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“No!”

“That night, New Year’s Eve.” He had her full attention now. “When Colette left Debbie and returned to the Inn, you went out to look for her, to tell her you were leaving. You found her on the trail. She told you then. That your father hadn’t killed Maria, she had. I think she had both letters with her. The one from Gilbert to your father. The one you wanted to threaten Gilbert with. But she had another. The one from your father.”

“None of this happened,” snapped Abigail.

“Did she try to explain that it was done for love? Did she beg forgiveness?” Gamache studied her. “I don’t think so. I think she genuinely believed you’d be pleased. Grateful even. You might even thank her. Is that what pushed you over the edge? That there was no remorse? No recognition of what she’d done?”

“No! This’s absurd.”

And in a flash he saw she was right. He’d made another mistake. His mind had traveled too quickly and overlooked one vital detail.

The murder weapon.

The scenario he’d just described depended on Debbie confessing, and Abigail lashing out. But if so, how did she get a fireplace log in her hand? As Beauvoir said, no one was likely to have been walking around with one.

And no one had a chance to get one. Except . . .

He looked at Vincent Gilbert, who was staring at Abigail and gripping the poker.

Gamache’s mind rapidly backtracked. Going back over images. Statements. And then he had it.

“Your coat,” he said to Gilbert.

“What of it?”

“You had it on. You came outside during the fireworks and you were wearing your coat.”

“Yes. So?”

“How did you get it?”

“What’s this got to do with anything?” asked Haniya. “Did she kill her friend or not?”

But Gamache wasn’t listening. He was staring at Gilbert.

“I went up to my room, of course.”

“When?”

“Just before midnight.”

“But you told us you only left the library at midnight.”

“Well, I guess it was a couple of minutes before.”

“And you”—he turned to Colette—“say you got to the library just after midnight?”

“Yes. The fireworks were already going off.”

That was the window, the time when the murderer could get the weapon.

But that would mean . . .

Almost there.

“No,” Gamache said, taking another step forward. “I was wrong. When Debbie read your father’s letter, she saw it wasn’t a confession. She knew that your father hadn’t killed Maria. But she also knew that she hadn’t.” He stared at her. “That’s it, isn’t it.”

He’d finally stuck the landing. It took the rest of them an elongated moment to see it.