The Brutal Telling (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #5)

“Reine-Marie,” said Thérèse. “And I only need Jérôme.”

“There’s a first edition of Walden in the cabin, you know.”

Thérèse sighed. “Incroyable. Who was this man, Armand? Do you have any idea?”

“None.”

He stopped and beside him she stopped too, following his gaze.

At first it was difficult to see, but then, slowly, she made out the simple log cabin, as though it had materialized just for them. And was inviting them in.

Come in,” he said.

Carole Gilbert breathed deeply then stepped forward, past the solid ground she’d cultivated for decades. Past the quiet lunches with lifelong friends, past the bridge nights and volunteer shifts, past the enjoyable rainy afternoons reading by the window watching the container ships move slowly up and down the St. Lawrence river. She plunged past this gentle widow’s life within the fortified old walls of Quebec City, constructed to keep anything unpleasant out.

“Hello, Carole.”

The tall, slender man stood in the center of the room, contained. Looking as though he’d been expecting her. Her heart pounded and her hands and feet had gone cold, numb. She was a little afraid she’d fall down. Not faint, but lose all ability to stand up for herself.

“Vincent.” Her voice was firm.

His body had changed. That body she knew better than most. It had shrunk, shriveled. His hair, once thick and shiny, had thinned and grown almost white. His eyes were still brown, but where they’d been sharp and sure now they were questioning.

He held out one hand. It all seemed to happen excruciatingly slowly. The hand had spots on it she didn’t recognize. How often had she held that hand in the first years, then later longed for it to hold her? How often had she stared at it as it held Le Devoir up to his face? Her only contact with the man she’d given her heart to, those long, sensitive fingers holding the daily news that was clearly more important than her news. Those fingers were evidence of another human in the room, but barely. Barely there and barely human.

And then one day he’d lowered the paper, stared at her with laser eyes and said he wasn’t happy.

She’d laughed.

It was, she remembered, a genuinely mirthful laugh. Not that she thought it was a joke. It was because he was serious. This brilliant man actually seemed to think if he wasn’t happy it was a catastrophe.

It was, in many ways, perfect. Like so many men his age he was having an affair. She’d known it for years. But this affair he was having was with himself. He adored himself. In fact, that was just about the only thing they had in common. They both loved Vincent Gilbert.

But suddenly that wasn’t enough. He needed more. And like the great man he knew he was, the answer could never be found close to home. It would have to be hiding in some mountain cave in India.

Because he was so extraordinary, his salvation would have to be too.

They’d spent the rest of the breakfast plotting his death. It appealed to Vincent’s sense of drama, and her sense of relief. It was, ironically, the best talk they’d had in years.

Of course, they’d made one very big mistake. They should have told Marc. But who’d have thought he’d care?

Too late she’d realized—was it less than a day ago?—that Marc had been deeply damaged by his father’s death. Not the actual death, mind. That he’d accepted easily. No, it was his father’s resurrection that had created the scars, as though Vincent, in rising, had clawed his way past Marc’s heart.

And now the man stood, shriveled, dotted and maybe even dotty, with one unwavering hand out. Inviting her in.

“We need to talk,” she said.

He lowered his hand and nodded. She waited for him to point out her faults and flaws, all the mistakes she’d made, the immeasurable hurt she’d caused him.

“I’m sorry,” said Vincent. She nodded.

“I know you are. So am I.” She sat on the side of the bed and patted it. He sat next to her. This close she could see worry lines crawling over his face. It struck her as interesting that worry lines only appeared on the head.

“You look well. Are you?” he asked.

“I wish none of this had happened.”

“Including my coming back?” He smiled and took her hand.

But instead of setting her heart racing, it turned her heart to stone. And she realized she didn’t trust this man, who’d blown in from the past and was suddenly eating their food and sleeping in their bed.

He was like Pinocchio. A man made of wood, mimicking humanity. Shiny and smiling and fake. And if you cut into him you’d see rings. Circles of deceit and scheming and justification. It’s what he was made of. That hadn’t changed.