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“No,” said Abigail, adamant. “My father would never think that of me. He’d know I couldn’t do such a thing. I loved my sister.”

And yet, Gamache considered, Paul Robinson had thought exactly that.

“Your father lost his mind,” said Colette. “He was overcome with a sort of fugue, a temporary insanity. All he could think of was protecting you.”

“But I didn’t—”

Once again Gamache held up his hand. “He was a careful man. He’d close all holes, make absolutely sure there could never be any doubt. He wrote that letter, then took his life as his final act of love, to make absolutely sure you’d never be accused of the crime. But his confession was worded in such a strange way.”

He brought the letter out of his breast pocket. It was warm from sitting against his rapidly beating heart.

“He writes”—Gamache found the place—“It wasn’t deliberate. I know that.” He looked up. “He’s writing to you. To tell you that he knows you didn’t really mean to do it. He wants you to know that he forgives you, and that you’re free now, to live your life. To continue your studies at Oxford. To fulfill your potential. He wanted you to know that you’re safe.”

“That’s why he sent it to me,” said Colette. “He wanted me to know the truth. And to watch over you. To carry on his work of protecting you. I did it from far away, but I was always there. Always watching.”

“That was his eternal gratitude,” said Beauvoir.

“Yes.”

“No, that’s not the truth, I didn’t kill Maria,” said Abigail, exasperated. “And how can this have anything to do with what happened to Debbie?”

“That was the question,” said Isabelle Lacoste. “If your father didn’t kill Maria, and you didn’t, then who did?”

A silence descended on the cabin, broken only by the shrieking birds outside.

“Debbie?” suggested Gilbert, tentatively. “She did it?”

“Debbie?” demanded Abigail. “Why would she hurt Maria?”

The rifle was getting heavy, the tip dipping, then lifting.

Chest, abdomen. Chest, abdomen.

“Jealousy,” said Lacoste. “That picture says it all.” She nodded toward the photograph on the table. “Debbie locked it away in her desk because she didn’t want to see it. She didn’t want to see the little girl she’d killed, and she sure didn’t want to see how much you loved her. Look at it.” They did. “Look at Debbie’s expression. Look at how she’s tugging your arm. She’s practically ripping you away from your sister. You must’ve known.”

“I knew she was possessive, yes. That’s part of the reason I wanted to cool the friendship. She was smothering me.”

If Abigail realized the word she’d just used, she didn’t show it.

“There’s another reason Debbie might’ve killed Maria,” said Gamache. “The same one your father wrote in his letter. To free you of a burden.”

“No, Maria was never a burden.”

“I’m telling you what Debbie might have thought. Is that what she told you, when she confessed?” he asked. “That she did it for love?”

“Confessed? What’re you saying?”

“What are you saying, Armand?” demanded Colette.

“You know what I’m saying.” He hadn’t taken his eyes off Abigail. “She confessed, and you killed her.”

“No!”

“Yes.” His voice was grave. Sad. There was no triumph.

“Armand.” Colette reached for him, but Lacoste stepped between them.

“When Debbie found and finally read your father’s suicide note,” said Gamache, taking another step forward. He saw Abigail grip the rifle, steady the rifle. He saw, in his peripheral vision, Beauvoir brace himself, to take the shot. “She realized your father blamed you for what happened. She decided to tell you the truth.”