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“Open it, Armand.”

Even before stepping inside, he heard the dogs barking from behind the study door.

Then he saw Sam standing over Jean-Guy, who was slumped against the wall. His hands and legs bound up in Christmas tinsel. Blood streamed down his face, and a brick lay on the floor. But he was alive.

Sam was holding a gun. Beauvoir’s Glock.

“Jean-Guy,” said Reine-Marie, and tried to move forward, but Fleming held her fast. Sam cocked the gun and placed it to Beauvoir’s head.

Armand stared at Jean-Guy, who stared back. His eyes were bleary as he tried to focus.

“Désolé,” Jean-Guy whispered.

“Welcome home.”

Armand turned to the voice. Fiona was standing by the fireplace, holding the framed picture that had hung on the wall. It was done by his granddaughter, Florence, during the pandemic.

The little girl had drawn a cheerful rainbow and beneath it the words Ça va bien aller.

All will be well.

“You know my daughter,” said Fleming. “I want to thank you for looking after her. Making sure she was safe in prison. Getting the École Polytechnique to admit her into distance learning. People are kind. And then you vouched for her and got her released on parole. I am grateful.”

Fleming’s eyes flickered to the clock on the mantelpiece. As did Armand’s.

It was 11:21.

“And while Sam isn’t my biological son, he is family in every way that matters. I recognized that early on. I think you did too.” Fleming looked around. “I’ve always liked this room. Cheerful, welcoming. Filled with your treasures. A microcosm of a life fully lived, as the historians would say. Books. Family photographs. Art. That’s a Morrow, isn’t it? Some of this stuff no doubt picked up in galleries and flea markets on your travels together. Les Puces? You didn’t pick up on that, did you?” He nodded toward the framed drawing that Fiona held. “Done by one of your grandchildren, I imagine. I’ll be meeting them soon.”

“Don’t you—” began Reine-Marie.

Beauvoir shouted an expletive and struggled against his bonds. Sam placed his boot on Jean-Guy’s chest and pushed him roughly back against the wall.

“Ahhh, careful now,” Fleming whispered into Reine-Marie’s ear. His breath hot. Moist. “Best to learn from your husband. If you do nothing, there’s a possibility I’ll lose focus and then you’ll have your chance. That is what you’re thinking, isn’t it, Armand. What you’re waiting for?”

Armand was silent and Fleming sighed.

“I’ve planned meticulously. No piece out of place. Nothing extraneous. A purpose for everything. It took me years, but finally I knew I could predict your every move. Suspecting poor Monsieur Godin. He had to go, of course. Hiring poor Boisfranc. He was so grateful. Even the attack on Mongeau in the church. Sam did it, of course. A glancing blow, but enough to draw a lot of blood. I knew there was no way you’d let me go home alone. Not after that. I knew you’d have to invite me here. Into your home. Kindness kills. Remember that.”

Gamache felt physically sick. If it really was that well planned, then …

“Sylvie was Mountweazel, wasn’t she?” he finally said.

He’d at first thought their only real chance was to engage Fleming long enough for the Sûreté to arrive. Now he knew he didn’t have to. And he saw a tiny glimmer of hope.

The very thing that brought them to this could help them get out of it.

John Fleming was not only a planner, he was an overplanner. The details he was so proud of had allowed him to escape from the SHU, had brought them here, to this moment, but they also imprisoned him. He would not deviate from his plan.

Armand knew that John Fleming could have already killed them many times over. That much was obvious. But what was also now obvious was that he was waiting for the perfect time.

The right time. Eleven thirty.

Armand shifted his eyes to the carriage clock on the mantelpiece, by where Fiona was standing. Her hand was resting on Florence’s drawing as though she enjoyed sullying one of their treasures.

Eleven twenty-two.

Eight minutes.