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Haniya was right, of course, thought Isabelle. No place was safe.

“Isabelle?” Armand finally said.

She looked at him. Not even the amber glow from the fire could disguise his pallor.

She knew what he was asking.

“Yes. I have no doubt she would kill again, if it meant saving lives. I’m not sure if it’s heroic or psychotic, but Haniya Daoud seems to see every innocent man, woman, and infant in the world as her children. She’s driven to save them. Obsessed even.”

A few years ago, Jean-Guy might not have understood that. Now he could. Every parent, he was sure, became slightly insane the moment their children were born.

Armand nodded. He too understood.

He’d assumed Haniya Daoud had survived, where so many had given up and died, out of hatred. An all-consuming need for revenge. But something even stronger had kept her going.

Love. The love of her children. The need to save, not the need to destroy, had kept her going. And still fueled every step Haniya Daoud took.

But to have to kill one child to save others? What did that do to a person? What had that done to Haniya? And did it make every other killing so much easier?

Would Haniya Daoud murder Abigail Robinson to save men, women, and children?

In a heartbeat.

Reine-Marie poured herself a red wine, dragged the box from the small study into the living room, lit the fire in the hearth, and turned on the Christmas tree lights.

Stephen and Gracie, who she now thought might be a guinea pig, were having a nap in his bedroom. Daniel and Roslyn were at the sales in Sherbrooke, and Annie had taken Idola to visit friends in the next village over.

Henri and Fred were curled at her feet.

She had the place to herself.

Before dipping into the last box, she sat back on the sofa, put her feet up, and quietly sipped her drink, staring into the fireplace, the lit tree in the background.

They’d take it down, along with the other decorations, on January 5th. The eve of the Twelfth Night.

Neither she nor Armand were particularly religious, though both had a steadfast and private belief in God. But they loved tradition, and taking down the Christmas tree every year on that day was one they’d both grown up with.

Besides being the night before Epiphany, when the Three Wise Men recognized the Christ Child, it also saved their Hoover from needing to pick up too many dried pine needles. And burning out. Again.

In the meantime, Reine-Marie relished the tree, the decorations, the quiet.

She closed her eyes, feeling the warmth of the fire on her face. But her peace was invaded by Ewen Cameron. His kindly face looked down at her, assuring her all would be well, ça va bien aller, even as he tied her wrists to the posts.

Her eyes flew open, and she sat up so quickly wine slopped from her glass onto Henri, asleep by the fire. He didn’t stir. With Ruth such a constant visitor, he was used to it.

Reine-Marie put down her glass and got to work, while over in the bistro Jean-Guy sat in front of the fire and told his horror story.

“Ewen Cameron?” Armand’s eyes moved from Jean-Guy to Myrna, then back again. “Vincent worked with Cameron?”

“Who?” asked Isabelle. Like Jean-Guy, she was too young to know the name. But it was about to become one she would never forget.

They told her, while Armand sat back, his hand to his face, listening, thinking.

When they’d finished, Isabelle had quizzed Jean-Guy and Myrna, unwilling to accept that this had actually happened. In Québec. In Montréal. At McGill. Within living memory. And no one had stopped it. Stopped him.

“And Vincent Gilbert was part of it?” she asked.

“There’s no actual proof of that,” said Jean-Guy. “We know he looked after the lab animals. If he’d been part of the experiments, wouldn’t there be papers in his file?”