“Yes.”
“Stay here, I’m going to get some towels to clean up your face.”
“Clean it up? That doesn’t sound good.” Cass reached for her face, but he pulled her hand away before she could touch herself.
“You’ll only scare yourself. It’s a little blood.”
“You hate blood.”
He smiled. “I do. I can’t believe you remembered that in your condition.”
“I can clean it myself.”
“Sit tight. I hate it, but I’ve learned to deal with it.”
“It slammed my face against the floor; it felt like my nose was broken.”
“Doesn’t appear to be broken,” he said, studying her face. “I’ve had a few of those, too, so I know them when I see them.”
“Whacked ribs and broken noses. People must not like you.”
He laughed softly. “That’s probably true, but most of my injuries came from college football.”
“And here I thought you were a baseball man.” She pointed to the ball on the table.
“That too. I just could never pitch or hit worth a damn. I could, however, tackle. Unlucky for me as there’s very little tackling in baseball.”
“So I’ve heard.”
There was a weird silence and then finally Malcolm turned away from her. “Stay here. I’ll be back.”
Cass didn’t bother to tell him that wouldn’t be a problem. Her eyes fixed on the ceiling above; she noticed the cathedral roof and the thick beams running across it and decided it must be one hell of a gas bill to heat this sucker in the winter. If this was just the game room, the house must surely be a mansion. Still, there was something about the spacing between the beams, the perfection of the angles and the solidness of the wood itself that suggested both an eye for detail as well a sense of intimacy. Then there was the massive fireplace, the centerpiece of the room. It appeared that each brick had been perfectly placed all the way up to the ceiling. So much more than a functional asset. It was a labor of love.
When she heard the rustle of him returning to her, she asked, “Did you build this house?”
“Yeah, I did. My dad started it, but then he passed and it was left to me to finish it.”
“Nice work.”
He stood over her and smiled down at her. “You’ve only seen the garage and this room.”
“I know quality when I see it.” Then again, didn’t everyone? Wasn’t that the point of quality-to make it known when a person looked upon it?
“Really? This from the woman with no furniture.”
“Furniture is only important if you need it. I have everything I need.”
“Really,” he murmured, but she thought she heard a question in it.
“Really,” she repeated firmly. “And you have more than you need, but I guess that’s to be expected.”
“Why?”
“Because of the money. I’m surprised you don’t have someone preparing you a home-cooked meal and waiting for you at the door to take your coat as soon as you come home.”
“No housekeeper. I like my privacy. So if that was a ploy for dinner, you’re out of luck. There’s nothing heating on the stove.”
“Not even a casserole?”
“No, why?”
“I figured there would be a bunch of casseroles in the kitchen.” Cass pointed to the cutout in the room that led to what appeared to be a massive kitchen on the other side.
“I can state unequivocally that there are no casseroles in the kitchen.”
“Huh.”
Kneeling beside her, Malcolm dipped a towel into a bowl of water filled with ice. Delicately, he began to run the towel around her face until she felt like a child being wiped down by her mother after an especially messy meal.
“If you get me a mirror, I can do it.”
“Stop fussing. I’m almost done.”
“I’m not fussing,” she retorted. “I feel silly. There’s nothing wrong with my arms. Between carrying me in here and wiping my face, you’ve reduced me to a two-year-old.”
“Let it go,” he said.
She was about to open her mouth again when he pulled the towel away and dropped it in the bowl. Cass watched as the water immediately turned pink.
“Gross.”
“Yep. It’s why I hate it. The color. But with the blood gone I’ve got a better look at your nose. It’s definitely not broken. Here. Put this over your eye.” He had filled a soft washcloth with some of the ice cubes and laid it carefully over the bridge of her nose and her left eye, which was also throbbing.
It was silly to be vain at a time like this, but her nose was her favorite part of her face. She couldn’t help but be grateful the monster hadn’t destroyed it.
“What happened?” she wanted to know. “Did you see anybody?”
“A person. Wearing a hooded sweatshirt low over his face. At least I think it was a him. I don’t know. I couldn’t see any hair. The build was slight, but I saw a chin and nose. Both were sort of thin, almost delicate like yours. And then I saw a profile when…” he trailed off, clearly focusing his attention on the memory.
“What? What did you see?”
Malcolm met her gaze, his brow furrowed with consternation. “You know I’m pretty sure what I saw…was a woman.”
Chapter 12
“You think it was a woman,” Cass repeated, trying to fit that piece into the puzzle. Hating the idea of having a conversation with him while lying down, she tried to sit up, but as soon as she did, her ribs protested.
With a firm but gentle hand, he motioned for her to stay still and then placed the makeshift ice pack back over her face.
“I know. Hard to believe.”
“Why?”
“Well, we’re both going to the same place, aren’t we? The hooded sweatshirt is linked to the monster. The monster is evil. Someone evil killed my sister. When I think of someone cutting someone else’s tongue out…” He stopped and took a moment to gather himself. “I just don’t think about that being a woman. It’s too gruesome. I don’t know.”
Cass could have called him a chauvinist, but dropped it. She did, however, have to caution him. “The person at the train station might not be Lauren’s murderer.”
“I think you’re wrong. Put it together. There’s a train ticket in Lauren’s apartment. You first see this monster the night the psychic is killed, and now again at the train station while a train from Baltimore is arriving. I don’t believe in coincidences like that.”
“You also don’t believe in mediums,” she reminded him.
“Yeah, well, I’m starting to be persuaded. Whoever I saw either killed Lauren or knows something about who killed Lauren. I would bet this house on it.”
Cass had to agree that the connection between all three events couldn’t be ignored. “Did you see the person in the sweatshirt get off the train from Baltimore?”
“No,” he admitted somewhat grudgingly. “There was a lot going on at that moment. The train from New York was arriving, another one to Washington was leaving, and the next thing I knew you were on the ground holding your ears. Why were you doing that?”
