t reply. Just stared ahead, at the hills and forests growing darker and darker around them.

At the path into the woods, which followed the Rivière Bella Bella and went to the place where Vivienne was found, Homer stopped. It was now little more than a slightly darker opening in a dark forest.

Then he turned and looked in the opposite direction. Upriver. Where Vivienne had first gone into the water. Where she’d last been alive.

His breath came out in warm, soft puffs. Joining, mingling with Armand’s.

“What do you want from me, Armand?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s not true. I can see it in your eyes.” He turned to face him. “What is it? Forgiveness? You want me to say it’s okay that you messed up? That I now have to do what you couldn’t? Get justice for my little girl.”

Armand was quiet. And he thought maybe Homer was right.

He wanted to be absolved of his guilt.

Vivienne’s father was quiet for a long time, his eyes returning to the river. Before he finally spoke.

“Is it possible some things can’t be forgiven? They’re just too terrible? Abuse? Murder?” He looked at Armand. “Could you?”

“Forgive murder?” asked Armand. He thought about it. He was being asked to consider the murder not of a stranger but of his wife. His child. His grandchild. Could he forgive? Sincerely. “It would take years and a huge amount of work. And help. And still…”

“Yes?”

“I hope I’d get there—”

“But?”

“But I think it would take a better person than I am,” admitted Armand.

Homer deserved the truth. And there it was. Could he forgive? In his heart, in his soul? Armand was far from sure.

“Would it help if whoever did it was genuinely sorry?” asked Homer. He searched Armand’s eyes.

“Yeeesss, I think it would.”