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“No date, but someone wrote, The last one. It doesn’t seem to be in Debbie’s handwriting, judging by the writing on the cards. He sent a photograph of one of the cards.”

She showed it to them.

Dear Abby. Happy seventeenth. Love, Debbie.

A heart had been drawn over the i in “Debbie.”

“Doesn’t say much,” said Jean-Guy.

“The handwriting doesn’t match,” agreed Gamache, comparing the card with the back of the photograph. “We must have examples of Abigail’s writing somewhere.”

Beauvoir found a sample and they compared. It didn’t match her writing either.

“So who wrote, The last one?” asked Jean-Guy. “The father?”

“Must be.” Isabelle clicked her phone off. “But why would he give that picture to Debbie? And why did she lock it away?”

All three looked down at the photograph of the happy family. The last one.

“I have a picture to show you,” said Jean-Guy. He produced the one of Paul Robinson at the conference.

Isabelle studied it. “The conference ends the day Maria died.” She looked up at her colleagues. “He doesn’t look like he’s about to—”

“No, he doesn’t,” said Gamache. “Now here’s a question, Isabelle. If Paul Robinson didn’t kill Maria—”

“Then who did?”

“Any theories?” Gamache asked.

“Hello, numbnuts.”

Beauvoir almost jumped out of his skin. He’d been so deep in thought he hadn’t seen Ruth coming, and had not crossed his legs.

She grinned at him before turning to Armand. “I was just at your home.”

Ruth went to sit down, but a look from Armand stopped her.

“You’ll have to show me how you do that,” Jean-Guy muttered.

“I wanted to see Reine-Marie, but apparently she’s returning the last box to the Horton family. Took the crazy lady with her.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” said Jean-Guy.

“If you see her, can you let her know I was asking for her? I wanted to talk to her before she spoke to Enid’s kids.”

“Why?” asked Armand. “Is there something she needs to know?”

“No. It’s more a matter of not needing to know.”

She turned and left. Through the window, Armand could see the elderly poet trudge slowly up the snowy road, her head down, bent forward. Rosa tucked protectively inside her coat.

She walked past her home and up to the white clapboard church on the side of the hill. St. Thomas’s. Named after Doubting Thomas. The skeptic who needed proof before he’d believe in the miracle of the resurrection.

Armand returned his gaze to Jean-Guy and Isabelle. He was no skeptic. But then he had help. He saw proof of resurrection every day.

“Any thoughts?” he repeated to Isabelle.

“Okay. If Paul Robinson didn’t kill Maria, that leaves two others. Abigail or Debbie. Is that what you’re thinking?”