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“Sadly, I am not.”

“Jesus,” said the caretaker, “were there no walk-in closets she could’ve rented? And why’re you here? A Sûreté officer? What does she talk about?”

“Statistics.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, this place’s going to be empty. What a waste of time.”

Gamache climbed onto the stage and looked out at the room.

He agreed with the caretaker. If they got fifty people, he’d be surprised. But Armand Gamache was a careful man. Three decades of looking at the bodies of surprised people did that.

“I’ll get the room dividers ready, Chief,” said Monsieur Viau.

They left the stage and walked to the main entrance, where frost had encroached and encrusted the door handles.

“Do you happen to have blueprints of the building?”

“In my office.”

Viau returned with scrolls, which he gave to Gamache. As the caretaker prepared to lock up and leave, he studied the cop.

He’d recognized the name, of course, when Gamache had called for the appointment. And he recognized the man himself when he’d arrived. It was strange to see someone in person who he’d seen so often on television, throughout the pandemic and before. While Monsieur Viau had heard that the head of homicide for the Sûreté lived in the region, they’d never actually met, until now.

What he saw was a large man. Slightly over six feet tall. Even with the parka, it was clear he wasn’t fat, but he was substantial. Mid to late fifties, he guessed. Gray hair, curling slightly around his ears. And, of course, the unmistakable scar, deep at his temple.

The cop’s face, the caretaker noticed, wasn’t so much wrinkled as lined. And Viau could guess where those lines had come from.

They stepped outside, and though they were braced for it, the bitter cold still stole their breaths. It scraped the flesh of their faces and made their eyes water. Their feet crunched on the snow as the caretaker walked the Chief Inspector to his car.

“Why’re you really here?” Viau asked.

Gamache squinted into the sun. So much light was bouncing off the drifts that his companion was almost lost in the glare.

“That’s exactly what I asked my superior,” he said with a smile. “To be honest with you, Monsieur Viau, I don’t really know.”

But then Armand Gamache hadn’t yet done his research on the person who’d be standing at the podium. And what she, and her statistics, would be saying.

Now, with the event about to begin, Chief Inspector Gamache looked over the heads of the crowd and found Monsieur Viau standing at the far end, by the doors. In shock, as he leaned on his mop and watched the people pour in.

Gamache had used the plans he’d been given to work out that the official maximum standing capacity would be six hundred and fifty. He’d rounded it down to five hundred, believing that they wouldn’t get close.

But as he’d done more research, Gamache became less and less sure.

He’d spent his evenings after everyone else had gone to bed watching videos of lectures given by Professor Robinson. Many of which had, in the past few weeks, gone viral.

What could have been a dry recital of statistics had become a near messianic message to a population hungry for, desperate for, hope.

Though the pandemic was now over, it had left behind a population worn down. People were tired of being self-disciplined, of self-isolating. Of social distancing and wearing masks. They were exhausted, shell-shocked, from months and endless months of worrying about their children, their parents, their grandparents. Themselves.

They were battered and bruised from losing relatives, losing friends. Losing jobs and favorite haunts. Tired of being isolated and driven near crazy with loneliness and despair.

They were tired of being afraid.

Professor Abigail Robinson, with her statistics, proved that better times were ahead. That the economy could recover, stronger than ever. The health care system could meet all their needs. That there would never be a shortage of beds, equipment, medicine again. Ever.

And instead of being asked to make a hundred sacrifices, the population would be asked to make just one.

It was in that “just one” that all the trouble lay.