How the Light Gets In

“Can’t we just call Marc Brault?” asked Jérôme. “He investigated her death. He’d have it in his notes.”

“And someone edited his report,” said Thérèse, shaking her head. “We don’t know who to trust.”

Gamache pulled his car keys out of his coat pocket.

“Where’re you going?” Thérèse asked. “You’re not leaving us?”

Gamache saw the look in her eyes. Much the same look he’d seen in Beauvoir’s eyes that day in the factory. When Gamache had left him.

“I need to go.”

He reached under his jacket and brought out his gun, holding it out to them.

Thérèse Brunel shook her head. “I brought my own weapon—”

“You did?” asked Jérôme.

“Did you think I worked in the cafeteria at the Sûreté?” asked Thérèse. “I’ve never used it, and I hope not to, but I will if I have to.”

Gamache looked at the far end of the room, and Agent Nichol working on her terminal.

“Agent Nichol, walk with me to the car, please.”

Her back remained turned to them.

“Agent Nichol.”

Far from raising his voice, Chief Inspector Gamache had lowered it. It moved across the schoolroom, and lodged in that small back. They could see her tense.

And then she got up.

Gamache rubbed Henri’s ears, then opened the door.

“Wait, Armand,” said Thérèse. “Where’re you going?”

“To the SHU. To speak to Pierre Arnot.”

Thérèse opened her mouth to object, but realized it didn’t matter. They were out in the open now. All that mattered was speed.

Gamache waited for Nichol outside, standing on the stoop of the schoolhouse.

Gabri walked across to the bistro and waved, but didn’t approach. It was almost eleven in the morning, and the sun was gleaming on the snow. It looked as though the village was covered in jewels.

“What do you want?” asked Nichol, when she finally came out and the door was closed behind her.

She looked to Gamache not unlike the first Quint, shoved into the world against her will. He walked down the steps and along the path to his car and didn’t look at her as he spoke.

“I want to know what you were doing in the B and B the other day.”

“I told you.”

“You lied to me. We haven’t much time.” Now he did look at her. “I made a choice that day in the woods to trust you, even though I knew you’d lied. Do you know why?”

She glared at him, her tiny face turning red. “Because you had no choice?”

“Because despite your behavior I think you have a good heart. A strange head,” he smiled, “but a good heart. But I need to know now. Why were you there?”

She walked beside him, her head down, watching her boots on the snow.

They stopped beside his car.

“I followed you there to tell you something. But then you were so angry. You slammed the door in my face, and I couldn’t.”

“Tell me now,” he asked, his voice quiet.

“I leaked the video.”

The puffs of her words were barely visible before they disappeared.

The Chief’s eyes widened and he took a moment to absorb the information.

“Why?” he finally asked.

Tears made warm tracks down her face, and the more she tried to stop them the more they came. “I’m sorry. I didn’t do it to hurt. I felt so bad…”

She couldn’t talk. Her throat closed around the words.

“… my fault…” she managed. “… I told you there were six. I only heard…”

And now she sobbed.

Armand Gamache took her in his arms and held her. She heaved, and shook. And sobbed. She cried and cried, until there was nothing left. No sound, no tears, no words. Until she could barely stand. And still he held her and held her up.

When she pulled away, her face was streaked and her nose thick with slime. Gamache opened his parka and handed her his handkerchief.

“I told you there were only six gunmen in the factory,” she finally managed, the words coming in hiccups and gasps. “I only heard four, but I added some. In case. You taught me that. To be careful. I thought I was. But there were…” The tears began again, but this time they flowed freely, with no effort to stop them. “… more.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Yvette,” said Gamache. “You weren’t to blame for what happened.”