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Years later Abigail had trusted Colette enough to send her an advance copy of the controversial report for the Royal Commission.

The Chancellor had then given it to Vincent Gilbert. And while both professed to be appalled by her recommendations, neither had done anything about it.

As he paced the basement, his mind traveled down this new path. One he’d all but ignored, in favor of the more obvious thoroughfares of Abigail Robinson and Vincent Gilbert.

But now he felt he was finally getting closer. Closer. To the truth.

The Chancellor had not just invited Abigail to Québec, she’d invited her to speak. She’d invited her to stay at her home.

Abigail and Debbie.

And then she’d taken that last necessary, fateful step. Colette Roberge had invited them to the New Year’s Eve party.

To lure her into Gilbert’s hands so he could stop her crusade for mass euthanasia by stopping the woman?

Kill the woman. Kill the idea.

Haniya Daoud had protested her own innocence by saying that she knew that killing a person did not kill an idea. Often it only strengthened it, by making the person a martyr.

Maybe, in desperation, Vincent Gilbert thought it was the only option now open to him.

So why was Debbie Schneider dead and not Abigail Robinson? Was it mistaken identity? Or was she the intended victim all along?

There was, of course, the issue of the letter, the possible blackmail, as a motive.

Gamache shook his head. No. Gilbert would realize that even if Debbie had the paper on her, killing her would solve nothing. Abigail still knew about his work with Cameron.

And other letters still existed and would come to light. Like the Horton letter.

Debbie Schneider should not be lying dead. It should have been Abigail Robinson, because of her campaign. Or Vincent Gilbert, killed by Abigail in revenge.

This didn’t make sense. Only it did.

He was missing something. He’d blinked, or been looking in another direction, distracted, and had missed some small signpost.

The only thing that did seem clear was that without Colette Roberge, none of this would have happened. Abby and Debbie would be in Nanaimo, looking forward to a new year.

Gamache closed his eyes. He was deep in a dark cave now. He could hear scrambling, as the truth skittered away.

But it was in here with him, and he was close. He felt it. In his heart and in the hairs on the back of his neck. In the stale clammy air on his skin.

He tipped his head back, his eyes still closed in concentration. Taking a long, deep breath, he held it for a moment, then slowly released it. As he did, Abby Maria floated back.

Abby Maria.

A name first uttered by their mother, who’d bound the sisters together.

And then, decades later, uttered by Debbie Schneider at the gym, then again at the Chancellor’s home after the attack.

Another deep breath. Hold it. Exhale. Hold your ground. Don’t back away.

What’s in that cave with you? What’s scurrying around? Its claws scraping the walls. To get out.

Abby Maria was.

Debbie had said it again at the New Year’s Eve party. And, worst of all, Vincent Gilbert had picked up on it. Mocking the clear reference to Ave Maria. Hail Maria. Be well, Maria.

Was that why Debbie was killed? To keep Maria a secret? To not reveal an unwell, terribly disabled sister, and therefore hinder Abigail’s campaign?