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It had occurred to him that, in their conversation earlier that morning, the Chancellor hadn’t actually asked anything about the gunman. Neither had the President of the University, but then his curiosity ended with Cleopatra.

“He looks . . . ,” said Abigail, studying the photograph and searching for the word.

“Normal?” asked Debbie Schneider.

“Nice,” said Abigail.

Armand was tempted to say that she did too, but of course, he did not.

“The people who were hurt?” said Abigail. “How are they?”

“Recovering. They’re keeping one in hospital to do more tests on his heart.”

“Can I send a card?” she asked.

“If you give them to me, I’ll make sure they’re delivered.”

“Debbie, can you . . . ?”

While Debbie made a note, Professor Robinson said to Lacoste, “I imagine you’d much rather be with your family than figuring out why some nice man took a potshot at someone you probably think deserved it.”

“Abby!” said Debbie.

It was such an extraordinary thing to say that Lacoste was momentarily at a loss.

Extraordinary because it was partly true.

“I’m very glad he didn’t hit his target, Professor.”

Abigail smiled. “Thank you for that.”

Her smile wasn’t a beam. It was much more intimate than that. It was gentle and warm. Understanding and inviting. Isabelle Lacoste was being invited in from the cold. Into the world of Abby Robinson, where all would be well.

While Isabelle was far from taken in, she was very much taken by this effect the professor had on her. Abigail Robinson had discovered, within moments of their meeting, a crack in her well-fortified wall. One she herself didn’t even know was there.

Isabelle Lacoste, second-in-command in homicide for the Sûreté du Québec, also yearned for all to be well.

Who didn’t?

She knew then that the professor was dangerous not simply because of her views, but also because she was so very compelling. So very attractive. And, most dangerous of all, so very normal.

This was no charismatic maniac. This was the woman next door who you trusted with your dog when you went away. If she said something was true, you believed her.

“You’ve known each other long?” Isabelle asked, trying to recover her equilibrium. Trying to paper over the cracks.

“All our lives, it seems,” said Debbie Schneider. “Abby Maria and I lived next door to each other as kids. Grew up together.”

She looked at Abigail, who gave her a smile, though it seemed to Gamache, who was following this closely, that it was strained. That there was some warning in her eyes. One that brought blood to Debbie’s cheeks.

“And where was that?”

“Nanaimo,” said Abigail. “British Columbia.”

“Beautiful area. Do you still live there?”

Yes.

Lacoste’s questions continued.