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“Abby Maria,” he said and glanced at Colette Roberge.

She knew. And yet Gamache remembered, when he’d asked her directly if Abigail was an only child, she didn’t disagree.

“My mother used to call us that, from the moment they brought her home. I knew what it meant.”

“What?”

“That we were linked. Not two individuals but one person. Abby Maria. Dr. Gilbert was right last night. It was a reference to Ave Maria. A play on words. An attempt to make it seem a good thing. A gift from God.”

“It wasn’t?”

Abigail didn’t answer. Instead she looked down at her fingers, twisted together in her lap. Not two separate hands, but one mass. Impossible to tell which fingers belonged to which hand. Where one ended and the other began. Not stronger for being pressed together. The one held the other so tightly both were useless.

Armand knew that the “Ave,” in “Ave Maria,” translated into “Hail.” Though it could also mean “Be well.”

But all had not been well.

Alas.

It was just a split second. So quick Beauvoir only caught it the third time through the video.

Because of the vantage point, he could see almost all the audience, as well as the stage. Granted, he only saw their backs, but it was enough.

He’d suffered through Abigail Robinson’s talk again and again, with its odd combination of dull facts building to an electrifying conclusion.

“Too late! Too late!” half the auditorium chanted, while the other half jeered.

And then the firecrackers went off.

Gamache strode to center stage and tried to calm everyone, but couldn’t be heard above the growing panic. Grabbing the microphone, his voice clear and commanding, he managed to settle everyone down.

Then Beauvoir saw the man in the middle of the auditorium raise his arm and point the gun. Even though he knew what happened next, it was still shocking.

The podium between Gamache and Robinson exploded.

Then the second shot rang out. How it missed them, Beauvoir couldn’t guess. Thankfully, agents tackled the gunman before he could get off a third shot.

Beauvoir watched it again, slower this time. Focusing on the firecrackers. On who might have set them off.

His view of that moment was blocked by a man in a Montreal Canadiens tuque. Beauvoir began to wonder if, maybe, he was the one who’d set off the firecrackers, not Tardif.

The man had his back to the camera, of course. Beauvoir moved the video forward, frame by frame. Just as the shots were fired, the tuque man ducked. And as he did, he turned his head just enough for Beauvoir to see who it was.

“Holy shit,” he whispered, looking at the face frozen on his screen.

“I’m sorry,” said Reine-Marie, getting off the bed as quickly as though it was on fire. “I was told it was all right to look around the house.”

“And to lie on my mother’s bed?” the man at the door demanded.

Reine-Marie smoothed her slacks and felt her cheeks getting warm. “No, I just wanted to see something.”

“Who are you?”

“Reine-Marie Gamache.” She walked toward him, her hand extended. “I’m the archivist.”

“Archivist?” he said, staring at her. Angry, but also perplexed.

“Oui. You’re James Horton? Madame Horton’s son?”