Page 160
And there it was.
“Most wouldn’t,” said Armand. You wouldn’t.
It was the nightmare, the worst fear. Not just that his child would die, but that he’d somehow be responsible for it. Even, God help him, do it. In a moment of madness.
“We’ve seen it before—” Isabelle began.
“Yes,” snapped Jean-Guy, cutting her off. Not wanting to be reminded of the terrible things they’d seen. What happened when human nature went feral.
Yes, sometimes they discovered that a parent had killed their child, though it was more often the other way around.
“Let’s leave it there,” said Armand. “Thank you for coming here, Sharon, and walking us through what might’ve happened.”
“You saw that in the autopsy, didn’t you, Armand,” Dr. Harris said, as she got up. “Petechiae. That’s why you sent all three reports to me.”
“Yes. But as you said, it’s a long time ago. There’s no way to prove any of this.”
“I can’t see how it can relate to the murder of Deborah Schneider on New Year’s Eve,” said the coroner, pulling her coat off the back of the chair.
“Neither can I,” admitted Gamache. “We’re just assembling the pieces. Most are not helpful.”
Dr. Harris turned to Beauvoir. “You might be right. It could’ve been an accident, not murder at all. With no way to prove it either way, maybe we choose to believe that.”
“Excusez-moi.” Without waiting to be excused, Beauvoir put his coat on and left.
“Forget something?” Stephen asked. He was holding Idola on his lap and reading to her. From the Financial Times.
“Yes. I just need to . . .” He held out his arms, and Stephen, a little surprised, handed the child to her father.
Jean-Guy felt Idola’s breath on his neck, and felt her supple body conform to his. And he knew he could never, ever hurt her.
In fact, he’d hurt anyone who tried.
That’s what he’d forgotten. For one horrific moment. That he would die before he’d let anything happen to either of his children. In fact, he would kill.
So what had happened to Paul Robinson?
Jean-Guy carried his daughter into the study and sat at the desk. On the laptop he looked up Paul Robinson. Not much came up. But there was a photograph from a conference he’d been at.
It showed a middle-aged man. Slender, geeky, with glasses and graying hair and a bow tie.
He was standing in front of an easel with a poster on it and smiling into the camera. He looked a little goofy.
Was Paul Robinson, at that moment, contemplating murdering his daughter?
Maria. Beloved, vulnerable. Ave Maria. Blessed Mary.
But there was another daughter. The Abby to her Maria.
Bright. Brilliant even. So like her father in so many ways.
Abby Maria. Conjoined sisters. Not by some cartilage or artery. They didn’t share an organ, they shared a father and a fate. That bound them forever.
He looked down at Idola, and when he made eye contact, she laughed.
Her flat features no longer said Down syndrome.
They said daughter.
