Pansy-Girl, there’s someone in your driveway.
Rental sedan would be my guess. High end.
They’ve been sitting there for a while.
Oh, getting out now.
Umbrella! One of yours, then?
Oh, my. She’s severe.
Let me know if you need me to run interference.
On your porch.
That’s when the doorbell rings. I glance at Henry and swallow the urge to hush both the sound and the person on my porch.
“Coming,” I whisper-shout, as if someone behind layers of glass and wood can hear me, but not the man sleeping on my couch. The taste of eucalyptus is thick against my tongue, and my mouth is sticky with residue from the toxins leaving my system. I’m rumpled from sleeping next to Henry, and I wonder if we should make that look less obvious.
The doorbell rings again.
With a final glance at Henry, I decide we don’t have time for social niceties and tiptoe from the office.
My umbrella is agitated, ruffles beating a frenzied rhythm against the stand. Henry’s umbrella appears morose. It’s slumped to one side, so dull and despondent that it looks like a mere store-bought version. And here I thought my umbrella was overly dramatic.
On the front porch stands the tallest, blondest woman I have ever seen. Since King’s End is in Minnesota, I’ve seen any number of tall, blond individuals—Guy Gunderson being a prime example. This woman? Statuesque. Her suit? Royal blue and impeccable, and her hair is pulled back into a sleek bun. The sight of her leaves me feeling even more rumpled and unkempt.
She clutches a silver-sided briefcase. Over one arm, she carries a butter-yellow umbrella, whose canopy looks to be as soft as butter as well. It’s pristine, and while my own umbrella is dry, she still bears splotches from the housing development.
She also feels rumpled and unkempt.
“Apprentice Agent Little?”
I channel everything I have not to recoil, not to dislike this woman on sight. Henry hasn’t submitted my report, so technically, I am still an apprentice agent.
She doesn’t have to rub it in.
“I’m Agent Worthington-Wells.” She pauses for the briefest of moments. “From the Enclave?”
Well, of course, from the Enclave. With that umbrella, she couldn’t be from anywhere else. The question is, why is someone from the Enclave on my doorstep?
“Yes?” I manage, glancing toward the office and keeping my voice as low as possible.
“We received an SOS from Agent Darnelle’s umbrella. I’m part of the response team.”
Oh. That’s why. No doubt others will follow. Won’t that give everyone in the neighborhood something to talk about? I swallow a sigh, knowing none of this can be good.
“I’m trying to locate Agent Darnelle. I stopped by the bed and breakfast, but they said he checked out.”
“He’s here, actually. He took a direct hit?—”
“What?”
I want to shush her before she wakes Henry, or has Guy dashing from his house. Before I can, a voice comes from the office.
“Gwyneth?” Henry sounds as if his entire throat is lined with sandpaper.
“Henry?” She drops both her umbrella and briefcase, the latter landing with a thump, and charges past me.
