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“Of course, mon beau,” she said, and whispered, “Getting to see you is the only reason I stay in the Sûreté.”

He laughed, took her coat, and nodded to the corner. “You know where they are. What would you like?”

“A tisane and—”

He held up a hand. “I know. They’re just out of the oven. You can probably smell them. You’re like a bakery hound.”

The bistro was quiet. It was between meals, and only a few tables were taken by parents and children having hot chocolate, something the parents would soon regret. The Sûreté officers had the place virtually to themselves.

Isabelle pulled up an armchair and waited until Olivier had brought her chamomile tea, with honey, and put a plate of fresh baked brownies on the table. Once he’d withdrawn, she placed copies of the photograph in front of each of them.

“This was found in the search of Debbie’s home. Locked in her desk drawer.”

There were Debbie and Abigail, young teenagers. Side by side. As though attached at the hip. On the other side of Abigail was her father. But the center of the photograph, the center of attention, was the little girl in her wheelchair.

This was the first time they’d seen Maria.

She was eight, maybe nine years old. Thin. Her arms bent and rigid, her hands and fingers twisted, as was her mouth. But there was no denying the pleasure, the gaiety, in her expression. In her bright brown eyes. Nor was there any mistaking the intelligence.

Whatever had caused her physical disabilities had clearly not affected her mind.

Here was a happy, inquisitive girl.

Armand moved his gaze over to Paul Robinson, whose expression was calm, his smile relaxed. A father enjoying a day out with the family.

One hand was resting on Maria’s chair, and the other was on Abigail’s shoulder.

Abigail’s left hand was on Maria’s shoulder in a sisterly, protective gesture.

Debbie was looking at Abigail, her hands holding Abigail’s arm. Both girls were laughing. One of them had just said or done something funny.

It looked like any one of a hundred pictures each of them had of their own families. It was both heartwarming and disturbing, given what would soon happen.

“Is it dated?” Beauvoir asked.

“I don’t know,” said Isabelle. “I’ve asked the Nanaimo detective to see if anything’s written on the back.”

“You say this was locked in Debbie’s desk?” said Gamache.

“Oui.”

The victim, Armand realized, had gone from “Madame Schneider,” to “Debbie Schneider,” and now “Debbie.” It was a sort of watershed, as they got to know her better and better. A relationship had developed with the dead woman that was far more intimate than they’d ever have had with a live Debbie Schneider.

“What else was in the drawer?”

Isabelle brought out her phone and read from the inventory. “Staples. Two ink cartridges for a printer. An agenda. A ruler. Some birthday cards and a box of paper clips.”

“Birthday cards?” asked Beauvoir. “Why keep those locked away?”

“Why lock away any of it?” asked Isabelle.

“Were there other pictures of Maria in the house?” Gamache asked.

“No. Ones of Abigail, and of Debbie’s family, but none of Maria.”

Just then her phone beeped with a text. “It’s from Nanaimo.” After reading it, she said, “The birthday cards are from Debbie to Abigail.”

“Unsent,” said Gamache. “And the picture?”