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“Someone, yes,” said Armand. “But Abigail?”

“She’s cut from the same cloth. You can see that, in her insistence that her findings get a proper airing, no matter how foul. I think he knew she’d want the truth. It’s possible he thought she already suspected, and wanted to end her speculation, so she wouldn’t spend the rest of her life wondering.”

Armand sat back and considered. It wasn’t what he’d want. To burden, to hobble one of his children with such a truth. Some things really did not have to be said.

But then Colette was right. He didn’t know Paul Robinson. He’d learned long ago the folly of expecting others to behave, to feel, to think and make the same choices as he would.

“And did you?” Beauvoir asked.

“What?”

“Did you tell Abigail about the letter?”

“She did more than that,” said Jean-Paul Roberge, his voice strong, his eyes clear. “She showed it to her. She was very upset.”

“Abigail would be,” said Beauvoir.

“Not Abigail. The other one.”

“Bonjour,” said Isabelle. “Do you mind if I join you?”

She’d found Abigail sitting alone in the library.

“I didn’t think cops asked.” Abigail closed her laptop.

“My mother raised me to be polite. And the Chief Inspector gave me a gun, in case that doesn’t work.”

Abigail smiled. She looked wan. Tired.

Lacoste took the armchair across from her so that they were sitting on either side of the lit fire. She cast a glance toward the stack of wood, where Vincent Gilbert, two nights earlier, had found a murder weapon.

“Are you hiding?”

“Not a great hiding place if I am. You found me.”

“I don’t think I’m the one you’re hiding from.”

Abigail heaved a sigh. “I needed to get out of my room, but I didn’t want to see him. I don’t trust myself.”

“You think you might finish what you came here to do?”

Abigail smiled again and shook her head. “I came here to humiliate him. To scare him. To wound his ego but leave his body intact. So that he’d spend the rest of his life writhing. Like my mother.”

“You’ve already done that. So what are you afraid you might do now?”

“Kill him. We all know he killed Debbie, thinking it was me. Gamache and the other one as much as told me that the night Debbie died. Debbie was killed by mistake. But I didn’t take it in.” She rubbed her forehead, hard enough to leave red marks. “Is there always a delayed reaction?”

“Often, yes.” Isabelle leaned forward. “Can you tell me about the day your sister died?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Maria. What happened that day?” As she asked her question, her phone pinged with a message from Beauvoir and a photo of a letter. She’d read it later.

“Why do you want to know that?” Abigail asked. “It was a long time ago.”

“Please, just tell me.”

Another sigh. Not of exasperation, but of exhaustion.