Page 216

“You?” said Gilbert, staring at Abigail.

“That’s the answer to our question,” said Gamache. “Why your father would confess to a terrible crime, and one he didn’t commit. He didn’t believe it was you. He knew it was. He knew you. Where he was selfless, you were selfish. Where he was sincere, you were manipulative. Where he put family first, you put your ambitions first.”

“Far from the tree,” said Beauvoir.

Armand nodded. “You fell far from the tree. But he loved you and wanted to protect you. When Debbie found the copy of his suicide letter and finally read it for herself, she could see what he was really saying. When did she tell you that she knew? Was it before you even traveled to Québec? Did she promise your secret was safe with her?”

“My God,” said Abigail. She looked at the others. “Can’t you see what he’s doing? He wants me to be guilty.”

“Is that why Debbie kept repeating ‘Abby Maria’?” said Gamache, ignoring her outburst. He took another small step toward Abigail. On solid ground at last. “It was meant as reassurance. A sort of code between you. A secret you shared. But each time she said it, you heard a threat. A warning.”

“This’s bullshit. You’re setting me up.” She appealed to Colette. “He hates me because of my study. Can’t you see that?”

“When Debbie said that your father believed that the truth should come out, no matter how unpleasant, that must have really set off alarms,” Gamache continued. Unrelenting now. “Did panic set in?”

Abigail’s face hardened. She was, he could tell, steeling herself to act. And he thought he knew what it might be. He’d seen that expression before. From men and women standing on a bridge, high over a river. Just before . . .

Abigail’s breathing was steady now. Quiet.

“I don’t think you woke up that morning intending to kill Debbie.” Gamache’s voice was calm now, reassuring. “I don’t think you even went to the party with that in mind. But it was simmering. And then Debbie mentioned Abby Maria in front of Dr. Gilbert. It was a step too far. You knew then that you couldn’t trust her. Whether intentionally or not, Debbie would let out too many hints and eventually someone would start digging.”

“Armand,” warned Gilbert. He could see that she was about to snap.

But Gamache had to keep pushing. They had no real evidence. His theory fit the facts, but an even moderately competent defense lawyer would get her off. They needed a confession. He could see that while Jean-Guy had the gun in his hand, Isabelle had her phone out. Recording.

“You’re wrong, Armand,” said Colette. “Debbie killed Maria. I know because she told me on our walk.”

Gamache turned and looked at her. “Are you saying you then killed Debbie Schneider?”

“Yes.”

“Non.” He shook his head. “You didn’t. You’d never risk Jean-Paul’s future like that. What would become of him, if you were arrested? No.” He held her eyes. “You can stand down now. You’ve earned Paul Robinson’s eternal gratitude. He just didn’t realize what he was asking.”

He turned back to Abigail. “You killed her.”

“No.” But her voice held little conviction.

Putting up his hands, he said softly, “Abigail—”

And then she did what he had feared. She swung the rifle away from Gilbert. To Jean-Guy.

“No!” shouted Gamache.

Beauvoir braced himself and pulled the trigger. But not all the way. Almost. Almost. Another hair . . .

“Do it,” she shrieked. “Do it. Take the shot.”

And he wanted to. With every fiber. Now was his chance. It wouldn’t be murder, it would be self-defense. Everyone would see that. And then Idola would be safe. They’d all be safe.

“You want to,” shouted Abigail. “I knew it from the start. You hate me because you agree with me. Your daughter should’ve been aborted.”

“Abigail!” Colette made to move forward, but Gamache stopped her.

It was all Armand could do not to step between Jean-Guy and Abigail himself. But it was up to Beauvoir now. To resolve this. He held his breath, his eyes wide. His heart pounding.

“It’s me or your daughter,” Abigail screamed, and thrust the rifle forward.

Tears were streaming down Jean-Guy’s face and he made a sound like a mortally wounded animal.