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“And be wrongly convicted,” Gamache reminded her. “Which in your case is unlikely.”

She laughed. Then grew serious. “Why do you believe that Sam was behind the murder of their mother?”

It was, Gamache knew, a fair question. Could he possibly say it was because the boy had winked at him that day long ago, when his sister had been found guilty?

That he could feel Sam’s presence inside his head. Messing about. Moving objects around in there so that the Chief Inspector was stumbling about. Struggling to see clearly.

But despite all the mind games, Gamache had seen, could still see, clearly enough to know that Sam Arsenault was unbalanced. Unwell. Malevolent. And time had only made him worse.

“I have no evidence,” he admitted. “Just a feeling. I didn’t encourage the prosecutor to arrest Sam. I never mentioned my suspicions. I did not arrest him. In fact, I tried to get him help. But I knew it was useless. He was beyond our reach in every way.”

Amelia didn’t pursue it further. How do you pursue a feeling, after all? She knew this man well enough by now to know he saw hope where others saw only malevolence.

But he could also see evil where others saw a ten-year-old boy.

“You”—Armand turned to Beauvoir—“were the one who came closest to reaching him.”

Jean-Guy took another handful of chips and nodded. “I liked the kid. Felt for him.”

He remembered that moment when the child had clung to him, clutched at him, and sobbed.

Was Sam a model citizen? Probably not. Who could be after that?

Was he taking this opportunity to mind-fuck the man who’d seen what they’d done and arrested his sister? Maybe. That wasn’t okay, but neither, from what Beauvoir could see, was it dangerous.

Was he a psychopath? No. Was his sister? That, for Jean-Guy, was an open question.

It worried him a lot that his father-in-law could not see it.

“But how’s this connected to that.” Agent Choquet waved toward the locker, with its assortment of curiosities. “And the murder of Madame Godin?”

“Probably isn’t.” The Chief Inspector checked his watch. “Dinner’s in an hour.”

“Great.” She dumped the remaining nuts into her pocket. “I might get the munchies.”

They crossed the bridge over the Rivière Bella Bella and walked toward the light in the night that was the Gamache home. Then Amelia left them and headed to the B&B.

When she was out of earshot, Jean-Guy whispered, “What have you done?”

It was clearly said in jest, unleashing Amelia on an unsuspecting public.

“You’re the one who assigned her here,” Gamache pointed out.

But as he walked through the June evening, Armand wondered, What have I done?

CHAPTER 21

When he got home, Armand put the grimoire in an evidence bag while Reine-Marie watched. Though she understood, he still felt he’d come between his wife and a long-lost friend.

Now the diners helped themselves to grilled salmon, fresh-cut asparagus, and baby potatoes, while Jean-Guy sliced the baguette. A green salad with vinaigrette was already on the table.

Amelia had joined them just as dinner was being served in the Gamaches’ kitchen.

Ruth was also there, though uninvited. The final guest was Anne Lamarque, very much present, if only in spirit.

Ruth and Reine-Marie had described for the newcomer what the grimoire was. Amelia, always fascinated with books, was wide-eyed.

“What happened to her?” Amelia asked.