Page 191

All truth with malice in it.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

“I saw a light down here,” said a groggy Jean-Guy. “How long have you been up?”

“A little while,” said Armand, gazing over his reading glasses.

He’d left the church an hour earlier, with Homer, who’d finally turned around and, looking at Armand without surprise, said that he was ready to go home. To bed.

The two men had walked in silence back to the Gamaches’ place, and from there Armand had gone to the old railway station. He picked up files and laptops and, returning home, settled into the living room.

Where he could see if Homer tried to leave again.

When Jean-Guy came down, he found Armand in front of the lit fireplace with a mug of coffee, reading.

Armand was unshaven. His hair messed. But his eyes were bright and alert. No sign of fatigue.

Outside, clouds had once again rolled in and brought with them snow. Again. Huge soft flakes, as though the clouds themselves were breaking up and drifting down in pieces.

“Can you call Isabelle?”

“It’s five twenty. In the morning. It’s still dark out.”

But Armand just looked at him as though none of that mattered.

And it didn’t, Jean-Guy realized.

“What’s up?” he asked as he walked into the study and dialed the familiar number.

“I’ll tell you when Isabelle gets here.”

As he waited for the line to engage, Jean-Guy looked across the village green, past the three tall trees. And noticed that theirs wasn’t the only light in Three Pines.

“Oui, allô,” said Isabelle, instantly awake.

Clara sat on the stool in her studio. Stale chocolate crumbs and icing in her hair. Leo at her feet.

The miniatures on the easel in front of her.

Suppose, her drunken mind had allowed the traitor thought in. Suppose …

“Suppose,” Gamache began as they sat with their coffees around the warm wood fire, “we were wrong.”

Isabelle had arrived, looking more than a little scruffy herself, but at least fully dressed.

Jean-Guy had also showered and dressed while they waited for Isabelle. Armand stayed in the living room, not wanting to risk Homer sneaking out.

“What do you mean?” she asked, putting her mug of coffee down and leaning closer. “Wrong about what?”

“Just suppose,” Gamache said, “Carl Tracey was telling the truth.”

Jean-Guy’s eyes narrowed. “How much wine did you have last night?”

Gamache ran his hand through his hair, but instead of smoothing it down, he just managed to make it stand up even more. Far from looking comical, he looked deadly serious.

Armand Gamache might hold a rank equal to or even below their own, for now. But both knew he was in fact their superior. Always would be. And had earned the right to be heard. If not agreed with.

So now, they supposed …