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She will worry about it later. Right now she has other priorities. She exerts some willpower and manages to ignore both Ambrose and the murky energy in the suite. She channels memories of what she saw in room B at the Institute and starts to draw...
...The monster rises from the surgeon’s workbench, howling in rage and panic. The storm of chaos is closing in fast. The creature knows that it will bring madness and death. She also knows who did this to her. There is very little time. She will use the minutes she has left to exact revenge. She tries to throw herself at the man who has destroyed her, but the light winks out and there is nothing more...
Pallas came out of the trance on a tide of knowing. She did not realize she was crying until Ambrose thrust a couple of tissues into her hand. She blotted her eyes.
“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice husky from the tears.
He pulled her up out of the chair and cradled her close. “I know I’m not supposed to interrupt you, but I have to ask, are you all right?”
“Yes. Sorry. Don’t worry, I’m out of the trance.”
“I thought so.”
For a moment she allowed herself to press her face into his shirt. She wasn’t accustomed to having someone comfort her when she came out of a particularly bad trance. She discovered she liked it—or, at least, she liked this version of it.
The temptation to sink into the warmth and scent of Ambrose’s body was almost overwhelming. It took a lot of determination to pull herself free of his arms and step back. She dabbed at her eyes one last time, well aware that she was not one of those women who look good crying.
Ambrose watched her, eyes tight with concern. “You’re sure you’re okay?”
“Yes.” She tossed the damp tissue into the trash container. “Usually I can keep my emotional distance but sometimes I get a little overwhelmed.”
“You were crying.”
“I felt so sorry for her.”
“The patient in room B?”
“She was going mad, you see. She understood that. She was terrified and enraged, afraid she was turning into a monster. She wanted to kill him. She wanted revenge. No, she wanted justice before she drowned in the chaos, but she didn’t get it. He killed her. I think he struck her with the reading lamp.” Pallas clenched her fingers into a fist around the pencil. “Again and again. He panicked, you see.”
“Who panicked?” Ambrose said. “Who killed the patient in room B?”
He spoke in a very neutral tone. She knew that he was trying not to pressure her for an explanation but that he needed one. She needed some clarification, too. Right now she was still fighting the tide of raw emotion. She struggled to suppress it.
“I can’t say for certain,” she said, “but you told me that you saw only Fenner and Geddings in the Institute that night. It must have been one of them.”
“Unless there was someone else on the scene, someone I never saw,” Ambrose said.
“Yes,” Pallas said.
She turned back to the table and looked at her drawing. Ambrose moved closer to see the sketch. For a long moment he gazed at the picture with an intent expression. When he finally looked up she saw the sharp light of understanding in his eyes.
“This is Frankenstein’s monster,” he said.
“It’s a cautionary tale. The takeaway of the story is that in the end—”
“The monster turns on the scientist who created him,” Ambrose concluded.
“I think that is what happened in room B,” Pallas said. “But the doctor killed her first.”
Ambrose did not take his eyes off the drawing. “And Geddings helped clean up the scene. It’s the only explanation that fits.”
“I agree,” Pallas said. “But all we’ve got is a theory.”
“We need to identify the patient in room B,” Ambrose said. “And then we have to figure out how they made her vanish without anyone noticing.”
“First we have to deal with that crowd down in the lobby,” Pallas said.
Ambrose groaned. “Are you sure?”
