He must have been drunk.
“I realize I’m over-stepping my bounds—”
“Then don’t do it, Chief Inspector.”
“—but this is no ordinary situation. You’re an important man.”
“And Brian isn’t?”
“Of course he is. But he’s also a convicted felon. A young man with a record of drug abuse and alcoholism, who killed a little girl while driving drunk.”
“What do you know of that case?”
“I know he admits it. I heard his share. And I know he went to prison for it.”
They walked in silence around the village green, the rain from the day before rose in a mist as the morning warmed up. It was early yet. Few had risen. Just the mist, and the two men, walking around and around the tall pine trees. And Ruth and Brian on the bench.
“The little girl he killed was my granddaughter.”
Gamache stopped.
“Your granddaughter?”
Thierry stopped too and nodded. “Aimée. She was four years old. She’d be twelve now. If it hadn’t happened. Brian went to prison for five years. The day he got out he came over to our house. And apologized. We didn’t accept, of course. Told him to go away. But he kept coming back. Mowing my daughter’s lawn, washing their car. I’m afraid a lot of the chores had sort of fallen by the wayside. I was drinking heavily and wasn’t much help. But then Brian started doing all those things. Once a week he showed up and did chores, for her and for us. He never spoke. Just did them and left.”
Thierry began walking again, and Gamache caught up with him.
“One day, after about a year, he started talking to me about his drinking. About why he drank and how he felt. It was exactly how I felt. I didn’t admit it of course. Didn’t want to admit I had anything in common with this horrible creature. But Brian knew. Then one day he told me we were going for a drive. And he took me to my first AA meeting.”
They were back at the bench.
“He saved my life. I’d gladly trade that life for Aimée. I know Brian would too. When I was a few months sober he came to me again and asked my forgiveness.”
Thierry stopped on the road.
“And I gave it.”
* * *
“Clara, no. Please.”
Peter stood in their bedroom, wearing just his pajama bottoms.
Clara looked at him. There wasn’t a single spot on that beautiful body she hadn’t touched. Stroked. Loved.
And didn’t, she knew, love still. His body wasn’t the issue. His mind wasn’t the issue. It was his heart.
“You have to go,” she said.
“But why? I’m doing my best, I really am.”
“I know you are, Peter. But we need time apart. We both have to figure out what’s important. I know I do. Maybe this’ll make us appreciate what we have.”
“But I already do,” Peter pleaded. He looked around in panic. The thought of leaving terrified him. Leaving this room, this home. Their friends. The village. Clara.
Going up that road and over that hill. Out of Three Pines.
Where to? What place could be better than this?
“Oh, no no no,” he moaned.
But he knew if Clara wanted this, then he had to go. Had to leave.
“Just for a year,” said Clara.
“Promise?” he said, his eyes bright and holding hers. Afraid to blink in case she broke contact.
“Next year, on exactly this date,” Clara said.
“I’ll come home,” said Peter.
“And I’ll be waiting for you. We’ll have a barbeque, just the two of us. Steaks. And young asparagus. And baguettes from Sarah’s boulangerie.”
“I’ll bring a bottle of red wine,” he said. “And we won’t invite Ruth.”
“We won’t invite anyone,” agreed Clara.
“Just us.”
“Just us,” she said.
Then Peter Morrow dressed, and packed a single suitcase.
* * *
From his bedroom window Jean Guy Beauvoir could see the Chief walking slowly to their car. He knew he should hurry, shouldn’t keep the man waiting, but there was something he needed to do first.
Something he knew he could finally do.
After getting up, and taking a pill, and having breakfast Jean Guy Beauvoir knew this was the day.
* * *
Peter tossed the suitcase into their car. Clara was standing beside him.
Peter could feel himself teetering on the verge of the truth. “There’s something I need to tell you.”