Dead Cold (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache, #2)(18)

What had Crie’s mother heard that could have provoked such a reaction? Surely she hadn’t heard the same voice. Or maybe she had and that was the problem. And maybe she heard other voices as well.

She wouldn’t be the first.

Kaye tried to shove that thought away, but it kept intruding. And another thought, another voice, appeared, lyrical and Irish and masculine and kind.

‘You should have helped that child. Why didn’t you do something?’

It was always the same question and always the same answer. She was afraid. Had been afraid all her life.



Here it is then, the dark thing,



the dark thing you have waited for so long.



And after all, it is nothing new.





The lines of Ruth Zardo’s poem floated into her mind. Tonight the dark thing had a name and a face and a pink dress.

The dark thing wasn’t CC, it was the accusation that was Crie.

Kaye shifted her gaze, her fists balled in the flannel sheet under her chin, trying to keep warm. She hadn’t really been warm in years. Her eyes caught the red numbers on her digital clock. Three o’clock. And here she was in her trench. Cold and trembling. She’d had a chance this night to redeem herself for all those moments of cowardice in her life. All she had to do was defend the child.

Kaye knew the signal would soon be given. And soon she’d have to crawl out of her trench and face what was coming. But she wasn’t ready yet. Not yet. Please.

Damn, damn that woman.





Em listened as the notes of the violin visited familiar places. They played around the tree and searched for gifts and laughed at the frosted window looking onto the brightly lit pine trees on the familiar green. The concerto filled the room and for a blessed moment, her eyes closed, Em could pretend it wasn’t Yehudi playing, but someone else.

Each Christmas Eve was the same. But this was worse than most. She’d heard too much. Seen too much.

She knew then what she must do.





Christmas dawned bright and clear, the dusting of snow from the day before balanced finely on the branches of the trees outlining the world in sparkles. Clara opened the mudroom door to let her golden retriever Lucy out and took a deep breath of frigid air.

The day moved along at a leisurely pace. Peter and Clara opened their stockings full of puzzles and magazines and candy and oranges. Cashews spilled out of Peter’s stocking and Gummy Bears didn’t last long from Clara’s. Over coffee and pancakes they opened their larger gifts. Peter loved his Armani watch, putting it on immediately and shoving the sleeve of his terrycloth robe up over his elbow so it would be visible.

He rummaged beneath the tree with great drama, pretending to have misplaced her gift, and finally emerged, face flushed from bending over.

He handed her an orb wrapped in reindeer paper.

‘Before you open it I want to say something.’ He flushed some more. ‘I know how hurt you were by that whole Fortin thing and CC.’ He held up his hand to stop her protests. ‘I know about God too.’ He felt unbelievably stupid saying that. ‘What I mean is, you told me about meeting God on the street even though you knew I wouldn’t believe it. I just want you to know that I appreciate that you told me and trusted I wouldn’t laugh at you.’

‘But you did.’

‘Well, but not much. Anyway, I wanted to say I’ve been thinking about it and you’re right, I don’t believe God’s a vagrant—’

‘What do you believe God is?’

He was just trying to give her a gift and here she was asking him about God.

‘You know what I believe, Clara. I believe in people.’

She was silent. She knew he didn’t believe in God and that was all right. He certainly didn’t have to. But she also knew he didn’t really believe in people. At least, he didn’t think they were good and kind and brilliant. Perhaps once he might have, but not after what happened to Jane.

Jane had been killed, but something inside Peter had died as well.

No, much as she adored her husband she had to admit the only thing he believed in was himself.

‘You’re wrong, you know,’ he said, sitting down beside her on the sofa. ‘I can see what you’re thinking. I believe in you.’

Clara looked at his serious, lovely, Morrow face and kissed it.

‘CC and Fortin are idiots. You know I don’t understand your work, probably never will, but I do know you’re a great artist. I know it here.’

He touched his own breast, and Clara believed him. Maybe she was getting through to him. Or maybe he was getting better at telling her what she wanted to hear. She’d take either.

‘Open your gift.’

Clara ripped away at the paper, making Peter wince. As tiny pieces flew off the orb he picked them up and smoothed them out.

Inside was a ball. No surprise there. What was surprising was that it was beautiful. It seemed to shine in her hands. On it was painted a very simple image. Three pine trees, covered in snow. Below was the single word, No?l. While the image was simple it wasn’t primitive or naive. It had a style like nothing Clara had ever seen. An easy elegance. A confident beauty.

Clara held it up to the light. How could a painted ball be so luminous? But then she looked closer. And smiled. She looked up at Peter, his anxious face leaning in to hers. ‘There’s no paint on the outside. It’s all glass. The paint is on the inside. Imagine that.’