King’s End, Minnesota
Friday, July 14
The burner phone has one contact, a contact who has sent me a series of text messages.
Adele said Rose kept everything. We need to make certain none of it goes missing.
I search first beneath my bed and then try my walk-in closet. There, the boxes we brought over from Adele’s basement are shoved near the back, along with my mother’s memory box and the thick envelope of photographs. It’s a hasty arrangement, and speaks to Henry not having a moment to spare. What I want to know is where he found the time, not to mention the strength, to lug them upstairs in the first place.
Or is his slow recovery simply a ruse? I consider how completely the man can shift personas and think: yes, it absolutely could be.
I rearrange the files, then stack sweaters on top of one box and shoes on top of another until it looks like I’m collecting items for donation, tucking the memory box to one side with the photos behind that. Halfway out of the closet, I realize my mother’s umbrella needs a better hiding place as well.
No one, but no one, will think to search the zippered garment bag that holds my prom dress. As I’m slipping her between some ruffles, I wonder: who are we hiding all this from? I’m so used to hiding things from the Enclave that I haven’t questioned Henry’s text message. Of course we’ll hide things. But why? Is it Mortimer that Henry doesn’t trust? Is it Gwyneth?
Then I read the next text message:
Rule #5 is in full effect.
Trust no one from the Enclave. Okay, then. I wonder if he’s including himself in that.
With perhaps an exception.
We may need to have a talk about all this winking.
Also, I think it’s time we break rule #1.
The housing development after dark? Something about that scares me more than the silo or even the covered bridge. My mother’s rules changed over the years, but ever since the construction company broke ground, that rule has sat at the top of every list.
The heavy sound of footfalls startles me. The floor shudders beneath my feet, and only one person can make that much of a racket. What sounds like a shoulder smacking my door comes next, and the wood quivers, and then the lock rattles.
“Pansy, what the hell?”
My feet have grown roots, and I’m standing next to the bed, clutching the burner phone, unable to move. My heart grates against my ribs. Part of me wants to fling open the door and demand the truth from Mort. The trickle of blood tells me that’s the most foolish thing I could do.
“Pansy? You okay?”
I swipe my nose and then shove the burner phone between the mattresses. In my mad dash across the bed, I scramble the sheets and comforter and knock those pillows out of alignment. Before I unlock the door, I pull the ponytail holder from my hair and muss the strands.
“Sorry,” I say. “Sorry. I dozed off. I must not be fully recovered.”
Emotions flit across Mort’s face. Anxiety, yes, but there’s a hint of anger or perhaps just annoyance. But then his eyes grow tender, and he’s the big brother to my little sister. The urge to confess washes over me. This is Mortimer. He’s one of my best friends in the entire world. Why wouldn’t I trust him?
Wavering, I step back, and he sets a dinner tray on my desk. The scent of basil fills my room, followed by warm bread and a hint of caramelized sugar. My stomach growls and insists that Mort must be a true friend, because who else but a true friend would whip up such a dinner on short notice?
“This is perfect,” I say. “Thank you.”
Mort steps close and cups my cheek with his hand. “How are you doing? I mean, really.”
“Sad.” That’s not a lie. I do miss my mother completely, even if I’m no longer trapped in that sticky morass of deep grief. “Tired,” I add.
“I thought you might be. I can’t fix the one, Pansy-Girl. I wish I could. But the other?” He nods toward the teapot. “I made one of Rose’s special teas. I’m not sure I got it right, so it might taste a little off.”
“Which one did you make?”
“Her after-action one. I’m sure you’ve had plenty, but?—”
“More doesn’t hurt. You’re right. It will make me feel better.”
