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“It was a Friday. Dad had just come back from a conference—”
“Was he alone?”
“Yes. He’d been there with Colette, but she didn’t come to Nanaimo with him.” She paused. “I always wondered if she and Dad . . . But I guess not. And then the thing happened, and they almost never saw each other again.”
“Huh,” said Lacoste, her mind moving quickly. “Where were you when your sister died?”
If Abigail heard a slight suspicion in the question, she didn’t show it. “Debbie and I were looking after Maria. But we’d gone out for a bike ride—”
“And left Maria?”
“She was asleep. We wanted to go to the store, and I knew Dad would be back soon. Debbie decided she’d rather go home, so I went to the store alone. By the time I got home Dad was there, but Maria was . . .”
“What did your father say?”
“Nothing, not then. He was working on her. Trying to bring her back. She was on the kitchen floor and he had his fingers down her throat. I must’ve shouted because he turned and looked at me. I’ll never forget his expression.”
“Yes?”
“He looked terrified. Panicked. He told me to leave. To call nine-one-one. Then all sorts of people arrived and I was pushed out of the way.”
“Was Debbie there?”
“No, like I said, she’d gone home.”
Lacoste leaned forward and her eyes and voice became intense. “Think carefully. Before you left to go to the store, was Debbie alone with Maria?”
“No, why would she be?”
“Were you together the whole time?”
“Well, I went to the bathroom, and Debbie wasn’t with me.” She smiled, then it faded. “Why’re you asking?”
“Could your sister’s death have been more than a terrible accident?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m positive. Why are you asking? What does any of this have to do with Debbie’s murder?”
“Have you seen this picture before?”
Isabelle handed her the photograph of the four of them. The last one.
As Abigail stared down, her chin puckered and she took a deep breath. “Yes. But not for years. Where did you find it?”
“At Debbie’s home. It was locked in her desk.”
Abigail’s brows drew together. “But why would it be there? Why would she have it?”
“We don’t know.”
What Isabelle did know, and suspected all along, was that their theory was wrong. Abigail hadn’t found the photo among her father’s things and given it to Debbie, starting a chain of events that led to murder.
No. The picture of that happy day had probably sat in Debbie’s desk for years, forgotten. Debbie Schneider’s murder had nothing to do with the picture, or what had happened to Maria.
Her phone dinged again. Another message from Beauvoir, asking if she’d read the letter.
