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“You’d know, Chief Inspector,” said Abigail. “Don’t you generate theories, based on probability, and then eliminate them as facts come in? Isn’t that how you find killers?”

“Very true. But we also have to consider emotions. How we feel about things influences how we see them.”

“Bit of a wild card,” said Colette.

“Oh, you’d be surprised how clearly the heart can see. What I do know is that how we feel drives what we think, and that determines what we do. Our actions leave behind evidence, those facts you mention. But it all starts with an emotion.”

“Fortunately, numbers don’t have feelings,” said Abigail.

“No, but the mathematician, the statistician, does. Can’t help but. As do homicide investigators. We can make mistakes. Overinterpret evidence. Even manipulate some facts to suit a convenient theory. We try not to, but we’re human and it’s tempting. Fortunately, if we do misinterpret facts and arrest the wrong person, the case is dismissed.”

“But not always,” said Chancellor Roberge. “Innocent people are sometimes convicted. And the guilty are freed.”

“My point exactly,” said the Chief Inspector. “The same set of facts can lead us to different conclusions. Our interpretation of facts can depend on our experiences. Even our upbringing. On what we want the facts to say.”

“Lies, damned lies, and statistics?” asked Abigail.

He raised his brows, acknowledging the famous quote. But said nothing.

“You think that’s what I’ve done?” She didn’t seem defensive, merely curious. Almost amused. “You’re not the first person to say that. Can statistics be manipulated? Absolutely. We’ve all seen it. Politicians, pollsters, ad execs. Anyone with an agenda can spin statistics. But I can tell you, and I suspect Chancellor Roberge will agree, that few academics would do that, if only because we’d soon be found out in peer review. We’d lose all credibility, lose the respect of colleagues, and risk censure by our university.”

“As you have.”

There was a pause as that dug in.

“True,” she finally said. “But it’s not because I’m wrong. In fact, it’s because they know I’m right and it makes them uncomfortable.”

And Gamache remembered what the Chancellor had said, as he’d left her office. That while shocking, even abhorrent, Professor Robinson’s figures were actually correct.

But correct and right were two different things. As were facts and truth.

He leaned forward. “Why are you here?”

“The Chancellor thought it would be more comfortable,” said Abigail.

“No, I mean why come to Québec? This area? At this time of year? It wasn’t to do an event. That wasn’t organized until after the decision had been made. What brought you here?”

“We wanted to see Colette,” said Abigail. “It’d been a difficult few months since the Royal Commission turned down my report. I wanted a change of scene and I wanted her advice.”

“And yet you didn’t exactly rush over to see her.”

Abigail glanced at the Chancellor, who’d dropped her eyes.

“Okay, you want the truth?”

“Please.”

“The main reason we came now is simple. I’ve sold my house, and the place is filled with boxes.”

“It’s a complete mess,” agreed Debbie.

“So you flew across the continent to get away from boxes?” asked Lacoste.

“It’s hard to explain,” said Abigail with a sigh. “After my father died I’d just stuck all the boxes from his place in the attic and forgot about them. But now I have to go through it all and decide what to keep. It was”—she thought for a moment—“emotional. I felt overwhelmed. Colette had always said how beautiful it is here, especially at this time of year. How peaceful.” She looked at Gamache. “I wonder if you understand. All I wanted was peace.”

“So you held a rally?” asked Lacoste.

“One hour out of my holiday,” said Professor Robinson. “Who could have seen what would happen?”