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“Yes. I told her that her father loved both his daughters. And that it was his choice, his decision. And not her responsibility.”

“And you kept the letter,” said Armand.

“I asked Abby if she wanted it, but she didn’t. So yes, I’ve had it all this time.”

“And as far as you know, Debbie never actually read it?”

“That’s right. Why?”

“Paul Robinson made a copy of it. I’m wondering where it went.”

Now Colette smiled and nodded. “Yes, I can see him doing that. I’d do that.”

“I imagine you’d also be clearer, Colette.”

Her smile flattened and she stared at him, then at the other two. “You noticed that, did you?”

“You did too?”

“Not at first, but I read it again a few years later, and it struck me that he never really came right out and said he’d killed Maria. It’s near impossible to read it and not come to that conclusion. And yet . . .”

“Why didn’t he just say it?” Armand asked.

He thought back to the notes he’d written before heading into an action he was leading. One he knew could go very badly. The scribbled words of love. And then sliding his wedding ring off and sealing it in the envelope, to be left in his desk drawer.

In case.

There was no ambiguity about those few words. And neither should there have been about Paul Robinson’s. He’d had, after all, time to consider. Years in fact. To choose each word.

Armand Gamache had no doubt that Robinson had indeed killed himself. And he had absolutely no doubt Robinson had written the suicide note. But what was he saying?

And to whom?

Colette Roberge? Abigail?

“What was he trying to say, Colette? I think you know.”

“All I know for sure, as I said before, is that Paul Robinson loved his children. Everything he did, he did for them.”

“Including killing himself?” asked Jean-Guy. “How could that be for his one remaining child? To be left alone, and then told everything that happened was partly her fault?”

Colette shrugged. Not dismissively, but to show she had no answer.

“How does Debbie Schneider figure into this?” asked Armand. When Colette said nothing, he pressed. “Did Paul Robinson kill Maria?”

“He says he did.”

“No, he doesn’t,” said Armand. “We’ve just been through this. As a precise man, he is shockingly, glaringly imprecise in his final letter. And yet I think his message is clear. To someone.”

“Well, when you figure it out, Armand, you let me know.”

“I’ll let that go, Madame Chancellor, because I know you’re not used to your work having real-world consequences. But ours does. A little girl was killed decades ago, and then days ago a grown woman was murdered. The two are connected, and I think you know how.”

“Are you sure you haven’t stumbled into a spurious correlation?”

He leaned forward. “Why was Paul Robinson eternally grateful to you? What were you doing for him? Keeping his secret? Protecting his daughter? Are you still protecting her?”

The color rose up Colette’s neck and into her cheeks. “I need to make sure Jean-Paul’s all right.”