“I don’t know.”

“We’ll soon find out. I’m on my way.”

Gamache looked at his watch. Ten to eleven. Beauvoir and the rest of the team should arrive from Montreal by twelve thirty. The Manoir Bellechasse was buried south of Montreal, in an area known as the Eastern Townships, close to the American border. So close that some of the mountains he’d contemplated that misty morning were in Vermont.

“Armand? I think I hear a car.”

That would be the local Sûreté, he thought, grateful for the maître d’s help.

“Merci.” He smiled at Reine-Marie and made for the hallway, but she stopped him.

“What about the family?”

She looked worried and for good reason. The thought that Mrs. Finney would find out about her daughter from a waiter, or, worse, by perhaps wandering outside, was terrible.

“I’ll just give the officers their instructions and go right in.”

“I’ll go in and make sure they’re all right.”

He watched her go, her step resolute, walking into a room filled with people whose lives were about to change forever. She could have sat quietly in the library and no one would have faulted her, but instead Reine-Marie Gamache chose to sit in a room soon to be overwhelmed with grief. Not many would make that choice.

Walking quickly outside he introduced himself to the officers, who were surprised to meet this renowned Sûreté investigator in the middle of the woods. He gave them directions, then motioning to one of them to follow he went inside to tell the Morrows.

“Something has happened. I have bad news.” Armand Gamache knew it was never a kindness to prolong bad news.

But he knew something else.

If it was murder, someone in this room almost certainly did it. He never let that overwhelm his compassion, but neither did he let his compassion blind him. He watched closely as he spoke.

“Madame.” He turned to Mrs. Finney, sitting composed in a wingchair, that day’s Montreal Gazette folded on her lap. He saw her stiffen. Her eyes darted quickly about the room. He could read her nimble mind. Who was there, and who was missing?

“There’s been a death.” He said it quietly, clearly. He was under no illusions about what his words would do to this woman. They were statue words, heavy and crushing.

“Julia,” she exhaled the name. The missing child. The one not there.

“Yes.”

Her lips parted and her eyes searched his, looking for some escape, some back door, some hint this might not be true. But he didn’t blink. His brown eyes were steady, calm and certain.

“What?”

Thomas Morrow was on his feet. The word wasn’t yelled. It was expelled across the room at him.

What. Soon someone would ask how and when and where. And finally the key question. Why.

“Julia?” Peter Morrow asked, standing. Beside him Clara had taken his hand. “Dead?”

“I have to go to her.” Mrs. Finney stood, the Gazette slipping to the floor, unattended. It was the equivalent of a scream. Mr. Finney rose unsteadily to his full height. He reached for her hand, then pulled back.

“Irene,” he said. Again he reached out, and Gamache willed with all his might that Bert Finney could go the distance. But once again the old twig hand stopped short and finally fell to the side of his gray slacks.

“How do you know?” snapped Marianna, also on her feet now. “You’re not a doctor, are you? Maybe she’s not dead.”

She approached Gamache, her face red and her fists clenched.

“Marianna.” The voice was still commanding and it stopped the charging woman in her tracks.

“But Mommy—”

“He’s telling the truth.” Mrs. Finney turned back to the large, certain man in front of her. “What happened?”

“How could she be dead?” Peter asked.

The shock was lifting, Gamache could see. They were beginning to realize a woman in her late fifties, apparently healthy, doesn’t normally just die.

“An aneurysm?” asked Marianna.

“An accident?” asked Thomas. “Did she fall down the stairs?”

“The statue fell,” said Gamache, watching them closely. “It hit her.”

The Morrows did what they did best. They fell silent.

“Father?” asked Thomas, finally.

“I’m sorry.” Gamache looked at Mrs. Finney, who stared as though stuffed. “The police are with her now. She isn’t alone.”

“I need to go to her.”