Page 39 of The Pansy Paradox
The curtains rolled again, and humid July air washed through the room. Streetlamps lit the space with a yellow glow. The night was so welcoming, he didn’t want to pull the shades and block the light. He didn’t want to close the windows and block out King’s End. He found he rather liked the town.
From its resting spot near the door, his umbrella rustled in agreement.
“Yes, but we still have to leave.”
A solid thump against the floor was the reply, the sound absolutely glum, and Henry couldn’t hold back a chuckle.
“Still distracted, are we?”
Silence ensued.
“She was rather fierce today for something so small.”
A sigh, although where it had come from, exactly, Henry couldn’t say: the breeze, his umbrella, possibly himself. He touched the bandage near his eye, sparks of pain radiating along his brow, the sensation enticing, almost delicious. After a certain point, after a certain number of encounters, after a certain number of hits, a field agent started to crave not just the fight but the resulting wounds as well. As if the toxin were the elixir of life itself.
It was a harbinger of an impending desk job. Henry told himself he wasn’t there yet. He had another decade in the field. And then? Well, then, he wasn’t about to get sucked into the bureaucracy and politics of Enclave headquarters.
He probed the wound again, the pain subsiding. He thought of Pansy Little and her butterfly caress along his skin, the gentle exhale against his temple. He didn’t shake the thought from his head, but with effort, he used his bare foot to pry the boot from the other. He kicked it to the carpet but didn’t bother with the sock.
Another rustle came from near the door.
“Yes,” Henry agreed. “A bit distracted, aren’t we?”
Chapter 16
Pansy
King’s End, Minnesota
Monday, July 10
This can’t be working. This honestly can’t be working. But here I am, sitting across from Agent Darnelle, his phone on the table between us.
From the phone’s speakers, Adele is regaling him with tales of desert Screamers.
We’re tucked in an alcove of the Riverside Bed and Breakfast’s main floor, the one with the view of the Minnesota River. It’s a prime piece of dining room real estate—cozy and private, bathed in sunlight. The owner, Edwin, only lets you use this space if he really, really likes you.
Considering all the smiles and nods tossed our way, it seems Agent Darnelle has charmed everyone on staff. Carrie, who’s been freshening the coffee carafe, has shot me several significant looks, the general meaning of which has been:
Why on earth aren’t you going for it, girl?
I’m sitting up straight, like a truant hauled to the principal’s office. I have my hands folded neatly in front of me to calm any nervous tics. Still, every so often, my left eye twitches.
In front of me sits my chocolate chip scone, neglected. I haven’t taken more than a tiny bite, and my stomach rebels at the thought of trying to take another.
When Adele first suggested that she might impersonate my mother, I was convinced it wouldn’t work. After all, Agent Darnelle had just seen Adele leave her house and walk over to mine. Despite being related, we look nothing alike, and Adele looks nothing like my mother’s last official photograph.
“Do you still have her phone?” Adele asked.
Yes. Sitting on the wireless charger, on the nightstand next to my mother’s bed, like I think she’s going to return, fully herself, and will need to contact the Enclave. So Adele took it, drove all the way to the Twin Cities last night, and is now at a coffee shop, purportedly at an impromptu meeting with members of the crochet guild.
Perhaps that seems extreme. But as Adele pointed out, if the Enclave traces the call, it will appear as if my mother is in the Twin Cities, chatting to Agent Darnelle on her still-activated, Enclave-issued cell phone.
“They never did your mother any favors,” Adele said before she left.
So, rule number one from my mother’s last to-do list remains unbroken.
The anger and condemnation in Adele’s words resonates, even now, as she chats about people I’ve heard of but don’t actually know, agents of my mother’s generation.
