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“I went over Fleming’s file,” he said, clutching the dossier and getting in the passenger seat. “There’s a list attached to the back of the last page. It’s of places he lived and dates. John Fleming was in the same town as Clotilde Arsenault twenty-six years ago. I called up the Arsenault file and compared. And get this, he was in the next village over when Clotilde was murdered.”

Gamache stared at Beauvoir, stunned. “It’s not in the file I have.”

He took the paper and put on his reading glasses. He’d spent hours and hours at that desk in the little room in his basement, going over and over, over the years, the thick dossier.

There were huge holes in the timeline. And in those holes, Chief Inspector Gamache was convinced, were buried more victims. In those holes he might find the name of an accomplice, still out there.

In those holes he might now find the escaped madman.

The list of places and dates that Beauvoir handed him was scribbled on paper torn from an exercise book like the ones his granddaughters brought home from school. All that was missing were the little pony stickers.

“This’s information he gave them while at the SHU,” said Beauvoir.

Gamache took off his reading glasses and looked out the windshield at the sun-dappled dirt road. His mind worked quickly, going back to that November day by the shore of the iron-gray lake. To that house. Those children. The videos. Could Fleming be on one?

Could Fleming have somehow been involved in Clotilde’s murder?

“It could be more lies,” he said. “To confuse us, have us running off in the wrong direction.”

“Thought of that. I called detention and spoke to the warden. He admitted lots in the file was faked. The ID, the fingerprints, DNA. But not that list.”

“I’m not saying the warden necessarily fabricated it. I’m saying Fleming lied to them about where he lived and when. We only have his word, and we know what that’s worth.”

The list might as well have been written on toilet paper. But still, Gamache didn’t dare dismiss it outright. It was certainly more manipulation, but that did not make it untrue. And it was certainly strange that, if he made it up at random, he’d choose those towns and those years.

“We need to find out if his name was in Clotilde’s ledger.”

“Will do.”

“In that file”—he nodded to the dossier on Beauvoir’s lap—“is there mention of a wife? Children?”

“No. But that’s something else, patron. I did the math. If what’s in here is true, John Fleming was not only in the same town as Clotilde twenty-six years ago, he was living there when she gave birth.”

“To whom?” Though he could do the math himself.

“Fiona.”

There was silence for a beat, two, as Gamache stared at Beauvoir.

“Are you suggesting that Fiona Arsenault is John Fleming’s daughter?”

“Yes. Maybe. It’s possible. There’s no father listed on her birth certificate, and Fleming was gone by the time Sam was born. We can get her DNA records, and once we find Fleming’s, we can compare them.”

Armand felt like someone had just struck him hard on the side of the head.

Could it be even worse than he had feared?

Not Sam after all, but Fiona, as Jean-Guy had always maintained. As others had maintained. But he’d ignored them. So sure of himself.

Fiona. The young woman whose release he had secured. Who was released into his custody. Released into his home. Into his family.

“You couldn’t have known, patron.”

“You knew.”

“I guessed. I didn’t know and still don’t.”

And yet, for all Armand didn’t want to believe it, one of his strengths was seeing the truth, no matter how awful. And this looked like the truth. And this was awful.