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Gamache rolled onto his knees and knelt there for a moment, head down, gasping for breath. Then he struggled to his feet and staggered to the metal door to the room where all the secrets were kept.

Amelia and Harriet were almost at the stone bridge over the Bella Bella when a voice came out of the darkness.

“Stop. Wait.”

Not a shout, but an urgent plea.

Amelia drew her gun. She recognized the voice. It was Fiona Arsenault. She was running toward them, waving her arms.

“They’re in the house. Quick. We’re almost out of time.”

Amelia hesitated. This could be, probably was, a trick.

Gamache’s phone was in the Incident Room. There was every reason to believe he was too, and Fiona Arsenault, John Fleming’s daughter, was luring them away.

“For God’s sake,” pleaded Fiona. “You have to believe me.”

Amelia Choquet, who’d seen terrible people do terrible things on the streets, had also seen acts of immense, immeasurable courage.

But which one was this? She stared at Fiona. Stared. Stared.

Then she changed direction and ran after Fiona, Harriet hard on her heels. The three young women raced across the village green, past the pines, toward the house.

“What’s the code?”

Fleming was standing in front of the keypad.

“Zero, zero, zero, zero.”

Fleming turned and glared at him. “You’re lying.”

Armand’s head was lowered as he struggled for breath, his shoulders heaving. Raising his eyes, he met Fleming’s.

“Would you have ever guessed it?”

Fleming smiled, shook his head, then punched in the numbers. There was a clunk. Fleming reached out and turned the door handle. But it didn’t move.

“You dumb f—”

That’s as far as he got. Armand launched himself forward, knocking Fleming against the wall.

Hearing the struggle in the basement, Sam lifted the gun to Reine-Marie’s head.

“Stop,” Jean-Guy screamed. “No!!”

Amelia skidded around the corner of the house and onto the back patio.

In a flash she could see what was happening.

Armand heard the shot.

The shard of glass he’d picked up from Daniel’s broken ornament had cut the tinsel almost all the way through. Now, with all his might, Armand wrenched his wrists free.

There was a second shot.

He yelled, a roar of rage and anguish, even as he crushed Fleming against the wall. His hand shot up and grabbed Fleming’s wrist just before the knife could reach him.

It flew away as both men fell to the ground. Gamache’s hand closed around something, and he lashed out, hitting Fleming squarely on the skull. Once. Twice.