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Sam stood up, looking confused. “She’s at the B&B. I thought you knew.”

“Why isn’t she here?”

“She didn’t want to come over. She was afraid to see you. You know her. She hates confrontation.”

“I’ve been texting and calling.”

Fiona stood beside her brother. “She just needs time. We’ve both encouraged her to reach out to you. No one knows better than we do how important family is.”

Myrna glared at Sam, hesitated, then turned to Fiona. “Please, tell her I’m sorry. Ask her to just send an emoji, anything.”

“I will,” said Sam. “Don’t worry. She really is fine.”

Harriet yanked her sweater off the tree limb and plunged on. She’d freed herself, though her wrists were raw and bleeding.

And now she ran. The faster she went, the more convinced she was that she was being chased. All the horror stories told over bonfires on the village green had come to life.

The boy who was murdered and now hunted other kids. The zombie cheerleaders with burning coal eyes. The ghosts and monsters, the alive and the undead. The lunatics with chainsaws, the madmen with axes. The wild beasts. The demons.

All took chase as she plunged through the darkening forest, tripping over logs and roots and running headlong into trees. The bundle she’d thought was Sam had turned out to be a rotting log.

So where was he? She’d screamed for him. Screamed for anyone. Just screamed.

Her face and hands were torn and bloody, she’d lost a shoe.

And still she ran. Faster and faster. Pursued by all that was unholy.

The last vestige of her sanity screamed that she had to stop. Had to regroup. Had to come up with some sort of plan.

But still she ran, with each step turning into the lunatic she was fleeing.

“How’s Robert?” asked Clara. “Ruth says he’ll recover.”

“Yes, he was lucky,” said Gamache. They were standing by a table for two that he’d chosen not far from Sam and Fiona. “He’s staying with me until he feels better.”

“Would you like to join us?”

She pointed to the table by the fire, where Ruth and Rosa were waiting.

“Non, merci.” Gamache’s tone was abrupt and she got the message.

While Clara left, Myrna lingered. “I’m worried about Harriet.”

“Yes, I gathered. How long since you heard from her?” Armand so obviously just wanted to get on with his own business, but could not ignore Myrna, even if he wanted to.

“Since the fight this morning. I know, I know. She’s an adult and can’t be considered a missing person.”

“True, but we can trace her phone at least. Do you have her number?”

“Yes.” Myrna felt relief for the first time in hours. She sent it to him, then embraced him, whispering, “Merci.”

Before sitting down, and afraid he’d forget, he sent off a message to one of his agents asking him to trace the phone.

As he did, he noticed a message from the coroner.

Ran samples again. Godin DNA definitely not a match for Fiona Arsenault. Second contaminated sample, Boisfranc, does not contain your DNA. Belongs to someone else.

Armand replied.