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“Yes.”

“Your sister contacted me and asked if I’d help her sort through your mother’s papers. She found boxes of things in the attic and she wasn’t sure what should be kept for the family records and what could be thrown out. I understand the house has been sold and there’s a time issue.”

“She had no right to do that without asking me. Those are personal, private family papers.” He looked at her. “And?”

“And?”

“What did you find?”

She knew she should tell him. Knew his sister probably would. But something in the way he demanded to know told her not to say anything.

“So far just bills and pictures. Mother’s Day cards. The usual.”

“Why were you on her bed?”

“I am sorry. I hadn’t planned to, but I saw something on the wall and wanted to check it out.”

“What?”

She took him there and pointed.

“I don’t see anything.”

“It’s a few lines scratched into the wallpaper between the bed and the nightstand.”

“What business is that of yours?” he asked.

“You’re right. None.”

And he actually was right, Reine-Marie knew. It was none of her business.

James Horton escorted her out and insisted the archival box of their mother’s things stay with them.

“Send us your bill,” he said, while Susan stood behind her brother, her face full of embarrassment and apology.

“No need. I wasn’t much help.”

It was snowing more heavily now, but not blowing. It was a heavy fall of light snow.

Reine-Marie brushed off her car and thought about Mrs. Horton on her deathbed. With the last of her strength, she’d drawn a monkey.

This was becoming less amusing by the moment.

She almost felt bad that she hadn’t mentioned to Susan or James that their mother had another box, as yet unopened, that sat in the study of the Gamache home.

On her way back to Three Pines from speaking to Édouard Tardif at the courthouse, Isabelle Lacoste’s phone buzzed. It was a message from Jean-Guy.

Making sure not to get stuck in a snowbank, Isabelle pulled over and read, Vincent Gilbert was at Robinson’s talk.

“The official biography on your website doesn’t mention a sister,” said Gamache, looking into the bloodshot eyes of Abigail Robinson.

“No. I try to keep my personal life private.”

“Private, or secret?”

“What do you think would happen if it comes out that I had a severely disabled sister? People would think that influenced my findings. My conclusions.”

“Did it?”