How the Light Gets In (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #9)

How the Light Gets In (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #9) Page 55

“It became clear that if Constance really wanted to have close friends, she’d have to drop her guard, and let someone in. Our lives are like a house. Some people are allowed on the lawn, some onto the porch, some get into the vestibule or kitchen. The better friends are invited deeper into our home, into our living room.”

“And some are let into the bedroom,” said Gamache.

“The really intimate relationships, yes,” said Myrna.

“And Constance?”

“Her home was beautiful to look at. Lovely, perfect. But locked. No one got inside,” said Myrna.

He listened but didn’t tell Myrna that the home analogy was perfect. Constance had barricaded herself in emotionally, but no one got past the threshold of her bricks and mortar home either.

“Did you tell her this?” he asked, and Myrna nodded.

“She understood and she tried, she really struggled with it, but the walls were just too high and thick. So the therapy had to end. There was nothing more I could do for her. But we stayed in touch. Acquaintances.” Myrna smiled. “Even this visit, I thought maybe she’d finally open up. I’d hoped now that her last sister was dead she wouldn’t feel she was betraying family secrets.”

“But she didn’t say anything?”

“No.”

“Do you want to know what I think?” he asked.

Myrna nodded.

“I think when she first came down it was for a pleasant visit. When she decided to return it was for another reason altogether.”

Myrna held his eyes. “What reason?”

He brought the pictures out of his pocket and selected the one of the four women.

“I think she was bringing this to you. Her most prized, most personal possession. I think she wanted to open the doors, the windows of her home, and let you in.”

Myrna let out a long breath, then took the photograph from him.

“Thank you for that,” she said quietly, and looked at the picture. “Virginie, Hélène, Josephine, Marguerite, and now Constance. All gone. Passed into legend. What is it?”

Gamache had picked up the very first picture ever taken of the Ouellet Quintuplets, when they were newborns, lined up like loaves of bread on the hacked harvest table. Their stunned father standing behind them.

Gamache turned the photograph over and looked at the words almost certainly written by their mother or father. Neatly, carefully. In a hand not used to making note of anything. In a life not very noteworthy, this was worth the effort. They’d written the names of their girls in the order in which they’d been placed on the table.

Marie-Virginie.

Marie-Hélène.

Marie-Josephine.

Marie-Marguerite.

Marie-Constance.

Almost certainly the order in which they were born, but also, he realized, the order in which they died.

SEVENTEEN

Armand Gamache woke to screams and shouts and a short, sharp explosion of sound.

Sitting bolt upright in bed, he went from deep sleep to complete awareness in a split second. His hand shot out and hovered over the nightstand where his gun sat in the drawer.

His eyes were sharp, his focus complete. He was motionless, his body tense.

He could see daylight through the curtains. Then he heard it again. An urgent shout. A cry for help. A command given. Another bang.

There was no mistaking that sound.

He put on his dressing gown and slippers, pulled back the curtain, and saw a pickup hockey game on the frozen pond, in the middle of the village green.

Henri was beside him, alert as well, nudging his nose out the window. Sniffing.

“This place’s going to kill me,” said the Chief Inspector to Henri. But he smiled as he watched the kids, skating furiously after the puck. Shouting instructions to each other. Howling in triumph, and screaming with pain, when a slap shot went in the net.

He stood, mesmerized for a moment, looking out the frosted pane of glass.

It was a brilliant day. A Saturday, he realized. The sun was just up, but the kids looked like they’d been at it for hours and could go on all day, with only short breaks for hot chocolate.

He lowered the window and opened the curtains all the way, then turned around. The house was quiet. It had taken him a moment to remember he wasn’t in Gabri’s bed and breakfast, but in Emilie Longpré’s home.

This room was larger than the one he had at the B and B. There was a fireplace on one wall, the floors were wide-plank pine, and the walls were covered in floral paper that was anything but fashionable. There were windows on two sides, making it bright and cheerful.