Page 140 of The Pansy Paradox
King’s End, Minnesota
Saturday, July 15
“Is it me,” Henry says, “or is it almost peaceful like this?”
We’ve just finished planting the last of the devices. According to Henry, they’ll scramble any readings the Enclave tries to take of the area, essentially sending anyone searching for the epicenter on a wild goose chase. Although he’s made certain to steer them away from the covered bridge.
I’ve been standing sentinel, umbrella ready, scanning the area for any hint of activity, Screamer and human. Everything has been calm, deceptively so, and I can’t wait to leave. First, we need to reinforce the fissure.
As we turn to do just that, a breeze flutters against my cheeks like a butterfly kiss. The air itself is warm, sweet, almost seductive. My hand tucked into his feels right. If not for the field packs, umbrellas slung over shoulders, and the fact that we’re eyeing the space around us with suspicion, we’d be the picture of a romantic couple out for a stroll. Yes, in the housing development. I count the seconds until this illusion will shatter and the Screamers come roaring in.
When that doesn’t happen, dread fills me. Beneath the scented air lingers a current of unfulfilled promises and false dreams. It’s a saccharine taste that coats my tongue.
“Something’s wrong,” I say, keeping my voice low, barely a whisper, but Henry doesn’t respond.
I scan the area, searching for evidence of Screamers, for the source that’s transforming the development into a place where people live and thrive. Everything is enveloped in the glow of streetlights that hover in my peripheral vision but clearly don’t exist. Near the back, instead of empty frames and skeletal remains, a playground sits. Farther back, what looks like a community garden stretches, lush with tomatoes and peppers and green beans.
This can’t be true, and yet Henry glances around as if he endorses these improvements.
“I’m finding it difficult,” he murmurs, “to remember why we’re here.” He turns to me with a puzzled expression. “We don’t live here, do we?”
Live here? His question shoots a burst of panic through me. He’s not playacting. At least, I don’t think he is. This is not a performance for the benefit of the Screamers. It’s in the way he holds my hand, the gentle way his thumb travels over my knuckles. There’s something so deeply contented about the gesture that I can’t find the words to answer his nonsensical question.
“But it is rather nice,” he says when I don’t respond. “I wonder if any of these homes are for sale.”
Homes for sale? I glance around again, and there’s a For Sale sign in the yard of a house near the community garden. It’s as if his belief has manifested it.
I choose my words with the utmost care. “We don’t live here. We don’t live … together.”
He tilts his head as if I’ve uttered something both adorable and ridiculous. Then he draws me close, his arms wrapping around me, cocooning me. Laughter rumbles against my cheek. It’s so very warm in his embrace, so very safe. I plant my palms against his chest, but I can’t find the willpower to push away.
“We’ll just have to make it official, then, and buy ourselves one of these houses.” He punctuates this declaration with a devastating wink that has my head spinning.
Oh, something is very wrong. My thoughts are slow and sticky. Henry’s embrace might be a cocoon, but everything else is like being wrapped in a spider’s web, and we’re the prey.
Panic seizes my throat, so tight I can’t speak. This is the time for a strike, when only I’m aware of the deception. But the night around us is calm. I see no sign of the Screamers, but that means little.
Henry gazes down at me as if I’m the answer to everything, as if he wants to give me everything. All I have to do is ask, and he’ll buy that house near the garden, set up his kitchen, and cook me meal after meal.
His mouth inches toward mine with the promise of a lingering kiss, as if we have the rest of our lives for those sorts of kisses. I feel myself lean in to him further, wanting that kiss, wanting it to never end, wanting to fall under the same spell that has him bewitched. Because wouldn’t that be lovely? Wouldn’t that solve everything? An ache in my chest insists that yes, this does solve everything. It makes the hurt go away; it makes the world go away.
Never go into the housing development after dark.
The words swirl in my head, so easy to push aside and forget. Except I can’t. At the last moment, before the dream can crash over me, I shove hard against Henry’s chest.
“Agent Darnelle!”
His eyes lose that bedroom glimmer. He blinks once, twice. His posture shifts, the cocoon breaks, and I’m cast to one side. He still grips my hand, but it’s the hold of a field agent on high alert. He shakes his head hard as if trying to shake off the hallucination.
“Never go into the housing development after dark,” he echoes. “Yes, I’m beginning to understand why.” He looks at me, expression abashed. “I’m not actually sure what I said, but I hope?—”
“It was nothing,” I say, words rushed, as if, for one tiny moment, I didn’t believe either.
And that’s the real problem of all this: It. Was. Nothing. Gossamer strands of dreams that can never be.
“We can’t stay for long.” Henry continues to shake his head as if he must work to keep the spider’s web at bay. “But we should reinforce the fissure.”
“No.” Even as I protest, a rivulet of blood heats my upper lip. I don’t need the Sight to tell me there isn’t time. “We can’t.”
