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They stared down at the photograph. But it still just looked like a happy family, and a friend.

“If there is something there that we can’t see, but they can, why would Abigail give it to Debbie? And why choose the New Year’s Eve party to kill her?”

“Something must’ve provoked it,” said Jean-Guy.

“ ‘Abby Maria.’ ”

They looked at Gamache. “I’m sorry,” said Jean-Guy. “What?”

“Debbie kept repeating it, then had to apologize since it so clearly upset Abigail. But why the anger? Why the apology? She said it again at the party, this time in front of the worst possible person. Vincent Gilbert. That was just before she was killed.”

“But Abigail already explained that,” said Isabelle. “She didn’t want anyone to know about Maria. She thought it would undermine her arguments.”

“That was a lie. Maria wasn’t a secret. Lots of people knew about her. No, there’s another reason it upset, angered, Abigail.”

“You think Debbie killed Maria,” said Beauvoir. “And every time she used that pet name it felt to Abigail like she’d been stabbed.”

“I think it’s possible. Something provoked the attack that night.”

“What provoked it was Abigail threatening Vincent Gilbert,” said Isabelle. “And he killed her, or rather, he killed Debbie by mistake. It had nothing to do with Maria or her death.”

“Okay,” said Beauvoir, “but maybe it does. Suppose Abigail has her suspicions of Debbie but nothing concrete. All this talk of Abby Maria pushes her past the breaking point. She needs to have it out with Debbie.”

Since Isabelle wasn’t encouraging, he turned to Gamache, who was listening closely.

Beauvoir leaned forward. “Abigail goes outside, and when the Chancellor leaves, she catches up with Debbie and confronts her. Demands the truth about Maria. And Debbie admits it. Probably knew it was coming. Ever since Abigail gave her the picture.”

As Jean-Guy spoke, Armand found himself standing in the snow, just off the path. In the dark. In the woods. Watching the two women, while Roman candles burst overhead and children stood around the bonfire, trying to write their names in sparkles.

He watched as Abigail Robinson demanded the truth and Debbie Schneider admitted her crime. She might have even been relieved to finally tell Abby.

Would she show remorse? Beg forgiveness?

Or maybe she did neither.

“If Debbie really did kill Maria,” said Gamache, “I think it’s possible that she believed she’d done Abigail a favor. Freed her to go to Oxford to pursue her dreams. Maybe she even convinced herself she’d done Maria a favor. But she misjudged. Abigail loved her sister. You only have to look at the photograph to see it.” He picked it up and looked at it again. “I think that’s why it was locked away. Not because Debbie felt guilty and couldn’t look at Maria, but because she didn’t want to see the love there.”

“Now we just have to prove it,” said Beauvoir.

“Not quite so fast,” said Gamache. “There’s a problem.”

Not just one, thought Lacoste, but managed to restrain herself.

“I’ve cross-country skied down that trail,” said Gamache. “There aren’t any handy pieces of wood lying around.”

“It’s a woods, patron,” said Beauvoir. “There’re trees everywhere. Trees are made of wood.”

“Merci, Jean-Guy. But Debbie wasn’t hit with a tree. Or even a branch. And any that had fallen would’ve been covered with snow. No, according to the coroner, Debbie was hit with a fireplace log, cut at a certain angle.”

Gamache created the wedge with his hands.

“Where did Abigail get the log?” asked Isabelle.

“Exactly.”

Beauvoir thought for a moment. “There’s a stack by the fireplace in the living room, and there was a pile by the bonfire. The problem is, both are pretty public. I think someone would notice if Abigail Robinson picked up a log and walked away with it.”

“There is another place,” said Isabelle. “The library has a fire. And it’s private.”