Jean-Guy Beauvoir quite liked the feel of it. The heft. The ability to just pull back his jacket and expose it. To see people’s eyes widen. The gun on his belt meant not simply safety but power. Though just lately, something odd had begun to happen. It had felt heavier. More awkward. Less natural. The gun had begun to feel foreign. Was this how it had started with Gamache? Surely as a young agent, as an inspector, even, he’d worn a gun? At what stage had he taken it off? When does a cucumber become a pickle? It was the question Gamache sometimes asked when contemplating human behavior. And now
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