Lacoste pulled a chair over so that she was sitting directly across from Patrick, their knees almost touching.
His hair was dark, short, cut in the manner of a much older man. He was clean-shaven and handsome, but his personality wasn’t strong. Even in grief, some people emanated confidence. Or, at least, a core. This man seemed hollow. Pale in every way.
“She was found in the church,” Lacoste said, holding his blue eyes, though she wasn’t sure how much he was taking in.
“How…?” he asked.
“The coroner needs to investigate, but it seems she was beaten.”
“Oh, Jesus.”
Patrick lowered his eyes, then dragged them back up. But not to Lacoste.
“How could this happen?” he asked Matheo.
“I don’t know.” Bissonette shook his head and looked incredulous.
Beside him, Lea looked sick. Physically ill.
Patrick’s lips moved, but either there were too many words, tripping over each other to get out, or no words at all.
Just a chasm in this already empty man.
“When was the last time you saw your wife?” asked Chief Inspector Lacoste.
“Last night,” he said. “Outside.”
“She was outside?” asked Lacoste. “She didn’t come to bed?”
“I thought she had. I went to sleep, and just assumed she’d come back.”
“But she didn’t,” said Lacoste, and Patrick nodded.
“What was she doing outside?” asked Lacoste.
“Katie liked to go for walks in the evening,” said Lea.
“What time did you get back from dinner?” Lacoste asked.
“Don’t know,” said Patrick.
“They were back by the time we left your place,” Matheo said to Gamache. “About ten, right?”
Gamache nodded.
“Did you see her out for her walk?” asked Lacoste.
Matheo and Lea shook their heads.
“Was the cobrador there when you walked back to the B&B?”
“The cobrador,” said Patrick, suddenly waking up. “Oh Christ, this’s because of the cobrador, isn’t it?”
He’d turned to Matheo, then looked at Lea. His eyes wide with panic.
“I don’t know,” said Lea, leaning in to him. Embracing him, awkwardly. Patrick’s arms didn’t return the hug.
“How could this happen?” he mumbled, his voice muffled by Lea’s solid body. “I don’t understand.”
But now his eyes were on Isabelle Lacoste.
There was a lot not to understand, she thought, watching them. But before this was over, she’d have answers.
She glanced at Beauvoir, who was watching Patrick Evans with those shrewd eyes of his. Then her gaze moved on to Monsieur Gamache.
His hands were clasped behind his back and he was staring out the window. A less astute observer might think he’d lost interest. But Lacoste could see, even in profile, the intense focus of the man. Listening closely to every word, every inflection.
He often said that words told them what someone was thinking, but the tone told them how they felt.
Both vital.
Yes, facts were necessary. But frankly, anyone could be trained to collect a bloodstain or find a hair. Or an affair. Or a bank balance that didn’t balance.
But feelings? Only the bravest wandered into that fiery realm.
And that’s what the chief explored. Elusive, volatile, unpredictable, often dangerous feelings. Searching out that one raw, wild emotion. That had led to murder.
And he’d taught her to do the same thing.
Gamache shifted his gaze now, from the dense forest, to Patrick, Matheo, Lea at the front of the room.
And the deep brown, thoughtful eyes came to rest. Not on Patrick Evans but on Matheo Bissonette.
“Where did you go for dinner last night?”
He shrugged, what little energy he had seeping away.
“I think it was a place in Knowlton,” said Matheo. “Le Relais. Right?”
But Patrick didn’t react.
“Were you worried when you didn’t see your wife this morning?” asked Lacoste.
He roused himself. “Not really. I thought she was with her.” He pointed to Lea.
Her.
His words were coming slower, thicker.
“And we thought she was with Patrick,” said Matheo.
“It wasn’t until the police showed up that we realized no one had seen Katie all day,” said Lea.
Lacoste leaned forward, toward Patrick Evans. “Can you think who might have done this to your wife?”
“No.” He looked at her as a child might.
“Can you back off a little?” asked Lea. “Can’t you see he’s in shock?”
She poured him a scotch and he swallowed it in one go.
Lacoste studied Patrick for a moment. There was certainly something wrong with him. He seemed wrapped in cotton batting. Muffled. It could have been shock, compounded by a natural lassitude.
But judging by his pupils, it was more than that.
“What can you tell me about the cobrador?” she asked.
Patrick stared at her. “Conscience. Right?”
He looked at Matheo, but his eyes weren’t focusing and he was beginning to sway.