He pulled a book from a drawer and pushed it across the desk to her. “But first things first, Dr. Daggett. Before this evening went from bad to worse, I promised to explain how it is that I know a bit about you.”
She squinted at the novel, confused. “Northanger Abbey?”
“Open it.”
On the inside cover, in her neat teenage cursive:E. Daggett, English 201, ISU.
Oh.
She hadn’t written her name inside a book for years. It never occurred to her that some of the old college texts she’d stowed in her car’s trunk—in the box with her Christmas presents—had a giveaway of an identification.
“We tracked your progress from Iowa State University to graduate school and onward to Ashburn, though I must say the institutions were agonizingly slow to provide information on you,” he said. “You may have your book back, naturally. I apologize for authorizing my employees to—ah—pinch it.”
Recalling the attack beside the highway cleared her head a bit. She grasped at it like a lifeline, a reminder that Kincaid was indeed a murderous bastard, never mind how he appeared. Somehow, being at the mercy of a murderous bastard seemed more appealing than the idea that Hartgrave—
She didn’t want to think what it would mean if Kincaid wasn’t what Hartgrave said he was.
“Yes, speaking of that evening,” she said, “I didn’t get the idea your employees had rescue in mind when they were shooting fireballs at me. I’m pretty sure they were trying to kill me.”
“They were desperately trying to keep Mr. Hartgrave from slipping away.” He gave her a rueful smile. “Alas, they did not understand then that you were, if not quite an innocent bystander, certainly an innocent participant. Else they would have been far more careful, I assure you.”
She ran through her memories of that night again. Surely Crawford or Shaw saidsomethingthat would contradict this account. But their side of the tense conversation—all of it she dredged up, anyway—wasn’t inconsistent with righteous anger.
Context was everything.
Finally, unable to keep the questions back, she blurted: “What exactly are you implying about Hartgrave? Why do you say he’s ‘suspect’?”
“Oh, yes, I hadn’t got to that yet.” Kincaid rubbed his neck, staring at the desk. “Again, forgive me—it has been a very ... very difficult evening.”
In her mind’s eye, the wizard Jack was once more convulsing, dying. She blinked back tears.
“Let me first tell you about my operation here,” he said. “You need to understand that, you see. You must have been given a distorted idea of what I do for a living, or you would not be here.”
She hugged the book to her chest, squeezing down the urge to argue. She had done quite enough already. Time to listen.
“You are in my home, but it is also a place of work and, when required, a school,” he said. “I teach magically talented people how to focus their abilities.”
Oh, comeon. She kept the words from slipping out, but they must have shown on her face, for he said, “Hear me out, if you would, after which I’d be delighted to answer any questions you may have.”
Would be a nice change, getting all her questions answered.
“Twelve years ago—no, thirteen, I think it was thirteen—I happened across a teenage boy who had quite a lot of potential, and a knack with computers besides,” Kincaid said. “He was desperate to get away from his violent grandfather. I was in need of technical expertise. And I ... I admit I felt sorry for him, this young man still mourning his parents. So I offered him an opportunity for magical training and also a scholarship to the university here, where he could earn a computer science degree.”
She bit her lip. So far, this tale logically filled the gaps in what she knew about Hartgrave’s life.
Kincaid, digging through the contents of another drawer, extracted something and handed it to her. A photo of a young man. Short hair the color of rich earth, dyed haphazardly green and gelled into spikes. Shoulders hunched. Eyes dark and angry. Lips curved into a wicked smirk.
Hartgrave, age seventeen.
He looked like trouble.
“Mr. Hartgrave did well, as I’d expected, and I hired him to assist with my school and also my business concern—I assume you know about the microchips?”
She wasn’t sure whether feigning ignorance in this case would be safest, but her lack of surprise must have been an answer in itself. Kincaid pressed on without explaining.
“He spent some time working at production facilities, but primarily he focused on the problem of finding magically talented people without having to scour every inch of the globe.”
The scoff escaped her before she could even think about stopping it. At his raised eyebrow, she went one step further: “Nearly everyone could do magic if they’re taught.”
