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With Rune’s words still clanging through his head, he opened the door to a shallow closet he hadn’t opened in years. He flicked the wall switch and the light inside sputtered to life, illuminating a space full of dusty boxes.
Gideon glanced to the uppermost shelf, where an odd assortment of books was stacked. It was his mother’s collection, books she’d used for inspiration. When he found the one he wanted—an encyclopedia of wildflowers—he pulled it down, blew the dust off, then cracked it open.
He skimmed the pages until he found the entry he was looking for. Opening the book wider, he studied the botanical drawing before him.
Perhaps there was a way to prove his intentions were genuine.
Gideon had started toward the fabrics when someone knocked on the shop door. Wondering who would visit at this hour, he left the encyclopedia on the table and went to answer it.
Harrow stood on the other side. Half of her face was battered, and a curve of black stitches arced down her cheek. One of her arms was in a splint.
“Shouldn’t you still be in the hospital?” he asked.
Beside Harrow stood Laila, out of uniform, her dark brown hair pulled back in an elegant bun.
“He talked.”
Both girls pushed past him into the room.
“Who talked?” asked Gideon, shutting the door behind them.
“The print shop owner,” Laila answered. “We arrested him early this morning and brought him into custody.”
Harrow turned a chair at the worktable backward and plunked herself onto it.
“A student at the university paid him for the use of his storeroom, alleging to need it for a school project. The owner says he didn’t know what it was being used for.”
Gideon crossed his arms. “He didn’t find it suspicious that astudentrequired the use of a storeroom?”
Laila’s shoulders lifted. “The money must have been enough to stifle his curiosity.”
“Did you get the student’s name?”
Laila shook her head. “Only a description. Based on his account, the sketch artist drafted this likeness.” She slid her hand into the pocket of her trousers and pulled out a folded piece of paper, holding it out to Gideon.
Uncrossing his arms, he took the paper, unfolding it to study the sketch. A girl stared back at him. Her dark, shoulder-length curls matched her dark sunken eyes, which were partially hidden behind spectacles.
“Looks remarkably like Rune’s friend, don’t you think?” said Harrow.
Verity de Wilde, she meant.
Sure, there was a slight resemblance. But this sketch could easily be some other nearsighted scholar. He handed it back to Laila. “We’ll need more than a sketch to prove it.”
“You could start by asking your sweetheart where her friend was the night of the attack,” said Harrow, her arms crossed over the back of the chair, her tone sharp.
Gideon ran a hand through his hair, not liking where this was going.
“I disagree,” said Laila, leaning against his worktable. “If the suspectisVerity de Wilde, Rune was likely in on the scheme. Asking her will send her running to warn her friend.”
“Hold on,” said Gideon. “We can’t knowthis”—he held up the vague sketch—“is Verity de Wilde. Even if it resembles hersomewhat, the print shop owner might have given a false description.”
Harrow started to say something, but Gideon held up his hand, locking eyes with her. “More importantly: Rune wasn’t in on the scheme.”
Harrow slit her eyes. “You’re certain of that?”
Gideon remembered Rune sitting outside his front door, weeping. Believing him dead.
He thought of everything they’d done last night.
