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“Merci,” he finally said.

“Patron,” she began, sensing that something precious had just torn. “I—”

“Thank you,” he said, turning away.

She’d been dismissed.

But . . .

But her words had not been. As he stared at his screen, he knew that what he was really feeling wasn’t anger, it was fear.

He was afraid that what she said was true. That he wanted to stop Abigail Robinson and the only weapon he could use was his office. As head of homicide.

He could arrest her for murder. Whether she committed that actual crime or not would be immaterial. She was in the process of planning hundreds, thousands, of murders. And he wouldn’t let her.

He would act. He would protect Idola. He would protect Stephen and Ruth. He would protect those unborn, and those born long ago.

Was that really it? Was Isabelle right? Was he trying to make up for his earlier failure, in the pandemic, to protect the most vulnerable?

Gamache stared straight ahead, straight at the thing uncurling before him. Was it the truth? Or was it residual guilt?

And then his eyes focused, and he realized that what he was really staring at was the photo Jean-Guy had found from the conference just days, maybe hours, before Maria had died. He was staring into the eyes of Paul Robinson. And then his gaze shifted and he leaned closer to the screen, narrowing his eyes and zooming in.

Beauvoir interrupted his thoughts. “Patron?”

“Yes, what is it?” Gamache looked up.

Jean-Guy had pulled up a chair. “Let’s say Abigail did kill Debbie in revenge for the death of her sister, why did it take so long? Maria died years ago.”

Chief Inspector Gamache looked from Beauvoir to Lacoste. Here was his chance. To change course. All he had to do was tell Beauvoir to drop that line of inquiry. That the death of Maria was sad but not pertinent. They were going to focus on the most likely suspect in the murder of Debbie Schneider. Vincent Gilbert.

Beauvoir waited. Lacoste looked up.

Except . . .

“I think Ruth gave me the answer to that.”

Jean-Guy turned to Isabelle. “This should be good.”

Gamache pushed away from his desk, away from Paul Robinson’s stare. He’d been slow to see it, and only now did it all come together.

“She and I were talking about Reine-Marie’s work, going through Madame Horton’s possessions, and the fact that when someone dies it falls to family to sort through their things.”

“Right,” said Jean-Guy. “All the crap in closets and drawers.”

“Attics and basements,” said Isabelle.

“Exactly. There are hundreds of decisions to be made. Often painful ones, deciding what to keep and what to get rid of. Items become charged with emotion, with memories. So relatives often just pack the stuff up and put it away. That’s what happened when Paul Robinson died. Abigail was young, in shock. She packed up his things and put them in the attic, and didn’t think of them again until her home was sold.”

“Six weeks ago,” said Jean-Guy. “That’s when she found the letter from Ewen Cameron demanding payment for the treatment.”

“That’s when she realized what had happened to her mother,” agreed Gamache. “And that Gilbert had been part of it. But suppose she also found that photograph.”

He nodded to the one on his desk. The one of the four people at the seashore.

“But if Abigail found the picture, why did Debbie have it?” asked Isabelle. “And why would she lock it in her desk?”

“There must be something incriminating in it,” said Jean-Guy. “Something that proves Debbie killed Maria.”