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Reine-Marie came out onto their front porch and waved. Breakfast was ready.

As he smiled, Myrna was reminded that the deepest creases down his face were made by laughter.

“Will you join us?” he asked.

“Already had mine, but merci.”

She accompanied him to his front path.

It was promising to be not just warm but hot. Perennials were well along, the lupines and vibrant red poppies and irises were in bloom. Peonies that had survived the winter kill were budding out. The maples and wild cherry trees in the surrounding forest were in bright green leaf.

“Fiona will be there today,” Armand said casually. “I had confirmation last night.”

Myrna’s lips compressed and she took a deep breath. “I see. You asked the families? The survivors?” Though she knew he had.

“Yes. I met with them ten days ago. Walked them through it and left the final decision up to them. It’s been many years since it happened.”

“Yesterday,” said Myrna, and Armand knew she was right.

If it had been Annie, it would still feel like yesterday. Like today. Like this minute.

“I spoke with Nathalie Provost last night,” he said.

She was, Myrna knew, the spokesperson for the victims and families. The public face of a national tragedy.

“They’ve agreed.”

“I’m not sure I would have. Still, you must be pleased.” Myrna’s voice was flat, noncommittal.

Armand hesitated and stared out at the village green. “There’s more.”

Myrna gave a small, unamused laugh. “Of course. There’s always more. Let me guess. He’ll be there too. The brother.”

“We can’t stop him. She wants him there.”

Myrna nodded. They’d known that was a risk. Still, how bad could it be?

Upstairs, Jean-Guy was wondering the same thing as his mind went back to that November day.

News of the discovery of a body in the frigid waters of Lac Plongeon had filtered down to the basement of the remote Sûreté detachment. Agent Beauvoir guessed it was probably the missing woman.

A real case. A real body. And the incompetent, jealous fuck-faces upstairs were keeping him out of it.

Agent Beauvoir sat on the stool, guarding bits and pieces of evidence from petty crimes that would never get to trial. He consoled himself by once again mentally composing his letter of resignation from the Sûreté and in the process telling them what he really thought. Not that he hadn’t already.

That’s what had landed him in the dim basement.

And yet, and yet, despite repeated mental drafts, Agent Jean-Guy Beauvoir hadn’t yet taken that last, irrevocable step.

As for Captain Dagenais, Beauvoir composed, a more stupid, incompetent asshole, dumb-as-fuck commander would be impossible to find—

Steps. Someone was coming down. He was used to the captain’s heavy footfalls, but these were different.

And then the man had appeared.

Chief Inspector Gamache stood in the doorway. Like some apparition. Beauvoir rose from his stool and felt his cheeks begin to color, as though he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

Here was the head of homicide, in the middle of nowhere. In fact, he was in the basement of nowhere.