Page 169 of The Pansy Paradox
“What. Did. You. Do. To. Her.” He twists the sheet even tighter. “Forget your career. I’m ending you.”
Henry himself has gone absolutely and alarmingly still. I don’t think he can breathe. No, I’m certain he can’t. I don’t have the strength to pull Mort off him, not when he’s in a rage. Neither does Jack. He’s there, on Mort’s other side, working to tug the sheet from Mort’s grip. I suspect he’s making it worse.
The blast from a car horn cuts through the air, long, loud, and unrelenting. The sound banishes the buzzing in my ears. We all freeze now, a strange tableau: Mort priming to land a killing blow, me reaching for his fist, Jack still trying to pry the sheet from Mort’s other hand, Henry unnaturally pale and immobile.
At last, the noise cuts off. The driver’s side door swings open. A delicate pair of kitten heels makes an appearance. Gwyneth steps from the SUV and picks her way across the gravel.
She comes to stand over us, expression mild, as if we’re merely four children tumbling on the grass.
“Botten just called,” she says to Mortimer. “He wants an update.”
Chapter 76
Henry
King’s End, Minnesota
Saturday, July 15
Henry felt certain Mortimer Connolly’s fist would have met gravel rather than his nose.
Well, nearly certain.
“You should probably check in,” Henry said now, voice ragged through his bruised throat. “You know how Botten dislikes delays. Hate to see you lose your career over this.”
At his words, Gwyneth hissed. Yes, he was goading Mort. To be fair, the man absolutely deserved it. Besides, Henry was done with everything. His path was clear, and he was going to wring as much enjoyment from that dismal prospect as possible.
Then he made the mistake of glancing toward Pansy. The blood gave her that fierce appearance he’d first seen on the green, but her eyes were so tender when they met his own. His heart couldn’t take much more of this. Even now, he fought the urge to grab her hand and rush back into the housing development.
The fantasy was in the air, thick and sweet. It beckoned. Through the gate, the houses glimmered. Street lamps flickered in and out of existence. The showcase home was presenting ever more appealing façades. Now that it knew him, it was quite the temptress.
And then, from the open car doors, came the sound of a ringtone.
Gwyneth raised an eyebrow at Mort. He let a second ring pass before lumbering to his feet and jogging toward the SUV.
To Henry’s surprise, Gwyneth leaned down and helped not him but Pansy to her feet.
“Are you all right, Agent Little?” Gwyneth tilted Pansy’s chin for a better view of her bruise. “A blow like that could certainly cause a bloody nose. I’d like to check for a concussion as well.”
Henry cleared his throat.
“Please.” She eyed him, her expression full of disdain. “You were faking.”
Well, not entirely. The wound on his chest had renewed itself, a dull ache that coiled around his heart. Mort had landed a couple of blows along his ribs and had grazed a cheekbone with a watch, a wound that alternately stung and throbbed. Brawling in a toga? While trying to maintain some dignity? Nearly impossible.
Henry clambered to his feet, or tried to, the damn sheet impeding his progress. He adjusted it as securely as possible, readying himself in case Mort came back for round two. Since the man was heading in their direction, phone clutched in his fist, that was entirely probable.
Instead, Mort merely passed the phone to Gwyneth with the sort of payback smile reserved for a pesky sibling. Gwyneth listened for a moment and then responded with that cold, calculating Worthington-Wells reserve.
“No, I don’t think so. While Agent Darnelle has recovered—” She cast a gimlet eye his way. “Agent Little has taken a tumble. I’d like to delay to ensure she doesn’t have a concussion. By morning?” An icy pause. “Perhaps.” With the air of an empress, she offered the phone to Mortimer, hand outstretched, unconcerned whether he took it or not.
“Yes,” Mort said into the phone. “Agent Ling has located the epicenter.”
Jack startled at the sound of his name, but he gave the smallest of nods. Henry kept his face impassive, as if the epicenter were the least of his concerns.
“No,” Mort said after a long pause. “Not in the housing development proper. The terrain there is unpredictable. The field to the west is the best place for the task force.”
And so it begins. Again, Henry remained expressionless, bordering on clueless, as if he had no idea what the task force was actually for or what Botten had planned. Only when Mortimer had tucked the phone in his back pocket did anyone speak. That someone was Gwyneth, her voice gentle, the words meant for Pansy.
