Page 145 of The Pansy Paradox
Near the door, I find a stand with our umbrellas. They both quiver with anxiety, mine fluttering her ruffles in distress.
“Can you tell me what’s going on?”
They agitate so hard that the stand clatters against the hardwood floor.
“Sounds like a party out there,” Henry calls from the kitchen.
“They’re just excited.” I place a finger against my lips, not that it does much good. They calm the rattling, but the messages they send me, or try to send me, are a jumbled mess.
I turn to investigate the rest of the house, but a sudden thought strikes me, and I lean down. “Do you know where our field packs are?” I pat my pockets, but the burner phone isn’t there. My field pack would have water and emergency tinctures. If I could get Henry to drink one, it might clear his head.
My umbrella points her strap in one direction, Henry’s in the other. I sigh. They’re completely unhelpful, and they know it. But they’re together, at least. It’s the one clear message that does reach my mind.
I’ve completed a full tour of the house when I realize our packs must be in the one spot I haven’t searched: The kitchen. Where Henry is.
On purpose?
He knows the moment I slip across the threshold. He beams at me, the kitchen around him gleams at me, and the aroma steamrollers me. The double ovens are working overtime (of course his kitchen has double ovens). The counters are filled with ingredients, from fresh greens to breadcrumbs. Pies are cooling on wire racks, the scent of pumpkin, pecan, and mincemeat floating in the air. Sage, rosemary, spices. This is no ordinary dinner he’s cooking.
Henry commands the center of the kitchen, so proud, so happy. He doesn’t even appear startled when the back door begins to quake.
A pounding comes next, loud and insistent.
“Get that, will you?” he asks casually, kindly. “I’m up to my elbows in turkey grease.”
The pounding continues. I cross to the door if only to make the noise stop. I’ve barely touched the knob when the door itself flies open. It slams against the wall and bounces once, twice. The emptiness beyond is vast and gray and hungry. I work to shove the door closed. But not before a figure comes tumbling through and spills into the kitchen.
And there, spread-eagled on the terracotta tile, panting for all he’s worth, is my father, Max Monroe.
Chapter 62
Ophelia
King’s End, Minnesota
Saturday, July 15
At sunrise, Ophelia crashes through that invisible barrier. Or rather, at sunrise, it evaporates like mist, and gravity does the rest. Only her dignity is bruised, not that anyone has witnessed her faceplant. She rushes around the development, searching for footprints, although Henry would be careful about not leaving the slightest trace.
The acreage is empty of everything but the abandoned remains, the creaking frames of houses, and the sad-looking showcase home. Even so, she investigates. They were going to plant devices and reinforce the fissure as much as possible. Had they, and then left? Is this something the Sight simply hasn’t shown her? Or refuses to? Leave it to the Sight to be that capricious.
Ophelia runs her hands along where she thinks the fissure should be, but she’s not solid enough in this reality to determine if Henry managed to reinforce it. She peeks through windows, but curtains block her view, providing only glimpses of shrouded furniture.
Then? A hint of something pink.
Her heart clenches in her chest, a solid fist that sends the monitors into a frenzy back in Seattle. They’ll give her something if she doesn’t calm down, and the intoxication will pull her back into the hospital bed. She’ll lose this thread. And she absolutely can’t do that.
Ophelia presses her palms against her chest, pulls in modulated breaths, and even shuts her eyes against the pink of that umbrella. But the image pulls her not back to Seattle, but into the living room of the showcase home.
That’s when she sees it. Two field packs, two burner phones, and two umbrellas. She leans close but senses nothing from them. They are dormant. Not transmitting. Not collecting any information. You might mistake them for the store-bought variety. Except. Something lingers in the air that feels intentional. They’re playing possum. Which means?
She searches the house but finds no other traces of Pansy or Henry. Did they decide to sever any ties that might connect them to the Enclave? She can’t lift the field packs, never mind search them. But it’s entirely possible that they stuffed their pockets with cash and slipped away while she was busy pounding on that invisible barrier.
Are they safe? If they’re not here, then yes. Anywhere is better than King’s End. Ophelia pushes the wave of grief down past her heart, locking it into her belly. Later. She’ll mourn later and then curse herself for not offering Henry a silent goodbye.
But if Henry and Pansy are truly gone, then why is she still here? Oh, that’s the question, isn’t it? Her thoughts drift toward the charming old farmhouse Pansy lives in and the two other players with agendas all their own. Then, Ophelia’s there, in the foyer, silent and stealthy as a thief.
Footfalls sound above her head. Water gurgles through pipes. Some enterprising soul has brewed coffee, although Ophelia doubts the current occupants would extend that courtesy to the other. She flutters into the kitchen to find Mortimer, a full pot of fresh coffee, and three cups lined up.
