Page 129 of A Better Man

“I don’t think you can stop me.”

Annie’s father had no doubt that Vivienne’s father was right. He probably couldn’t stop him.

Homer Godin would leave this jail cell and spend the rest of his life trying to kill the man he could not name.

And, once done, Homer would almost certainly then kill himself.

“Suppose you didn’t.”

“Pardon?”

“Suppose you didn’t kill Tracey,” Gamache repeated. “What would your life look like?”

The question, so simple, seemed to stump Godin. It was like asking him, Suppose you could fly. Suppose you became invisible. Suppose you didn’t kill the man who just murdered your daughter.

He was asking Vivienne’s father to consider the inconceivable.

“Think about it while I do the paperwork.”

Chief Inspector Gamache got up and left, taking Cloutier with him and leaving Godin alone with thoughts that inevitably circled back to his daughter. He saw her face as she fell, backward. Off the bridge. Arms pinwheeling.

And then the splash.

He rammed shut his eyes until all he saw was darkness. Then Vivienne’s face floated up, to hover just below the surface.

Accusing.

“It’s in,” said Isabelle Lacoste, grabbing a chair across from Beauvoir in the incident room.

No need to say what “it” was.

Beauvoir quickly clicked over to his email and opened the document from the coroner, with the attachment.

Both scanned it, then went back to the top and read more closely. Their faces, their expressions, almost exactly the same.

At first triumphant. And then perplexed.

“I do this because I love art. I love the whole world of art. Being around people who are creative and daring.”

As she spoke, Dominica’s face became almost luminous. Her voice, while deep, was also light, bright.

“I search the world for people who have a true muse and not just some insatiable hole in their soul they need to fill with fame and money. And when I find the real thing…”

Her entire face opened, in unguarded delight. An awe rarely seen in the cluttered world of ego and fear and greed that was the international art scene.

“I take aim at the poseurs and try to lift up those who create from their very being.” Dominica’s hand, clenched into a fist, thumped her breastbone and stayed there. “Those who are daring and brave and willing to be vulnerable. Like you.”

“Me?” said Clara.

“Yes, you.” Dominica laughed, and Clara almost tumbled forward into her arms, so magnetic was the woman. And so welcome the words.

“If you feel like that,” said Clara, “why haven’t you reviewed any of my shows?”

“Did you hear what he said? And you’re still going to let him out?” asked Cloutier, following Gamache across the open room to Cameron’s desk.

It didn’t warrant a reply, so Gamache did not offer one.

Agent Cameron saw them coming and rose. “Sir.”