Free A Great Reckoning by Louise Penny

her last act of self-respect, and recognizing how ludicrous it was, she’d showered and put on clean underwear, before going out. The point of no return was right in front of her. She would at least cross that line smelling of soap and baby powder, though she suspected the scent of stale urine followed her everywhere now, like a vestigial tail.
    She walked down the stairs she’d only just scrubbed.
    They were cleaner than they’d been since she’d arrived. As were the toilets and showers and carpets. The other residents began to notice and some even started cleaning themselves.
    But it would always be a losing proposition. The filth of the place was not on the surface. It could never be disinfected. The rot went too deep.
    â€œWhere’re you going?” the landlady had called through the crack in her door.
    â€œNone of your fucking business,” said Amelia.
    â€œDon’t swallow,” said the landlady, laughing, sweaty legs spread wide on her Barcalounger. “But you know that, little one.”
    Her television was on and there was a report of a murder in a village south of Montréal. First the body of a boy had been found, thought to be an accident and now known to be murder. And then a second death.
    Amelia had paused, and through the crack in the door she’d watched. And seen a youngish woman being interviewed. They identified her as the head of homicide for the Sûreté du Québec.
    Amelia took a step closer.
    The woman wore a nice suit. A skirt and light blue top and a jacket that draped. Not at all masculine. A feminine cut. Practical, yet attractive. Simple.
    There was a badge on a string around her neck and a holster on her hip.
    Large men in uniform stood behind her. Respectfully.
    The landlady twisted in her chair, her naked legs squealing on the Naugahyde as she moved.
    â€œWhat do you think she had to do to get that job?”
    The plump lips glistened with spittle and the laugh followed Amelia down the hall and out the door.
    Amelia found the answer to that question that night.
    But not on rue Sainte-Catherine. She found it in the apartment of her only friend, a gay man from the same village she came from. He’d come to Montréal a year ago and was dancing in a male strip club. It was a good job and he could afford his own small place.
    â€œWhat the fuck are you doing?” he demanded, handing her a spliff and leaning over her as she tapped on his laptop. “You’re googling the cops?”
    Amelia didn’t answer.
    By the time she returned to her room she had a sheaf of papers, each explaining the entrance requirements for the various police schools. The next day, as she scrubbed, she composed the letters. The résumés she’d send off.
    They were not, of course, completely accurate.
    â€œThey’ll never take you, you know,” her friend had said. “Look at you. You’re on the wrong side of the prison bars. You’re the one they’re trying to arrest.”
    They’d both laughed at that, knowing it was true. But unlike her friend, Amelia thought maybe she could get to the other side. And be the one with the nice suit and clean hair. With large men behind her, not leering at her ass but there to follow her orders.
    Maybe she could be the one with the power. And the gun.
    That was before the rejections started. First the Montréal Police College rejected her. Then the Sherbrooke Police. Then the Quebec City Police. And even the tiny private college, apparently in some fellow’s barn in Rivière-du-Loup, didn’t want her.
    The Sûreté Academy didn’t even bother to reply. Of course.
    She’d gone back to the floors, and down the drains. And one cold night she found herself on rue Sainte-Catherine. There, behind a strip joint, she’d done the very things she’d sworn never to do. And worse.
    And with the money she’d bought cocaine. And then heroin.
    She’d had two hits in