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“Maybe Paul Robinson found evidence that she’d killed Maria,” said Jean-Guy. “The evidence Abigail might have found among his things a few weeks ago.”

“You’re saying he confronted Debbie,” said Isabelle, “and she killed him? How? Then she writes a suicide note and mails it with a book to someone she doesn’t even know exists?”

“Do you see a problem with that?” Armand asked, and smiled. “I suspect if she had done that, she’d have made the supposed confession a lot clearer. I also think if the letter wasn’t in his handwriting, Colette or Abigail would have known. So Paul Robinson wrote that letter to Colette and his daughter, then took his life. But”—he looked down at it again—“it seems an unnecessarily cruel letter, and he doesn’t seem like a cruel man. Just the opposite really. By all accounts, he had a loving relationship with Abigail.”

“And with Maria,” said Isabelle. “We know where that ended.”

As one, the three of them looked at the photograph of Debbie, Abigail, Paul, and Maria, with the vast Pacific stretching out behind them, sparkling in the sunlight.

The last one.

That photograph, Armand knew, must have been precious to Paul Robinson, so what was it doing locked in Debbie Schneider’s desk?

Armand sat slowly back in his chair and stared into the distance. Trying to see something just beyond his grasp.

If he pulled the thread, gently, maybe. Maybe . . .

Unexpectedly, Reine-Marie’s elderly mother appeared.

He sat forward and turned to them. “You haven’t lost a parent yet, have you?”

They shook their heads, surprised by what seemed a non sequitur.

“Then you haven’t had to clear out their home, go through their things. It’s a terrible job. We did it after Reine-Marie’s mother died a couple of years ago. It’s sad and exhausting and incredibly tedious at times. All the things they didn’t know what to do with, they just put in closets and piled in the basement. Every paper and photograph needs to be gone through, and decisions made. We were lucky, we had Reine-Marie’s seventy-eight siblings to help.”

Isabelle and Jean-Guy smiled. Each time the Chief mentioned Madame Gamache’s enormous family, the number went up. They actually had no idea how many brothers and sisters there were. It was unclear if Reine-Marie even knew.

“But what happens when you’re an only child?” he asked. “Or there are too many things and not enough time?”

“You get help?” suggested Isabelle. “Like what Reine-Marie does for people.”

“Exactly. That’s what I should have seen.”

He was animated, annoyance at himself replaced by excitement at finally seeing clearly.

“You get someone in who isn’t as emotionally attached to help sort things out. So when faced with a deadline, and loads of her father’s things to go through, who would Abigail turn to?”

“Debbie Schneider,” said Jean-Guy. “Merde.”

“Debbie found the photograph. Not Abigail,” said Isabelle, her eyes gleaming. “That’s why it was in her desk. That’s why Abby was surprised. She hadn’t seen it in years.”

“But why lock it away?” asked Jean-Guy. “What’s in it that we can’t see?”

He leaned over and once again saw the devotion on Debbie’s face as she looked at Abigail. And saw the devotion on Abigail’s face as she looked at Maria.

Paul Robinson was looking at Maria. He appeared calm. Content. Happy.

Then Jean-Guy looked at her.

The little girl, her body twisted, had her mouth open, joining in some joke. Her hair gleamed in the sunshine. Her complexion was pink and healthy. Her clothes were clean, and covered with cheery daisies.

But mostly it was her eyes that Jean-Guy noticed. They were bright, amused. Alert and aware.

There was no pain. No despair. No sign Maria was failing. This was not a little girl with no quality of life and this was not a family struggling to keep their heads above water.

“Is that what was hidden in full view?” he said. “A happy family?”

“Non,” said Armand, his voice certain. He too had been staring at the photo, and what he’d seen wasn’t a happy family. “Did the evidence box from Madame Schneider’s home arrive?”