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Armand felt the heft of Cameron’s gun in his pocket and considered drawing it out. Considered using it, to wound the man. Bring him down.

But decided against it.

Homer was too close to the edge. In every way. It would propel him over.

And the threat of being shot wouldn’t make him drop Tracey. It was no threat at all to a man about to do something far worse. It might even be a kindness.

A coup de grâce. A battlefield execution. To end his agony.

Beauvoir had moved to one side of the road while Lacoste took the far side. They inched along the soft shoulder, where the forest met the road. Once or twice, Homer’s eyes flicked in his direction. The man clearly saw what Beauvoir was doing. And didn’t care.

Beauvoir’s breathing settled, but he remained taut, prepared to move fast. Though, like Lacoste and Gamache, he suspected it would not be nearly fast enough.

Gamache had an idea.

Wild. Desperate. And maybe the only thing that would stop Homer Godin from throwing Carl Tracey off the bridge.

“He didn’t kill your daughter.”

“What?”

“Tracey. He didn’t kill Vivienne.”

The words, like a soft bullet, entered Vivienne’s father. And he stopped.

Beauvoir and Lacoste glanced at each other. They were on either side of the narrow road, with Gamache between them, up ahead. On the bridge.

They knew what he was doing. And it seemed to be working.

Homer Godin was a decent man. Driven mad by grief and despair. But he had no desire to kill anyone, except the person who’d murdered his daughter.

If Gamache could convince him that Carl Tracey was innocent, at least of the murder …

“Who?” was all Homer could say. All he needed to say.

His eyes wide, fixed on Gamache.

Armand had no idea what to say. Though he knew it didn’t matter.

He just had to come up with a name. Someone. Anyone. Would do.

Anything to get Homer to drop Tracey and step away from the edge.

He was just about to say the name of the one suspect not actually on the bridge, Pauline Vachon, when from behind him, came a voice.

“I did.”

Homer shifted his gaze. And while Gamache was tempted to look behind him, he didn’t.

Didn’t have to. He knew who’d spoken.

“I’m sorry, Homer.”

Lysette Cloutier had walked to just a few paces behind Gamache. And now she stepped forward, until she was beside him.

Beauvoir moved swiftly forward until he had one foot on the bridge. His hand on the rickety railing. He was just a few paces from Homer, could almost, almost reach out and touch him.

Homer was staring so intently at Cloutier, standing in the middle of the road, that he didn’t notice Beauvoir off to the side.