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While relieved to be leaving, Beauvoir was also miffed. The Chief Inspector didn’t seem to trust him to collect evidence.

And he was right.

Once back in the house, Gamache approached the head of his forensics team and instructed him to go into the root cellar. “Have the mattress wrapped and taken to the evidence locker at the detachment. Make sure it’s locked inside along with everything else, and keep all copies of the key.”

“Yessir,” he said. “All copies? What about the station commander?”

“All copies.”

Then he told Chernin what they’d found.

“I’ll look for the camera,” she said.

As Gamache and Beauvoir approached the living room, they could hear that the television was once again on but at a normal volume.

Agent Moel got to her feet, but Gamache waved her down. Then he looked at the children, who’d turned to him. Seeing his expression, they dropped their eyes.

They knew he knew.

Gamache sat on the footstool opposite Fiona and said to Sam, “Please, join us.”

The boy looked at Jean-Guy, who nodded. Then Sam went over and sat beside his sister on the sofa.

Fiona was trembling slightly. Agent Moel saw this and, knowing what was coming, she shot a glance at the Chief Inspector.

Is this necessary? she was clearly asking.

Apparently it was.

“I need to ask you some questions.”

Agent Moel took Fiona’s hand. It was cold to the touch. The children seemed shell-shocked as their world exploded around them, spewing their guts, their secrets, everywhere. For all these strangers to see.

“Did anyone come to the house after your mother disappeared?” Gamache asked.

It was obviously not the question they’d been expecting. They looked at each other, then shook their heads.

“Are you sure?” he pressed, gently.

“Yes,” said Fiona. “We’re sure.”

He waited. The show on the TV was now some crime drama. Cars were zooming through city streets. Shots were being fired.

And still, he waited.

“You can tell me,” he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re safe now.”

He heard Sam snort.

He did not lean closer, as he would have with an adult, as he would have with any other children. Instead, he let them have their space.

“We opened your mother’s computer. And we found the basement. I know. Everything.”

But he was wrong. He didn’t yet know everything.

“No one came,” mumbled Fiona, staring at the patch of carpet between her running shoes.

Beauvoir, watching this, was just beginning to suspect what that tripod, what that soiled mattress and cot in the root cellar were for. But his mind stopped at the entrance to that dark place. Unwilling to enter.