Black Diaries

45. Home Sweet Home

"That's just the thing, Sir. The room in which the crime occurred is a private backroom—no CCTV. And there is no footage of him entering or leaving the room, either, for some strange reason."

"Then get better surveillance instead of harassing Cassidy! Leave! Now!"

"Wait just a minute, Sir! Who do you think you are, speaking like that to an officer of the law?"

"I," Elliot said, annunciating each and every syllable, "am E.W. Winslow."

After that, the police suddenly lost their desire to drag me off to their sketch artist. Elliot started to lead me away, and I dutifully continued to sob into his suit jacket.

"Oh my God! Cassy, my dear, what happened to you?"

Huh? That didn't sound like the police. Who...?

Risking a glance, I saw Mrs. Winslow rushing towards us. A moment later I was engulfed in a fluffy pink hug.

"H-how—"

"I called them," Elliot explained, nodding to his grandfather who was just getting out of what looked like an armored truck, accompanied by a small army of private security. "I thought we could use the company."

My heart warmed as Mrs. Winslow squeezed me tight. "Oh, Elliot! That's so thoughtful of you."

"Come, my dear." Gently prying me loose from Elliot, Mrs. Winslow began to steer me towards the truck. "Let's get you home."

Mr. Winslow nodded to me, which in his vocabulary was equivalent to three cheers and a hug. "Nice to see you're not blown up, girl."

I managed a little smile. "Nice to see you, too, Mr. Winslow. Where did you get that tank of a car? Your collection?"

"Of course, girl! You don't think I wouldn't be prepared for every emergency, do you? Now stop babbling and get in!"

"Yes." Mrs. Winslow helped me into the back seat and climbed in behind me, holding my hand. "Let's get you home."

It turned out that by "home" she didn't mean my own humble abode, but the Winslow estate. Against my repeated protest, I was given (or rather shoved into) a beautiful bedroom overlooking the rose garden, stuck into bed and stuffed with tea and homemade muffins. Whenever my mouth wasn't filled with some beverage Mrs. Winslow considered beneficial to my health, she stuck a thermometer into it, as if fake terrorist attacks could cause high temperature.

"Mmm nt sck!" I tried to explain to her. "Rlly! Mnit!"

"Sorry, dear, what was that?"

I spat out the thermometer. "I said I'm not sick! Really, I mean it."

"Don't you worry about that, dear," Mrs. Winslow said, patting my head. "We'll have you back on your feet in no time."

For a moment, I considered fleeing the room. But then I saw Elliot watching from the door, smiling at the two of us—and suddenly I remembered that her only child had died in a car crash decades ago, and Elliot was the only one she had ever really gotten to coddle and spoil. So I let her do her worst. It was actually kind of nice. I just had to remember to not stop eating muffins, so the thermometer would stay out of my mouth. Plus, the muffins were so good!

Late that night, when Mrs. Winslow had retired to her own bedroom—"I'm just next door, dear, just next door, so if you need anything, don't hesitate to wake me, do you hear? Anything!"—and I was lying in bed, smiling up at the shadowy ceiling, the door creaked open and a tall, dark form stepped into the room.

"Cassidy?"

"Elliot?"

Coming over, he sat on the edge of my bed and gazed down at me. "I'm sorry. I did all I could to plan this holiday, to make it wonderful for you. I'm afraid I didn't anticipate such an ending."