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Gamache was prepared for some sort of verbal abuse, but he had not expected this. Even though he knew that Sam did not believe what he said. Even though he knew no one at that table believed it. Even though he knew it was a calculated, perhaps even rehearsed, attack designed to inflict maximum damage, still it left him shaken.

He stared into Sam’s eyes. And there he saw not fear, not pain, but triumph. The boy knew he’d scored a direct hit. Somehow this child had recognized the very worst thing this grown man could be accused of. And then accused him.

But along with the triumph, there was something else lurking in those eyes. It was relief. Like an addict getting a hit. Or a starving creature that fed on someone else’s pain, enjoying a meal.

This was a child whose only feelings involved agony.

The slap, the punch, the kick, the burn, the penetration. The betrayal. And sometimes it was the spoken word. It was all he knew. So why wouldn’t he inflict all that on others?

Armand looked at Sam and his heart broke. And out of that wound came the words from the Zardo poem.

Who hurt you once, so far beyond repair / That you would greet each overture with curling lip.

But he knew the answer. They had the names. And addresses. They had them in custody. They had the body in the morgue.

The question now was, were Fiona and Sam beyond repair?

He turned to Fiona. She seemed surprised by what Sam had said, had implied. Though he couldn’t really tell. Was she? Maybe not. Maybe it was part of the act.

Maybe that was their game, their unnatural connection.

Armand realized with a jolt that while the accusation was patently false, it had, against all odds, succeeded. Sam Arsenault had done something the very worst, the most brutal criminals had failed to do, though God knew they’d tried.

The boy had found a way into Gamache’s head and left the Chief Inspector foundering. Unsure. Questioning his judgment, his perceptions.

The way in had not been the insult. Armand Gamache’s extreme empathy for them had left him vulnerable. The way in was through his heart.

And that was why, he now realized, he hadn’t told them about his own loss. It was too personal. He’d sensed even then the danger of opening up too much.

Fortunately, Gamache didn’t have to rely on judgment when he had facts.

“We’ve arrested the men who visited your home—”

The counselor had advised Gamache and the other agents not to ask Fiona and Sam about the abuse. They’d need a lot of therapy, a lot of help, before they could talk about it. And for now there was no need. There was more than enough evidence to charge the men.

“One of them was found to have your mother’s car.”

“Did he do it?” Fiona asked.

Gamache hated every moment of this. Only Chernin and the counselor knew what was coming next, and he could sense their discomfort. But he pressed forward. Deeper into the cave.

“No. He didn’t kill your mother.”

“How do you know?” demanded Sam.

“Because we know how he got her car. He told us.”

“He could be lying,” said Fiona. “Don’t murderers lie?”

“All the time,” said Gamache, his voice soft. “We also found the record book and video camera.” Now he paused, looking at them. “We know.”

“You know what they did to us,” said Sam, his chin dimpling, his lower lip quivering. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I’m not asking you about what you both went through. I wouldn’t make you talk about it. But there is something I do need to talk to you about.”

His voice was neutral. As though the subject, the next words, were not going to explode their lives. It was vital not to feed any hysteria. To remain, and invite, calm.

“The writing in the record book started off as your mother’s, but then, about six months ago, it changed. Two more people took over. You two.”