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“Is she okay?” Jean-Guy asked.

As a recovering addict himself, he knew the dangers of even one drink, one toke. One snort. The problem was never the second or third, it was that first.

“Yes, she’s okay.”

They paused on the village green, looking up at the three huge pines. Was this the spot where an exhausted, emaciated, frightened woman, condemned for being strong and wise and independent, had stopped running?

Where she made a home. For herself and generations of others who were also lost. Who also needed a safe place. Including the two men standing shoulder to shoulder in the darkness.

Once back at the Incident Room, Gamache himself dusted and swabbed the book.

Some prints appeared, emerging from the pages, as though surfacing. Or expelled.

Jean-Guy watched him work, then asked, “Do you think Ruth was right? That Three Pines was founded by witches?”

“Not witches, Jean-Guy.” Armand handed the samples to him to bag and placed the book in the locker. “Just women. Like Reine-Marie. Like Annie.”

“Like Ruth.”

“No one’s like Ruth,” said Armand, peeling off the gloves.

Jean-Guy laughed. “What I don’t get is how Ruth knows all that about Anne Lamarque.”

“I sometimes think it’s best not to ask.”

“Maybe she was one of the women. I wonder how old she is.”

“I wonder how old the duck is,” said Armand.

Jean-Guy laughed. “Maybe Rosa’s one of them. Transformed into a duck.”

That might explain a few things, thought Armand.

It was a good point. Not the age, or duck, thing, but how Ruth knew. If Anne Lamarque and two other women really had founded Three Pines, how would anyone know that? They presumably died here. Would their stories not be buried with them? Lost and forgotten?

But was anything in Three Pines ever lost? Or forgotten?

There was a ding and Jean-Guy walked over to his desk. “The autopsy report on Patricia Godin has come through.”

Before Armand could get to his own desk to look, he heard the door open.

“Bonsoir,” said Olivier. “We were closing up the bistro and saw the light on. Thought we’d check.”

“Everything okay?” asked Gabri.

“Everything’s good,” said Gamache. “We’re just tidying up a few things.”

“Has something happened, Armand?” Olivier asked. “The crime scene tape in the loft. Is it a crime scene?”

“The truth is, we don’t think a crime itself was committed there, but there is a small possibility some of the things found in that room are connected to a crime.”

“A murder?” asked Gabri.

Gamache lifted his hands, to show he either could not or would not answer.

Olivier took a few steps into the Old Train Station and Gabri followed. The men were very familiar with the large open space. It was home to their volunteer fire department. Both were members, and Ruth was the chief. Self-appointed, admittedly. But being essentially a dumpster fire herself, she was familiar with flames.

“Is there something else?” Armand asked.