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“Yes.”

“Then you know.”

“What I don’t know is whether you believe Vincent Gilbert is also morally bankrupt.”

“What’s this got to do with Debbie’s death?”

“You had a heated argument with someone. Then, less than an hour later, your friend and assistant is killed in what looks like a failed attempt on your life. Questions must be asked. And answered.”

“You think Gilbert tried to kill me?” Her astonishment was real. “We had a disagreement, but I can’t believe he’d go that far.”

“Your final words to him sounded like a warning. A threat. You said that you know. What do you know about Vincent Gilbert?”

“I know how sensitive our egos are. Scientists might seem rational, but we’re among the most fragile people in the world. Maybe because most of us never learned to control our emotions, so we’re always at their mercy. I wanted to push his big, bloated ego over the edge. I wanted to hurt him back. And there’s no better way than comparing him to Cameron.”

“Or maybe when you said, ‘I know,’ what you meant was that you know he was at your talk the other day.”

With that, he saw something interesting. Not Abigail Robinson’s surprise—she didn’t seem to care. But Chancellor Roberge did.

“Why do you think Gilbert was at Professor Robinson’s talk the other day?” Gamache asked Colette as she walked him to his car.

He wanted to get her alone, figuring he had a better shot at the truth away from Abigail.

Snow was coming down thicker now. But while it was heavy, it was also gentle. Like feathers out of a broken pillow.

The world seemed muffled. Quiet, quiet. Except for the soft crunching of their boots.

“How should I know? I barely know the man.”

“Now, that’s not true, is it.” He stopped to look at her. The Chancellor’s cheeks were rosy. Probably from the cold. Maybe from something else. “You withheld information from me last night. You failed to say you and Vincent Gilbert sat on the same board.”

“So? I sit on a lot of boards but don’t know the other members well.”

“This particular one is LaPorte, an organization created to protect men and women with Down syndrome.”

“True. I didn’t think it mattered.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Colette. Of course it matters.”

“All right, that was a mistake. I didn’t want to tell you because I knew you’d read more into it than is there.”

“Like?”

“That Vincent and I are colluding. That we have a shared agenda. That we’ve taken our desire to protect people with Down syndrome to insane lengths and might even be involved in the attempts on Abigail’s life. That we’re some sort of secret assassination society.”

“Well, with the exception of that last part, you have to admit, it’s not exactly a stretch.”

They’d begun walking again toward his car.

“That I’d kill—” she started to say, her voice raised, then she looked around and lowered it. “That I’d kill someone? You don’t really believe that, Armand.”

“The only one I know for sure didn’t kill Debbie Schneider is me.” He paused to consider. “And maybe Reine-Marie.”

Her snort of laughter came out in a stream of vapor that incinerated the young flakes in its path.

“I know you have to consider everyone, it’s your job. But don’t waste your time on me. I didn’t do it.”

“But maybe Vincent Gilbert did. How well exactly do you know him?” On seeing her rosy cheeks get redder, a thought struck him. He stopped again and turned to her. “Wait a minute, Colette. Are you two involved?”