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It wasn’t about Ruth’s chances of finally being right. Nor was it about the chances Haniya Daoud, a distinguished but disappointing stranger, and her insults would finally hit a nerve.

Annie Gamache was thinking about statistics. About graphs. About a law of averages that seemed to have predicted that a lunatic theory would take hold. Eventually.

And that probability grew by the day, by the click-through, by the event.

It grew every time Professor Abigail Robinson opened her mouth.

Chapter 14

Armand,” said Colette Roberge, and surprised the Chief Inspector by kissing him on both cheeks as though he were just a friend dropping in for a visit, and not the head of homicide for the Sûreté du Québec, in her home to investigate an attempted murder.

“Madame Chancellor,” said Gamache, stepping back and introducing Isabelle Lacoste.

Despite Jean-Guy’s assurances that he could be civil, Gamache had thought it better if he didn’t accompany them, but instead interview the lighting and sound techs.

“We’re in here,” said Colette as she led them through the house and to the kitchen.

It was a comfortable room, with open shelving displaying blue-and-white china. Tins lined up on the counter said Farine. Sucre. Café. Thé. And Biscuits.

The ceiling had whitewashed beams, and French doors at the far end opened onto a large garden, now buried in snow.

In the corner by the door, bathed in sunshine, was a card table with a child’s jigsaw puzzle. A remnant of the grandkids.

Two women stood by the fireplace and turned anxious faces to the newcomers. It was clear neither had slept much. They looked disheveled, exhausted.

“Has the gunman said why he did it?” asked Debbie Schneider, stepping forward.

“No,” said Isabelle. “He’s not saying anything. We’re not releasing his name or any details yet, but I can tell you that he’s not a professional. In fact, he has no prior record at all.”

“Just a local crazy,” said Madame Schneider.

“There’s no indication he’s that either,” said Lacoste, her voice cool.

Debbie Schneider opened her mouth to argue the point, but Abigail Robinson interrupted.

“Thank you again, Chief Inspector,” she said, offering her hand. “I watched the videos last night. I think I must’ve been in shock. It’s clear that if you hadn’t acted I probably wouldn’t be here.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, taking her hand.

Isabelle Lacoste considered the two women as they all took seats in front of the warm woodstove. She’d only seen Professor Robinson at a distance, onstage.

There she’d been calm, assured. There’d been a warmth about her that Lacoste had found disconcerting.

But this was a different woman.

She was tense. Haggard. It was a perfectly normal reaction to what had happened.

The other woman, Debbie Schneider, was new to Isabelle.

She and the professor must be about the same age, but there was about Madame Schneider the sense of harder roads. Steeper climbs. A life not longer in days, but longer in other ways.

“We have a photograph of the gunman,” said Isabelle. “I’d like to know if you’ve seen him before.”

As the women leaned in to look, Lacoste turned her attention to Chancellor Roberge. She was short and stout, elegantly dressed even mid-morning on New Year’s Eve.

Her eyes were clear blue like the winter sky and held an almost fierce intelligence.

Gamache was also observing Colette Roberge.