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“But they’re not,” said Jean-Guy. “With hanging, the bruising would be up here.” He drew a line on his throat under his chin. “But see here. Her cartilage is crushed flat and the bruising is a perfect ring around her neck. These injuries were caused by ligature strangulation. Not hanging.”

Gamache reread the passage, then scrolled up and began reading the entire report. Jean-Guy gave up his chair so that the Chief could sit.

Ten minutes later, he took off his reading glasses, rubbed his eyes, and nodded. “You’re right. Patricia Godin was already dead when hung from the tree.”

“She was murdered.”

“Oui. The coroner missed it. He’d assumed suicide, then saw what he expected to see. To be fair, it’s an easy mistake to make.” Armand got up. “We change the cause of death and institute a full murder investigation. First thing in the morning, I want a team down here and a warrant to search the old Stone house.”

“D’accord, patron.”

As they walked back across the bridge over the Bella Bella, Jean-Guy said, quietly, to Armand, “She wasn’t stoned, was she.”

“Amelia? Non. She was practicing. A dry run. I think she figured if Ruth believed it, Sam will too. Smart woman.”

“I saw the look on your face when we were telling Amelia about the Arsenault case. Are you having second thoughts about Fiona?”

“Did I hear my name?” A voice came out of the darkness.

Fiona was sitting on the swing on the Gamaches’ front porch. Voices carried in the stillness of night, and she’d heard part, or all, of what they’d said.

“Yes,” said the Chief, thinking quickly. “We were talking about you. Jean-Guy here wanted to know if I was having second thoughts about you.”

There was nothing for it but to admit it. Lying about it would only heighten her suspicions.

“About my guilt, or my innocence?” She stood up.

Before Armand could answer, Jean-Guy jumped in.

“It’s the first time we’ve seen you and your brother together since the trial. I guess it brings back memories. Doubts even. Your case was far from clear.”

She gave a small unamused laugh. “‘Case’? You call it that? It’s my life. And yes, it was far from clear. What’s gained by reexamining it? I’ve done my time. I’m trying to rebuild my life. Are you trying to rebuild your case?”

They could only see half her face in the light spilling onto the porch from the kitchen. But even half a face was enough to show her anger. Though her tone more than made that clear.

“You want to get the whole family? Is that it? The box set of Arsenault kids?”

“I didn’t have a chance to answer Jean-Guy’s question. The answer,” Gamache said, looking her in the eyes as she turned to him, “is no. I am not doubting you.”

It was, of course, a lie.

Armand sat in the dark living room waiting for the footsteps in the bedrooms overhead to stop.

When there was finally silence, he crept upstairs and saw there was no light under Fiona’s door. Fortunately, her room faced the forest at the back of the home. She would not be able to look out her window and see what he did next.

He sent off a quick text: Meet me in Clara’s garden.

Not waiting for a reply, he put on his field coat and left the house. Glancing behind him to make sure he wasn’t followed, he walked quickly across the village green, skirting around the far side of the three huge pines. Using them as cover.

He let himself through Clara’s gate, leaving it open, and into the familiar backyard. There were no lights at the windows. Clara and the village were asleep.

He’d chosen this place because her garden could not be seen from anywhere in the village. They could not be overlooked or overheard.

Though the rain had stopped, clouds were still overhead, blotting out the moon and stars. Putting the village into near complete darkness. But there was no sensory deprivation. He could smell the lilac and wet earth. He could hear the rainwater still dripping off the leaves. But most of all, he could hear the riotous crickets and the spring peepers, tiny frogs and their high-pitched chirps.

They must be, he thought, all around him. While he knew what they were, he wondered what Anne Lamarque would have made of this racket.

He was just about to send off another text, and, if there was no answer, to go over there himself, when he heard a bump and a hissed “Tabarnak. Fucking hell.”