Page 128

He opened, then closed his hands.

“Your bubble burst.” Armand lowered his voice and asked again, softly, gently, as though coaxing a wounded fawn out of hiding. “Why did you go to her talk?”

“I needed to assess the damage she’d done. The damage I’d done by not trying to stop it when I had a chance. If I’d said something after reading her paper.”

“Professor Robinson’s university tried to stop it and couldn’t.”

“At least they tried. I didn’t. I just retreated into my little home and hid from the world.”

“But then you came out.” Armand paused. Examining the lean, leathery man in front of him.

“And found a plague of another sort, but just as deadly. Abigail Robinson isn’t just spreading death, she’s spreading despair. That chant of ‘Too late, too late.’ It needs to be stopped. You see that too. I know you do.”

“What did you decide to do about it?”

When the Asshole Saint was silent, Armand brought out his phone, swiped once, then tapped the screen a few times and hit play before turning it around.

The sound was off. No need to disturb the other diners.

Anyone who was watching the two men by the bay window would have seen the younger and sturdier of the two holding out a phone and the other staring into it, the blood draining from his face.

It would have been disturbing.

Jean-Guy drove over the new Samuel de Champlain Bridge, the Montréal skyline ghostly through the snow.

Within minutes they were at McGill University. The campus buildings circled a parklike setting, right in the middle of Montréal. Thanks to Reine-Marie’s contacts, the head of the Osler Library met them at the main door into the McIntyre Building and let them in.

“Bonne année,” said Mary Hague-Yearl, as the women kissed on both cheeks.

“Bonne année,” said Reine-Marie. “Thank you for opening the library for us.”

“You said it’s important.”

Reine-Marie introduced her companions. “This is Myrna Landers. Dr. Landers is—”

“A prominent psychologist, yes, we’ve met,” said Dr. Hague-Yearl, taking Myrna’s hand.

“I’m sorry, I don’t remember.”

“It was at a cocktail party in the library to celebrate the naming of a chair in Women’s Studies,” said Dr. Hague-Yearl. “It’s wonderful to see you again. I’d heard you’d retired to the country but didn’t realize you knew the Gamaches.”

“Neighbors. Friends,” said Myrna.

Reine-Marie introduced Inspector Jean-Guy Beauvoir, of the Sûreté.

“So this’s about the attack on Abigail Robinson at the Université de l’Estrie a few days ago,” said Dr. Hague-Yearl, leading them up to the third floor of the modern building.

“And the murder last night,” said Inspector Beauvoir.

Dr. Hague-Yearl paused in the corridor outside the entrance to the Osler Library. “Murder? Someone killed her?”

It was impossible not to see the mix of disgust at the violence and relief at the victim.

“You haven’t seen the news?” Reine-Marie asked.

“No. I try not to on holiday. What happened?”

“It wasn’t Professor Robinson who was killed,” said Beauvoir. “It was her assistant and friend. A woman named Deborah Schneider.”