Of course, Elle would tell him he hadn’t killed them. She would insist that Big John Hammer had destroyed three lives with his egotistical search for publicity. But Adam knew what she did not: some people loved to think the worst, to take every opportunity for cruelty. His own experience was the real reason Adam had held her back from reporting her situation to the police. How could she understand the agony of being vilified by scandal-seeking reporters? Or worse, by ignorant onlookers who never performed any great deed, who spent their lives in a recliner, remote in hand, watching newsfeeds filled with fake scandals that encouraged them to make judgments? She could never realize how difficult standing straight and still and taking the abuse could be.

Because it didn’t matter whether the truth could be spoken or shouted or conveyed in news tickers, those people were not interested. They loved to bolster their outrage, and they didn’t listen. They never wanted to hear the truth.

With some difficulty, he lifted the heavy mail coat over his head and settled it around his shoulders and down his arms.

If Penderghast died—and according to the report Elle heard from her onboard contact, he was unlikely to survive—and his organization decided to accuse her of causing his death, she had photos of her injuries, but no witness to his attack. In a just world, she would have no difficulty proving her innocence. But Adam knew with some intimacy the world was not just.

Yet...somehow, someday, she had to come out of hiding.

He lifted the mail hood and settled it over his head and twitched it into place. The whole getup was hot and weighed over thirty pounds. Medieval knights had a squire to assist with these tasks, and Adam could have found someone at the festival to give him a hand. But the closer he got to the mock battle, the bigger fool he felt for agreeing to make an ass of himself. The chain mail was an imperfect disguise, yet the fewer people who recognized him, the better.

He removed his watch and placed it on the table, pulled on his leather gauntlets and flexed his fingers. He unhooked his scabbard from its place on the wall, pulled the sword free, and examined it as he had done every day before he used it. The blade was perfectly clean, without blemish, and with great pride he knew it was beautifully worked. He gave a few experimental swings.

Yes, he could move in this getup, albeit more slowly than he would like. He replaced the sword in the scabbard and set it on the table.

On the table, his watch vibrated. He frowned. Someone had passed through the alarms onto his land. He stepped outside to see a couple pull up in a Mercedes convertible and park. Tourists. “Can I help you?” Which was his polite version of What the hell are you doing here?