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Mont-Laurier was lightly circled in pencil. With a number under it.

“I don’t understand how this gets us closer,” said Beauvoir. “We already know about Mont-Laurier.”

“True. But the number. Look at the number.”

Armand’s brow cleared and his face had opened in astonishment. “Is it a dossier number?”

“It is. And not just any dossier number. This is the approval for an American pulp-and-paper conglomerate to clear-cut the forests around Mont-Laurier and set up a pulp mill.”

“Holy shit,” said Jean-Guy. “That breaks all our laws protecting resources, never mind the environment.”

“They must be the ones who extended the airstrip,” said Gamache.

“That’s my thinking too. And to do that, they’d need to bring up lots of ‘workers’ and tons of ‘chemicals,’ supposedly for the pulp mill,” said Isabelle.

“Never mind equipment and planes,” said Jean-Guy.

“Do we know who signed off on this?” Gamache asked.

“I don’t, but Sherry Caufield does. I sent her the information. The file had been erased, but nothing disappears completely. She was able to track it down. Woodford didn’t sign the document, of course, but it was sent to his private, confidential email. He knew about it.”

It was his only mistake. And it was a big one.

“Yes?” said James Woodford.

The Prime Minister was in his office on Parliament Hill. Since news of the coup attempt, and his part in ending it, he had enjoyed unprecedented popularity, and not just in Canada. He was hailed worldwide as a hero.

A new entente was struck with the President of the United States. The two nations had never been closer.

There was talk of a Nobel Peace Prize.

Prime Minister Woodford looked up from his paperwork, expecting to see his new Chief of Staff, and was surprised to instead see Captain Pinsent of the RCMP. She was holding what looked like a warrant.

Clara Morrow’s solo show at the Musée d’art contemporain de Montréal had, as its centerpiece, one giant oil painting. Leading up to it, marching down the hall, was a series of portraits. Most of them of unknown people. At least, unknown to the general public, with two exceptions.

The portrait most people went straight to was of James Woodford, whose happy, content expression as he sat at his desk was just, just, just about to change. Hundreds of patrons posed for selfies in front of the now disgraced PM, Clara having perfectly captured that split second before his world collapsed.

The other recognizable face was that of the poet Ruth Zardo, who looked quizzical, while the duck on her lap looked on the verge of solving the mysteries of the universe. That brought smiles to the faces of all the patrons, who also lined up to pose in front of it, trying to mimic the duck’s expression.

But the portrait that most people ended up in front of belonged to someone they’d never met. And yet it was so compelling some stood in front of it for half an hour or more and returned several times. Just to visit with her.

It was Reine-Marie. She was anxious, worried … as most people seemed to be these days.

But that was just, just about to change. Someone she loved was just, just, just coming into view.

Some stood in front of the canvas and wept, with relief. Hope was taking the edge off their own stresses and fears. Reine-Marie’s face let them know that if things could change for the worse, they could also change for the better.

They would change for the better. They were changing for the better.

But the huge painting that all this led up to, the one at the very end, the last one Clara painted, was of a single snowflake, glittering in perfection. A moment before it began to melt.

The tragedy wasn’t its disappearance. The gift was that it existed at all.

What a perfect, beautiful world, where snowflakes existed. Even for a moment.

CHAPTER 37

It was now mid-August, a year almost to the day since it had all started, and they could finally talk openly about what had happened.