Page 122 of The Pansy Paradox
She can’t quite see the screen. And his fingers fly so fast across the keyboard that she can’t keep up. Even if she could, Henry is no doubt crunching data in a way that will leave them all behind. But then, all at once, his hands droop as if the fatigue has caught up with him.
“I know they’re friends, but I wish she hadn’t gone off with him.”
You just don’t like Mortimer Connolly.
“Feeling’s mutual. Besides, I believe he started it.”
How old are you again? Twelve?
The corner of Henry’s mouth lifts in a half smile. Ophelia wonders if he’s more receptive because of the wound, or perhaps it has something to do with the latest events at the housing development. He isn’t acting like he actually hears her, but is merely imagining her responses. It’s not much, but she’ll take it.
“Still, I wish she hadn’t gone.”
Ophelia moves to the window and peeks through the gauzy curtains. It’s only then that she notices that the sheer material is studded with tiny, translucent polka dots. Instead of making her smile, the sight brings a solid lump to the back of her throat. Her chest tightens in a way that will probably set off the monitors back in Seattle.
There’s no sign of Pansy or Mortimer on the road leading to the housing development. How long have they been gone? When she’s in this loop, time loses meaning. And the path they’re now treading is so unfamiliar.
But new paths bring new dangers. This, she knows all too well. Something is off about this response team. Gwyneth Worthington-Wells and Mortimer Connolly? Henry’s betrothed and one of Pansy’s closest friends? The idea of it is both calculating and cruel. So Ophelia swirls back to her brother, who has now tucked his laptop away and is staring at the ceiling, hands behind his head, those thoughts of his never ceasing.
You’ll need to watch your back. Pansy’s too.
Ophelia whispers the words. Although, really, does she need to? She supposes she could shout. But whispering feels right. When Henry gives her the smallest of nods, she knows it is.
“I will,” he says, his voice low and careful. “I won’t let them hurt her.”
And that is what Ophelia is afraid of most.
Chapter 51
Pansy
King’s End, Minnesota
Friday, July 14
Patrolling King’s End, my arm linked with Mortimer’s, fills me with nostalgia. True, it’s been a long time since either he or Jack came for a visit, never mind an actual patrol. Still, having him here so solid and sure at my side weaves some of those tattered threads of my life back together.
“I wish Jack were here,” I say.
“You may get your wish. Before I left, I put in a by-name request for him.”
I can’t help it. I give a little squeal. “Really?”
“I need an intel analyst, so why not send one who’s actually familiar with King’s End?”
“Look at you, Mr. Responsible Response Team Lead.”
We’ve left the last of the houses and the sidewalk behind, but we’re not close enough to see even a hint of the development. A few more steps and the Camelot Lots sign will greet us with its dour, looming presence, assuming it wasn’t devoured by Screamers yesterday.
Mort halts suddenly and with great purpose. He waits until I’m forced to look at him.
“Tell me what’s going on,” he says, his voice unusually soft. “What’s been happening here in King’s End? What’s been happening with you?”
Here’s the thing about being a permanent post agent, at least in King’s End. I never have to explain myself. I never have to lie, not much, anyway. The locals simply accept what I do and that a pink polka-dotted umbrella helps me do it.
Pretending to be someone I’m not, the way an agent in the field might? Like Henry in the Sahara or Mort down in the catacombs? I barely passed the classes on that sort of tradecraft at the Academy. The goal, after all, was to appear unremarkable. And I managed that.
To my detriment, it seems, because Mort is surveying me with a gaze that leaves me unnerved. I need to act like someone who just lost their mother yesterday, not three months ago. It isn’t hard to channel grief, but it feels different. I’m no longer free-falling through some endless void. Despite the sorrow, my feet are back on solid ground. But I need to be unmoored, at least in front of Mort.
