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“With strict rules and oversight,” said Armand. “That’s a choice.”

“But pulling the plug isn’t. At least not by the person about to die. It’s a choice made by relatives. And it’s a cruel position to be put in. Maybe we’d be better off if that decision was taken out of our hands. Off our conscience.”

“Are you saying you agree with her?”

“I’m saying it’s not so clear-cut. People have dug themselves into positions, but maybe we need to listen with a more open mind. I’ve had to pull a plug. I’ll never get over the trauma. Killing my own mother. That’s what it felt like. I’d have liked that cup taken from me.”

Armand had also had to make that decision. It had turned out differently, but it was still traumatic.

“I’m not saying I agree with her,” said Myrna, getting up. “I am saying I understand some of her points. Bonne nuit, Armand. Jean-Guy.”

“Good night.”

She was the last to be interviewed.

By just after four a.m. they were ready to leave too. Reine-Marie was alone in the living room, waiting for them. But there was one more thing the Sûreté officers had to do.

They’d had a text from the Scene of Crime officer.

Putting on their coats and boots, Armand and Jean-Guy walked into the woods. The wind and cold once again scraped their cheeks and stole their breaths.

They could see the tent, lit from the inside. Shadows were moving around like specters trapped.

After ducking in, they had a quiet word with the head of the forensics team. Then both Beauvoir and Gamache removed their tuques as Debbie Schneider was carried past them, on her way to the morgue.

Chapter 24

Isabelle Lacoste arrived in Three Pines early the next morning and went directly to the Inn.

The storm had dropped less than fifteen centimeters of snow, but it had all fallen sideways, creating huge drifts, packing snow up against homes, businesses, fences, trees. Doors.

After the bitter cold of the night before, the temperature had risen to –9 degrees Celsius. Practically balmy.

Flurries were in the forecast, and more snow expected in the coming days. Great for skiing. Not so great for a murder investigation, thought Isabelle as she walked around to the back of the Auberge.

What had been a nice cross-country ski trail winding through the woods now looked like a hiking path. With a tent incongruously pitched on one side.

Once in the tent, Inspector Lacoste bent over the imprint of the body in the snow. Like a mold.

Then she looked around. Over coffee at home that morning, long before the sun or her family rose, she’d watched the videos from Chief Inspector Gamache and Jean-Guy. And she’d read the preliminary reports.

She could see that they’d done well to protect what they could. But damage, in the form of nature and drunken kids, had been done.

After getting a sense of the scene, she returned to the Auberge to have a word with Dominique and Marc. It was decided that the Incident Room would be moved from the old gym to the new Inn. They’d set up in the basement, away from prying eyes and paying guests.

Unlike the gym, this basement was brightly lit and clean and, best of all, it smelled of fresh paint, not jockstrap.

Jean-Guy joined her there a few minutes later, and while the technicians worked around them, he brought Isabelle up to speed on the events of the night before.

She’d read the reports, but they were skeletal. Now she listened closely as Beauvoir put flesh on the bones.

“Poor woman,” she said when he’d finished. “Killed by mistake.”

“We can’t assume that,” he said. “But yes, probably. What news on Tardif’s brother?”

“I’m interviewing him at the local detachment in an hour.”

“Good. We know he didn’t have anything to do with the killing last night, but he might be able to clear up some things about the attack at the gym.”