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“I don’t want to hear it, Cat,” he says coldly. “You lied to me. You lied and Nichole and Emeline and Ysabel and Mother Agnes and Sister Marguerite paid the price.”
“That’s not true,” I insist. “Magister Thomas isn’t the killer. The other attacks would have happened even if you’d locked him away after Perrete’s murder.”
Simon appears to choose his next words carefully, though the tension in his neck and jaw never eases. “I believe you genuinely think he’s innocent, but I haven’t had a chance to properly research the magister’s past or interview him.” He nods at the stack of pages brought by Lambert. “Though apparently my uncle had a file on him.” Simon raises his eyebrows. “You wouldn’t happen to know what in the architect’s past could merit six pages in the provost’s records, would you?”
My stomach rolls over as I remember what Remi told me. “I’ve only heard rumors,” I manage to say. “It was all before I knew him, but Mother Agnes would never have let me live with him if she thought him capable of harming me.”
That’s not entirely true because shedidn’tallow it—I ran away to accept his offer of employment, and partly because of what I overheard her say about my family. But she would have put up much more of a fuss if she thought I was in danger. Or maybe she did. My eyes drift to the documents on the table. Are therecomplaints from her in there? Then I shake my head to dismiss that thought. In five years, she never once indicated to me that I should fear Magister Thomas.
“And I would never have accepted your help if I’d known why you wanted to be involved,” says Simon.
“It wasn’t only about protecting Magister Thomas, Simon. You have to believe that.”
“Believe what?” He waves a hand at the horrible sketches. “That you forced your way into this inquiry because of your concern for these women?”
“No,” I admit. “It wasn’t that at first. I’m not sure when it changed, but it did. It became for them and for you and for Juliane.”
“And yet never enough for you to tell me aboutthat.” Simon jabs a finger at the architect’s hammer.
The gore on the handle reminds me of other details. “You act like I’m the only one who withheld information,” I say. “I might have been more forthcoming if I’d understood just how depraved this killer is.”
“I doubt it.” He folds his arms across his chest. “You drew solid conclusions without that knowledge.”
“And you did the same without the cursed hammer!”
Simon’s mouth remains set at its skeptical angle. “Do you know what the worst part of all this is?” His voice changes, becoming fragile as an eggshell. “How you came at me from my most vulnerable side.” He smiles, but it’s a wretched, humorless, ironic expression, which only becomes worse when it crumples like a wad of parchment. “I actually…”
Without thinking, I step toward him, reaching out. “No, Simon, it was never like that—”
He jumps back before I can get too close. “Don’t touch me,” he snarls. “Don’t ever touch me again.”
My arm drops like it’s made of lead. Whatever we had, whatever we were, is gone.
“You need to go,” he says.
“May I visit Magister Thomas?” I whisper.
“No. That would interfere with the investigation.”
“Simon, please!” I struggle to keep my voice down. “He’s all I have left!”
“Then you have more than I do.”
I spin around and run out and down the passage to the stairs, careless of how much noise I make. At the bottom of the steps, I stumble to the front door and throw the series of bolts open and burst out onto the street. My footsteps echo off the slate like someone is following, but I don’t stop until I’m in my room again, where I can let the sobs out.
