‘But Mad hadn’t,’ said Jeanne.
Gamache turned the yearbook round and showed them the picture of the cheerleaders. In the uncertain light they saw a young woman, toned arms straining to the skies, a huge smile on her pretty face.
‘This was almost thirty years ago. But for all the make-up and smiles they still called you Joan of Arc, and talked about burning.’
Jeanne’s eyes flicked to the door then back again.
‘I knew Madeleine from the cheerleading squad. You were right about the sun, you know. She was all that and more. She was genuinely nice and that made it worse. After years of being teased and tormented for being different all I wanted was to fit in. I wore make-up, did my hair, learned to talk nonsense, and finally made the cheerleading squad. I wanted to be her friend, but she was oblivious. Not cruel, really, but dismissive.’
‘You hated her?’ asked Clara.
‘You’ve probably always been popular,’ snapped Jeanne. ‘Pretty, talented, lively.’ Clara heard the words but didn’t recognize herself in them. Jeanne continued, ‘I was none of those things. I just wanted a friend. One single friend. Do you have any idea how horrible it is to be on the outside, all the time? And finally I made the squad. The place where all the cool girls were. And do you know how I did it?’
Jeanne was almost hissing now.
‘I betrayed everything I was. I made myself silly and superficial. There’s a reason they call it “make-up”. I literally made up myself every day. I locked all the things I cared about inside and turned my back on people who might’ve been my friends. All in the pursuit of the one, perfect girl.’
‘Madeleine,’ said Gamache.
‘And she was perfect. The worst moment of my life was when I realized I’d betrayed everything I cared about, for nothing.’
‘So you changed your name to Chauvet. You made up yourself yet again.’
‘No, I finally accepted myself. Changing my name to Chauvet was a celebration, a declaration. For once I wasn’t hiding who I am.’
‘She’s a witch,’ whispered Gabri to Myrna. ‘We know, mon beau. So am I.’
‘I knew who I was, but not where I belonged. I felt a stranger everywhere. Until I came here. As soon as I drove down that road into Three Pines I knew I’d found home.’
‘But you also found Madeleine,’ said Gamache.
Jeanne nodded. ‘At the séance that Friday night. And I knew she’d steal my light again. Not because she was greedy, but because I’d hand it to her. I could feel it. I’d found myself, I’d found a home and the only thing missing was finding a friend. And as soon as I saw Mad I knew I’d do it all over again. Try to be her friend, and be rebuffed.’
‘But why kill her?’ asked Clara.
‘I didn’t kill her.’
There were murmurs of disbelief around the circle.
‘She’s telling the truth,’ said Gamache.
‘She didn’t kill Madeleine.’
‘Then who did?’ asked Gabri.
Jeanne stood up, staring into the darkness at the door.
‘Sir?’ The voice at the door was young, tentative, but that made it more frightening somehow, like discovering the devil was a family friend.
Gamache rose too and turned to the door. He could see nothing but black, then eventually an outline appeared. He’d run out of time. He turned back to the circle. All eyes were on him, their faces round and open like searchlights, probing for reassurance.
‘I’ll be back in a few minutes.’
‘You’re not leaving us?’ said Clara.
‘I’m sorry. I have to, but nothing bad will happen to you.’
Gamache turned and walked away from the flickering light, disappearing over the edge of the world.
FORTY-TWO
Agent Lemieux led him to the very end of the corridor and into a dim room where someone sat cross-legged, a flashlight cradled in his lap.
‘Hello, Armand.’
The voice was so familiar. The body, even in the struggling light, immediately recognizable. Beloved over the decades. Sneaking into bars underage, double-dating, cramming for exams, long walks as young men picking apart the world’s problems. And putting it together again, perfect. Smoking together. Quitting together. They’d been each other’s best man. Stood for each other, chosen each other to be godparent to a precious and beloved child.
Suddenly Armand Gamache was back at home, his cheek resting on the back of the rough sofa, eyes trained on the road. Waiting for Mom and Dad. Every other night they’d come home. But tonight a strange car drove in. Two men got out. A knock on the door. His grandmother’s hand finding his, the suddenly strong scent of mothballs from her sweater as she shoved his head into her side, to shield him from the words. But still the words found him and washed over him and clung to him for the rest of his life.
