Page 74 of The Pansy Paradox
“My father.”
“Apparently. And here.” I tug another photograph from the stack. We’ve yet to examine even half. “He’s proficient at air guitar, too.”
“I simply can’t reconcile this.” Henry drops his head into his hands. “I don’t know the man in these photos, and it’s…”
Killing him. My chest constricts again. I, at least, witnessed my mother’s parties, sneaking out of bed, peering through the stairwell railings, working to make sense of the gossip below. Grownup talk of sex and politics, the secret ingredient in Guy Gunderson’s tater-tot hotdish, and the extra secret ingredient in his brownies.
I glance around at the walls Harry Darnelle helped to paint, the floors he sanded and refinished. This house is what it is due to him: his sweat, his care, his love. How much of him still lingers here? How much of Harry Darnelle did King’s End steal?
“I’m sorry.” The words escape me with a rush of guilt.
Henry raises his gaze to mine. “This is in no way your fault.”
“I’m sorry for what King’s End did to your father.”
Something happened on that fateful patrol, something so catastrophic that it fundamentally changed Harry Darnelle. Something unspeakable, figuratively and literally.
“We don’t know King’s End is to blame.” Henry’s voice is both soft and mild. “I’m inclined to think it’s not. More often, it’s human interference, and even Enclave interference, that makes these situations worse.”
“Like in the Sahara?”
He heaves a sigh. “Yes, exactly like that.”
The notion has me returning my attention to the photographs. “These people.” I push several pictures across the table toward Henry. “They’re from the Enclave, right?” I’ve been so isolated here in King’s End that I can’t tell.
Henry slips from the sofa to kneel on the floor opposite me. “Not just the Enclave.” His voice is contemplative. “It’s a who’s who of the up-and-coming agents of their day. Several now sit on the High Council, and the rest certainly hold sway.”
“And they all came here to party with my mom?”
“It appears your mother turned a slap on the wrist into the place to be.” His lips twist, and he gives his head a little shake. “It’s what the Enclave does to their field agents for a variety of reasons. Burn out, transgressions, perceived insubordination, that sort of thing.”
“So, working as a permanent post agent is a punishment.” Oh, of course it is. I lift my chin and study him. “And are you being punished, Agent Darnelle?”
He laughs at that. “Probably. But I prefer to embrace the challenges the Enclave throws my way.”
I point to a man I recognize, mainly because he spoke at my Academy graduation. “Isn’t that?—”
“The current chair of the High Council doing body shots with someone who is no doubt grateful to be anonymous? Why, yes. Yes, it is.” He resumes sorting the photos, lining them up in a way that doesn’t make sense to me but must have meaning for him. “I suppose if worst came to worst, there’s always extortion.”
“Really?”
He laughs as if this is just a joke but then sobers, considers, and adds, “Yes, really.”
I cast the arrangement a skeptical look, but then I start pawing at photos, because other familiar faces appear in the crowded rooms, around the kegs, and on the back porch. “Look. Here’s Milo.”
“From The King’s Larder?”
“Yes, and Guy, too.” I shove more photos his way. “And Adele.”
They all look so young. They look like us. Guy is a big bear of a man, but in these pictures, his face is still plump, his cheeks round and ruddy like a little boy’s. The deep grooves around Milo’s mouth have yet to make an appearance. Adele’s hair is glossy without a hint of silver, fanning in an ebony arc as someone twirls her.
“Do you think they could tell us anything?” I wonder about that. Could we ask? Should we?
“Didn’t Adele already try?”
“She did, but maybe she’ll recognize a face?” I push to stand, to go grab my phone, but Henry holds up a hand.
He leaves the room, and his footfalls sound on the stairs. Moments later, he returns with something in his palm.
