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And then, as Jean-Guy watched, Armand’s expression changed. It first froze and then the smile melted away, leaving something cold and flinty behind.

Jean-Guy followed Armand’s eyes, though he knew what, who, he’d find at the other end.

And sure enough. There he was. A young man, still handsome, perhaps even more handsome than when Beauvoir had first seen him. The same day he’d first met the Chief Inspector.

The young man was looking past the stream of joyful graduates. Past the cheering and applauding parents. He paused briefly to look at Jean-Guy and smiled in recognition before moving on. Past Reine-Marie.

Sam Arsenault’s stare landed on Chief Inspector Gamache, and stayed there.

“Turn right here,” said Gamache.

“But the detachment’s that way.” Agent Beauvoir jerked his head to the left.

“We’re not going to the detachment.”

“Then where … Oh.”

He drove in silence while Gamache reread the police report. Familiarizing himself with the family. With all those who’d been interviewed in an effort to find the missing woman.

It didn’t take long.

There was no mention of the children’s father or Clotilde’s partner. No mention of relatives or even friends. Neighbors were interviewed, but that was about all.

Clotilde Arsenault and her children had moved to the community six years earlier from a town down south.

She was a known prostitute and addict. But not, it seemed, a dealer.

Then he reread the news stories, which were, shamefully, more detailed and enlightening than the official police report. But even they had scant solid information.

No one knew anything, though he sensed they were not trying very hard. No one had seen her the day she disappeared. Or admitted—Gamache automatically inserted the qualifier—to seeing her.

There was about these interviews the whiff of wishful thinking. That Clotilde Arsenault was indeed gone. Forever.

The ambivalence was slightly softened by sympathy for her children. Though even then not as much as Gamache would have thought.

The sister and brother, ages thirteen and ten, respectively, lived alone with their mother. They’d gone to the police saying she hadn’t come home. She’d been away overnight before but never without telling them, and never two nights in a row.

They were worried.

The girl, Fiona, looked younger than her age. The boy, Samuel, looked older than his years.

Gamache searched the police report to see who was looking after the children in their mother’s absence but couldn’t find a name.

“Captain Dagenais, it’s Gamache,” he said into his phone. “Can you tell me who’s staying with Clotilde Arsenault’s children? Yes, we’ve positively identified her. I’m on my way over there now. I need to know—I’m sorry?”

Beauvoir glanced over at the Chief Inspector. Gamache’s eyes had hardened, his face grown rigid as he struggled to contain his outrage. To not let his rage out.

“Are you telling me that two children came to you about their missing mother, and you sent them home alone?” There was silence as Gamache listened, his knuckles turning white as he gripped his phone. “I don’t care that the girl is mature. She’s still a child. Her mother’s missing. Someone should’ve been found to stay with them, a friend, a state-appointed guardian, one of your agents. We’ll discuss this later. Send someone now. Then put in an urgent call to Child Protection.”

He hung up, cutting off the tiny, whiny voice.

“He’s a real—” Beauvoir began.

“That’s enough, Agent Beauvoir,” snapped Gamache, and looked out at the gloom. The sun set early in November, and even earlier this far north. The light swallowed by the mountains and ancient forests.

“We’re here.” The car turned into a small, single-story home.

The vehicle was barely stopped when Gamache got out and walked quickly up the front path, righting a rusted and dented garbage can blocking the way.