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“Are you saying you think that I’m ignoring, even twisting evidence, in order to build a case against Abigail Robinson? Because I don’t like her or her views?”

Put so starkly, Lacoste didn’t quite know what to say. But the fact was, that was exactly what she thought. That they’d pivoted away from the obvious suspect, Vincent Gilbert, and the obvious motive, in favor of the least likely.

It would be so much better all around if Abigail Robinson was arrested and convicted of the crime.

“Not intentionally,” she began.

He lowered his head and glowered at her. “By mistake?”

Now she was confused. Clearly, the Chief Inspector, the head of homicide, the man who’d recently headed the entire Sûreté du Québec, did not do things by mistake. He might make mistakes, but his actions, his decisions, were well thought out.

“I think,” she began, gathering her thoughts, “I think you’re going after Abigail Robinson on purpose. Not because you really believe her to be guilty, but because you want her to be guilty.”

Armand Gamache couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He stared at her, speechless.

Isabelle Lacoste had, in the past, disagreed with him. They’d sometimes argued over evidence, or suspects, over an arrest even.

And yes, he could be wrong, and had been wrong in the past. But neither Lacoste nor anyone else had ever questioned his motives. Until now.

“You think I’m railroading Abigail Robinson out of prejudice? My own personal agenda?”

“No, I’m just—”

“You think I’d turn my back on solid evidence and arrest someone for a murder I knew, I knew, they didn’t commit?”

His voice instead of rising had dropped to a whisper so that she had to lean closer.

“Because it sounds like that’s what you’re accusing me of. It’s one thing to disagree with a line of inquiry, Isabelle. It’s another to accuse me of wanting to arrest someone I knew to be innocent.”

Her cheeks were burning so hot Isabelle wondered if she might melt. She also wondered if she’d crossed a line that could never be uncrossed. If she’d gone far too far.

And now she faced a choice. To scramble back and beg forgiveness. Plead a sugar high from the four brownies she’d eaten.

Or . . .

“No one has more respect for you than I do, patron. I don’t think I need to prove that. We’ve been through too much together. But you’re human. Jean-Guy is human. Lots of what we do is science, but a lot is driven by intuition. By emotion. You say so yourself. And you’re no different than the rest of us.”

She watched him as he watched her. His eyes astute. And hurt.

“You have a granddaughter you adore and whose future concerns you. You see Abigail Robinson threatening that future. And . . .” She hated to do this, but felt she had to. “And I saw some of the footage you took inside that nursing home.”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

She had a lump in her throat now. Remembering those images.

That experience in the pandemic would become part of their DNA. His DNA. Part of every perception, every sight, every sound, every meal, every celebration. Every moment.

Every decision. For the rest of his life. Including this one. Couldn’t help but.

“You beat yourself up for not being there earlier. I know you do. And now I think you’d do just about anything to make up for it. I think you see Abigail Robinson threatening tens of thousands of people, including, maybe, Idola. And, like Dr. Gilbert, you want to stop her. You can’t kill her, but you can imprison her.”

Armand could feel his rage trying to claw its way out. Becoming outrage.

From an adversary, and he had plenty, this charge would be insulting enough, but from a trusted ally? A colleague he’d brought not only into the department, but into his life. His home. His family.

He stared at her, speechless. No, not speechless. Afraid to say anything, for fear of what he might say.

And to her credit, though he wasn’t yet willing to give her any, Isabelle Lacoste did not back away. She sat still, in the full force of his glare. And waited.