* * *
“What do you think?” Chief Inspector Gamache nodded out the window toward Peter, Clara and Fortin standing on the porch.
“About them?” asked Myrna. They couldn’t hear what the three were talking about, but it was easy enough to guess.
“Will Fortin convince Clara to give him another shot?” asked the Chief, taking a sip of his double espresso.
“It’s not Fortin who needs another shot,” said Myrna.
Gamache turned to her. “Peter?”
But Myrna lapsed into silence and Gamache wondered if Peter had told Clara about his part in the scathing review years ago.
* * *
“I think we need time to consider it,” said Clara.
“I understand,” said Fortin, with a charming smile. “No pressure. The only thing I’ll say is that you might want to consider signing with a younger, growing gallery. Someone who won’t retire in a few years. Just a thought.”
“It’s a good point,” said Peter.
Not long ago that would have been enough for Clara to go with Fortin. Peter’s obvious enthusiasm. She’d trusted him completely to know what was best for them. For both of them. To have her best interests at heart.
Now she realized, looking at this man she’d spent the past twenty-five years with, that she had no idea what he kept in his heart. But she was pretty sure it wasn’t her best interests.
Clara didn’t know what to do. But she did know that something had to change.
Peter was trying, she knew that. He was trying so hard to change. And now, maybe, it was her turn to try too.
* * *
“He’s still suffering, you know,” said Myrna.
“Peter?” asked Gamache, then he followed her look. She was no longer watching the three people on the verandah. Her gaze was closer to home. She was staring at Jean Guy Beauvoir, who was standing with Ruth and Suzanne.
Ruth seemed to have quite lost her heart to the odd former drunk, who apparently had endless recipes for distilling furniture.
“I know,” said Gamache, quietly. “I spoke with Jean Guy about it this morning.”
“And what did he say?”
“That he was fine, getting better. But of course, he isn’t.”
Myrna was quiet for a moment. “No. He isn’t. Did he tell you why he’s suffering?”
Gamache studied her for a moment. “I asked, but he didn’t say. I presumed it was the combination of his wounds and losing so many colleagues.”
“It is, but I think it’s more specific than that. In fact, I know it is. He told me.”
Gamache turned his full attention to her. In the background Castonguay raised his voice. Vexed, whining, petulant. But nothing would get Gamache to look away from Myrna now.
“What did Jean Guy tell you?”
Myrna examined Gamache for a moment. “You’re not going to like it.”
“There’s nothing about what happened in that factory I like. But I need to hear it.”
“Yes,” said Myrna, making up her mind. “He feels guilty.”
“About what?” asked Gamache, astonished. This wasn’t the answer he’d expected.
“About not being able to help you. He can’t get beyond seeing you fall, and not being able to help. As you helped him.”
“But that’s ridiculous. He couldn’t.”
“You know that, and I know that. He even knows that. But what we know and what we feel can be two different things.”
Gamache’s heart dropped. Remembering the sallow young man early that morning in the Incident Room, his face made all the paler by the harsh light from the computer screen. Watching that damned video, over and over.
But not the scene of Gamache himself being gunned down. Jean Guy was watching himself being shot. He told Myrna what he’d found the night before.
Myrna exhaled. “I think he’s punishing himself. Like self-mutilation. Taking a knife to himself, only the video is the blade.”
The video, thought Gamache, feeling his fury rise. The goddamned video. It had already done so much damage, and now it was killing a young man he loved.
“I’ve ordered him back to counseling—”
“Ordered?”
“It started as a suggestion,” said the Chief, “but ended up an order.”
“He was resistant?”
“Very.”
“He loves you,” said Myrna. “That’s his road home.”
Gamache looked over at Jean Guy and waved across the crowded room. Once again the Chief saw him fall. And hit the ground.