“Is that what he told you?” Kincaid shook his head, pity in his eyes. “Does that seem likely?”
The sick feeling in her stomach intensified. Shehadquestioned Hartgrave’s assertion at first. But she’d wanted to believe.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to take someone’s word for it,” he said. “Either his, or mine.”
She glanced down at her hands. She’d already caught Hartgrave in one tremendous lie by omission.
“So he created the tracking program,” she said. It wasn’t a question.
“Indeed. An ingenious invention. It did just what I’d hoped it would.”
At this, she made herself look him in the eye. “And are you really going to insist it had nothing to do withpinpointing magic-users for the purpose ofmurderingthem?”
“Oh, no. Thatis, in fact, the purpose for which it was used.”
He paused politely at her startled “aha!” before continuing. “Yes, precisely the purpose for which it was used. By its creator, however—not by me.”
18
Through the Looking-Glass
For a moment, she sat as still as if he’d cursed her, not breathing, swallowing or even blinking. Then she choked out, “I don’t believe it.”
He merely looked at her, hands cradling his teacup.
Hysteria threatened. “Do youhearme? I can’t believe awordyousay!”
“But you can believe everything Mr. Hartgrave says?”
Oh, God.
“I presume by your accusations that he has mademeout to be the cold-blooded killer,” Kincaid said. “Let me see: He will have been the wronged employee who was simply stunned to discover what was happening under his nose, who barely escaped death himself and who has been waiting for the proper moment to heroically take me down. Well? Am I right?”
This was ten times worse than fighting off a physical attack. She couldn’t think of a way to prove to herself that Kincaidwasn’tright. Every problematic thing Hartgrave had ever done came back to her now like a rushing, choking flood. His uncanny ability to distract. His evasive language. His two occasions of violence. Even his unpleasantness in the first weeks of their acquaintance, which now seemed like a warning signal.
She no longer knew what to believe about him—about either of these two men. Why hadn’t she considered that people who caused head injuries were not the sort one ought to trust, let alone fall in love with?
She cast about frantically for something solid to grasp and came up with Bernie and Willi. Yes, surely she could believe they were just as they appeared—surelyshe could trust their judgment.
Unless they’d been duped, too.
Didn’t Bernie say he couldn’t get Hartgrave to tell him things? And Willi—he hadn’t seen Kincaid kill his wife. He’d returned home just after her death, which meant his information about what had happened came from someone else. Hartgrave.
“But why?” Her question was so faint, she had to repeat it: “Why would he do this?”
Kincaid gave a deep sigh. “I’m sure he has his reasons. Psychopaths and terrorists always do.”
A memory presented itself: Hartgrave, floating next to her in his room, insisting no one ought to do magic. That he didn’t want to live in a world with its widespread use.
She put her face in her hands and moaned.
“Do you believe me now, Dr. Daggett?”
“Yes,” she said. The word was bleak.
An edge crept into his voice. “Imagine the harm he could wreak now we’ve no hope of finding magically talented people before he does.”
She could imagine it, easily. It wasn’t her imagination that was wanting, but her common sense. In a war between good and evil, she’d picked the wrong side.
