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After standing on the front porch and putting their coats on, Armand and Billy ran through the rain just as Sam and Harriet emerged from the bistro. Gamache made it to the car, then looked over at the two young people standing in the pouring rain.

Sam was staring directly at him.

As he watched, Sam slowly put his arm around Harriet’s waist. It was an act not so much of affection as possession.

Then he raised his other hand to his face and lifted his index finger up and down. It was the movement of someone taking a photograph. Sam was all but admitting he’d been in their home and had not just moved items but had taken pictures. Of his home. His family.

“Coming?” Billy called from inside the car.

Armand had never, as an adult, raised his middle finger to anyone, but it was all he could do not to do it now, then stride over and have it out. To demand to know why Sam was there. Why he’d been in their home.

Handling family photos. Taking photos.

But he knew that was exactly what Sam Arsenault wanted him to do. He was trying to provoke so that Harriet and anyone else watching would see him, a senior Sûreté officer, pick a fight for no apparent reason. So that Sam would appear the maligned innocent, facing police harassment.

It was close. So close. Too close. Armand felt that spike of fear. Not of Sam, but of himself and what he might actually do. Might be manipulated into doing.

Instead, Armand smiled at Sam, shook his head, then got in the car.

Grasping the steering wheel tight, he drove out of Three Pines.

CHAPTER 18

They stopped at Billy’s on the way and picked up the envelope and Post-it note that had come with the letter: I think this might interest you. Patricia Godin.

From there Armand drove to Billy’s ancestral home. The heavens had opened, and by the time they got to the porch, they were soaked.

Billy knocked on the door and looked around while they waited.

The house was, perhaps not surprisingly, made of stones yanked from the ground as it was turned from forest into fields for farming. The floors and beams and even the front door were milled from trees that had grown up and been cut down within sight of where they were standing.

As a child, Billy had held his grandfather’s calloused hand, and together they’d walked through the forest, the old man touching the trees and describing their character. From him, young Billy learned that trees had feelings and personalities of their own.

With his grandmother, little Billy had walked through those fields picking wildflowers, and herbs, and sweetgrass. From her he learned how to make teas and poultices and a surefire cure for warts.

He tried to be happy for the new owners, but still, as he stood on the porch and knocked on what still felt like his own front door, Billy Williams ached.

There was a rattle, and then a man in his late sixties or early seventies stood there, looking surprised.

“Oui?”

“Monsieur Godin?”

“Oui.” He was staring at them, trying to figure out if he knew them. His eyes shifted from Billy to the man with him. Tall, solid in build. Wavy gray hair, and that scar …

“My name is Billy Williams, I—”

“Ah, oui. Of course.” Godin stepped back. “Your family owned this home. Come in.”

Billy stepped inside and looked around. Not much, physically, had changed. The walls, the floors, the beams were where he’d left them. Only the furniture was different.

He introduced Gamache, though by then Monsieur Godin had clearly recognized him. The Chief Inspector was a familiar presence in Québec media and was known to live in the area.

Monsieur Godin turned to Gamache. “Finally. Is this about Patricia?”

Billy raised his brows, but Armand was more adept at hiding surprise, though that didn’t mean he didn’t feel it.

Billy began to say, “Is she he—” when Armand interrupted.