Page 181 of The Pansy Paradox
A startled shout goes up. Footfalls pound behind me. I make a point of leading my pursuers straight past Guy and Milo’s place, right through the line of sight of the doorbell camera. Then I use my knowledge of King’s End to my advantage and cut through everyone’s gardens and backyards.
Someone gets tangled in a tire swing. Someone else hurtles into a raised garden bed. I dash down an alleyway and shove a recycling bin into the space behind me. That crash is undeniably satisfying in a way it probably shouldn’t be. Still, I savor that tiny triumph.
Up ahead, a dark ribbon of asphalt bisects the alley. If I make it there, I have options. Hide long enough, but not too long. Will Botten proceed without me? Without Henry? Assuming, of course, he doesn’t already have Henry. I swipe a quick hand beneath my nose. The Sight offers nothing except the reminder that Botten has our blood and that Jack has already spilled some of it. And that I am, annoyingly, the key to everything.
But if what my mother showed me in the meadow is correct, I can’t proceed without Botten. Whether I heal the wound or Botten ends the world doesn’t matter; we both need the ritual, and we both need Henry. Oh, what a strange and sordid symbiotic relationship this is.
Before I can decide my next steps, a sedan pulls onto the road, blocking the alley and my way out. I skid, arms flailing. Two agents spring from the car and give chase. I dart into another yard, the thwack and whoosh of a sprinkler catching me off guard. My toes hit wet grass, and I slip before catching myself. My feet churn up mud, my thigh muscles scream, and I inhale a few drops of water. My lungs burn and wheeze.
I push through, losing one agent in a tangle of hose and then another who slides into a play structure. One agent remains, and he’s gaining on me. I don’t dare glance back, but I can feel his bulk. So few people are this large and this fast, but I try not to dwell on it. I try not to think at all. When I do, my heart sinks and my legs feel sluggish.
But it’s no use. His arms clamp around my chest. He lifts me from the ground. I kick hard, striking his shin and earning an obscenity. It’s then, of course, I know for certain. The man who captured me?
Mortimer.
He tries to calm me, Mortimer-style. One arm traps me against his chest, and the other holds my head. His urgent whisper is hot in my ear.
“Pansy-Girl, listen, before the others get here. Everything depends on your cooperation.”
Yes, obviously. I fight on, squirming in his grasp. Oh, he is too damn strong. I’m about to bite down, with plenty of teeth, when his hand clamps over my mouth. He knows me too damn well. No wonder he was the one to catch me.
“I understand this is scary,” Mort is saying, “and that Rose may have not told you the truth. I know it’s hard to believe that she may have done something terribly wrong. We need your help to fix things. All we’re doing here is setting things right.”
He lifts his hand as if he’s certain I won’t bite.
I do, with words instead of teeth. “How do you set things right with secrets and lies?”
Mort falters, but only for a moment. Other agents approach now, a few limping, a few others with vengeance in their expressions. A couple are drenched. This, too, pleases me more than perhaps it should.
“Let me deal with her,” Mort calls out.
They back off, but not so far that, if Mort lets go, I can make a break for it.
“Are you calm now?” he says to me, grip still tight around my chest.
“You could always make sure and drug me again.”
“I’m serious, Pansy. This is no joke.”
“That wasn’t, either.”
His sigh is so massive that it resonates through my ribcage and all the way down to my feet. His grip is as oppressive as the night, and I can’t pull in a full breath.
“Listen to me,” he says as if he’s talking to a small child and not an overly bright one, either. “I’m going to let you go, you’re going to cooperate, and I’m going to show you why.”
“I’ll run,” I say with a lift of my chin.
“No, you won’t.” He pulls out his phone and speed-dials a number. “Put him on.”
And there, on the screen of Mortimer’s phone, is Henry.
I let myself go limp then, because that’s what clueless Pansy Little would do. Because that fits the narrative. Isolated Pansy Little with a tremendous crush on out-of-her-league Henry Darnelle. There he is, her savior, bruised and broken, unaware of the agent recording him.
I can be her. In truth, I don’t have to try too hard, not with how injured Henry is. The shock of that makes my heart pound painfully against my ribs. It’s only now that my last hope for him blooms bright in my mind and withers: that Gwyneth had sped them straight to the airport.
I don’t think there’s a scenario where that ever happens, either.
For one intense, excruciating moment, the urge to tell Mort that Jack knows all about this betrayal rushes through me. But the screen of Mort’s phone is awash with red. While that’s something I suspect only I can see, the image stills the words in my mouth. I don’t need to inflict that on Mort, no matter what he’s done.
