Tempest wanted to believe Nicodemus, but could she?
“The sword!” she cried, realizing Nicky was telling the truth. “There was no booby-trap mechanism visible for the sword because it wasn’t a trap. The killer was there at the theater. The killer wasn’t someone who understood booby traps but someone who used an opportunity to break into the theater and stab a man they wanted dead. That’s why Rinehart told me they found the trap and its blades—one mechanical trap and multiple blades. We could have put that together a lot sooner if you’d been honest with me.”
“I’m sorry, Tempest. I know I kept things from you, but I never meant for any of this to happen. All I wanted was to save myself from a fate of embarrassment. Nobody was supposed to get hurt. Only me. I swear it. I set up the single knife mechanism that evening while you were with Ivy. I pretended I was tired from jet lag and needed to sleep. You were going to take me to the theater the next morning, and that’s why I hired a car to take me to the Whispering House to be with you that night. To be sure you wouldn’t be in any danger.”
“But somebody else could have been.”
He shook his head. “The knife I used was placed in a position that shouldn’t have done much damage. Which it didn’t. Even if someone happened to come by and try to break into the theater, they’d only get a scratch. But nobody should have been there.”
“But Julian Rhodes was. With a note from me left on the door.”
“I dinnae ken who did that. The only thing I know is that ever since we arrived, I’ve had the strangest sensation that someone is following me.”
Tempest glared at him. “Which you didn’t think to mention, because it would have ruined your plan to pretend-rescue me from a booby trap that everyone now thinks my dead mother set.”
“I never meant for that to happen. There’s a world of mystery associated with that theater that goes far beyond what happened to Emma. I had half a dozen ideas for how to spin the story of the knife, depending on how people began talking about it, but everything got out of hand.”
“Always go with what your audience believes,” Tempest murmured. That was one of the lessons she’d learned from Nicodemus. “Did you even think how that would affect me?”
“You’re resilient.”
“You don’t know anything about me at all, do you? You pretend to care, but you don’t. Not really.”
Of all her accusations, that was the one that Nicodemus didn’t have a comeback for. He shrank back, as if she’d physically struck him.
“Wait,” Tempest said slowly, studying his face. He was hurt, yes, but there was something else. “You’re keeping something else from me.”
The hint of a devilish smile appeared on his lips as he spoke. “Perhaps. If I am, it’s only to protect you.”
“You know who the killer is.”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t even change his expression, but she saw it in his eyes.
“You’re not leaving this garden,” she said, “until you tell me.”
He gave a slow nod as he gripped the edge of the bench to stand. His movements were slow, as if he still hadn’t recovered from sprinting to follow her. She should have known better. It was a misdirect. Less than a second later, he was at the easel. He lifted the canvas and smashed it over Tempest’s head.
The soft canvas split easily, not injuring her in the slightest, but the wooden frame kept her arms trapped for a few key seconds as Nicodemus ran through the grandfather clock. She was so flustered, she wasn’t even sure how many seconds had passed.
Tossing the broken frame aside, Tempest followed—or at least she tried to. When the handle didn’t give way, she slammed her shoulder into the wood. It didn’t budge. He’d jammed something in the door to stop her from following him.
Why was he running away?
She knew the answer. He knew who the killer was, and for some reason he didn’t want to tell her.
Her mentor had betrayed her, but if he wasn’t the killer …
Then who was?