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Armand glanced at his watch, then out the window. It felt like three in the morning but was, in reality, just before midnight. He could see the bistro’s cheerful lights and was pretty sure he recognized Myrna’s distinctive silhouette as she passed from the bar to the sofa by the large stone hearth.

Before arriving in Three Pines, Myrna Landers had been a prominent psychologist in Montréal, specializing in especially difficult cases. Part of her work was in the SHU, the Special Handling Unit, reserved for the worst, the most troubled offenders. The insane.

Dr. Landers decided there were better ways, better places, happier people to spend her life with. So she’d submitted her resignation, cleared her case files, sold her home, packed her car, and one spring morning she’d turned south.

Her goal was to keep driving until she finally, Ulysses-like, found a community where the people did not know what an ice scraper was. But, losing her way after only an hour of driving, she crested a hill and found a tiny village in a valley. It wasn’t on her map. In fact, her GPS was warning her she was in the middle of a meadow, in the middle of nowhere.

But it was wrong. She was somewhere.

From the top of the hill she could see fieldstone homes, clapboard cottages, and brick shops surrounding a village green. Perennial gardens were in their first blush. There were peonies and huge purple lilac bushes. Banks of lupins grew wild down the slope.

Three massive pine trees stood in the center of the village.

She drove down and parked in front of the shops. Getting out, she took a deep breath of fresh air and fresh baking. Going into the bistro to ask for directions, Myrna Landers sat down, ordered a café au lait and a fresh, crispy, warm amandine. And pretty much never left.

She rented the shop next door, opened a new and used bookstore, and moved into the loft above.

Armand suspected the other glass of red wine he could see Myrna carrying was for her best friend, the artist Clara Morrow.

“D’accord,” he said to Jean-Guy. “The bistro it is.”

As he put on his parka and boots, he wondered why Jean-Guy wanted to leave when the home was warm, and private. But as they walked across to the bistro, he understood.

Home was home. A safe, almost sacred place.

Jean-Guy did not want to sully it with what was about to be said. And once again Armand was reminded of how much he admired and respected Jean-Guy Beauvoir.

Which made what was about to happen all the worse.

Chapter 8

Clara looked up as the door opened and a gust of cold air blew in, bringing with it Armand and Jean-Guy.

A pretzel she’d absently stuck in her hair, thinking it was a pencil, fell to the old pine floor. Stooping to pick it up, she popped it in her mouth and wondered just how many pencils she might have eaten, mistaking them for pretzels. Since it didn’t bear thinking of, she stopped.

“Huh,” said Myrna, also turning to look. “Didn’t expect to see them.”

She began to rock her large body out of the deep sofa. But stopped when she saw Armand’s face.

Beside her on the sofa Rosa the duck muttered, “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” and also looked surprised. But then ducks often did.

“Who’s that?” asked the woman in the armchair closest to the fire. Unused to winter, she wore layers of itchy wool under her flowing fuchsia caftan. A wool scarf around her neck met the hijab covering her head, framing her lined face.

Though only in her early twenties, Haniya Daoud looked much older.

Her lips were thin in displeasure. Her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Cops,” said Ruth Zardo. “Sûreté du Québec. Brutal. Especially to people of color, as Myrna knows. Probably heard you were here.” She looked around. “Too late to run.”

“For chrissake, Ruth,” snapped Myrna. She turned to Haniya. “It’s not true.”

But it was too late. The newcomer was gripping Ruth’s thin arm. “Save me. I know what police do to people like me. You have to help me.” Her voice had risen in panic. “Please. I’m begging you.”

Ruth, seeing what she’d created, was desperately trying to walk it back. “No. No, no, no” was all she could get out.

Haniya started to wail and rock back and forth. Rosa let out a mighty “Fuuuuuuck.”

Only when Myrna started to laugh did Ruth get it. Her eyes narrowed, and she looked at Haniya. “Are you messing with me?”