Page 195 of A Better Man

“What?” asked Jean-Guy, not liking the sound of that.

Gamache picked up the notes at his side and, putting on his reading glasses again, scanned them until he found what he was looking for.

“Stuff’s in the bag,” he read. “Everything’s ready. Will be done tonight. I promise.” Gamache looked up at them. “The messages between Carl Tracey and Pauline Vachon on the day of the murder. And her reply: Finally. Good luck. Don’t mess it up.”

“Pretty damning,” said Isabelle.

“But the person it damns isn’t Pauline Vachon,” said Gamache, removing his glasses. “It shows that while Pauline Vachon knew about the murder plans, she wasn’t actually there. So suppose there’s another interpretation?”

“What?” asked Jean-Guy, not liking the sound of that either.

“Suppose Carl Tracey and Pauline Vachon were telling the truth.”

“Oh, come on,” said Jean-Guy. “You’re kidding.”

“You think I’m joking?” Gamache stared hard at Jean-Guy. “Just suppose that this exchange”—Gamache held up the page and shook it—“is about Tracey’s pottery. He was out of clay and went to the art-supply store. The Instagram post originated from there. We know that. And we found a new bag of clay, unopened, in his studio. Stuff’s in the bag. Everything’s ready. Will be done tonight. He might’ve been referring to new works.”

They stared at him in disbelief. Did Gamache really think that was possible?

“So you’re saying Tracey didn’t pack Vivienne’s bag?” asked Jean-Guy. “That Vivienne did, and she tossed in those abortion pills even though she was well along in her pregnancy? The clothes she packed were for summer, even though it was minus five degrees that night. Why’d she do that?”

Gamache turned to Isabelle. “You answered that yesterday.”

“I did?”

“Oui. And so did Madame Fleury, when we talked with her about the shelters.”

Gamache looked at Jean-Guy, though try as he might, Jean-Guy couldn’t come up with anything.

But Isabelle did. “You mean my overnight bag. I keep it in the car, in case.”

“Exactement,” said Gamache. “In case. Simone Fleury said many abused women pack a bag and keep it hidden. Sometimes for months—years, even. Ready to grab when the moment is right.”

A knot was forming between Jean-Guy’s brows.

Was it possible?

And suddenly Vivienne came into stark relief. A shattered, frightened young woman. Her bag packed. Waiting for her chance. Waiting. Enduring the loneliness, the humiliations. The beatings.

And when she was pregnant, deciding she really did need to leave. For her baby.

This one she’d save. This one she’d protect from Carl Tracey.

It would explain the timing. And it would explain the clothing.

“She packed in the summer,” he said. “And the bag sat in her car since then.”

“Until Saturday,” said Isabelle.

“I think so, but there’s a problem with that, too,” said Gamache. “How did it get into the river? Would Carl Tracey or whoever killed her know it was in her car? Presumably he didn’t realize before, so why would he look for a bag after he killed her?”

“She must’ve taken it out of the car with her,” said Isabelle.

“But why?” asked Jean-Guy, imagining that cold night. On the bridge.

“Maybe she was getting into another car,” said Isabelle. “Her lover’s?”

“But wasn’t she going to drive to her father?” asked Jean-Guy.