If he said the wrong thing? Refused in the wrong way? It would dash all his plans. With a task force hovering, he needed to move tonight. There was only so much he could fake. By morning, Gwyneth would, he was certain, declare him well enough. For what, he wasn’t sure. But his vitals would be stable. There would be no reason to delay whatever it was Botten was planning, which narrowed this window of opportunity. Henry wasn’t certain he could pull this off, even if everything did align.
And Gwyneth was one of those things that needed to align.
“I’m not certain I can make it up the stairs,” he began.
“See? This is why?—”
“But I can make it to the powder room down the hall. I can reach my phone.” To demonstrate, he tapped his Enclave-issued phone on the coffee table next to the dinner tray. “If I need anything, I’ll text. I know you have reports to submit and questions to handle. What does your inbox look like right now?”
Gwyneth sagged under the weight of all those administrative tasks that came with her position. “You’re right. I have work to do.”
It took a few more reassuring murmurs to get Gwyneth to leave the room. When the door whispered shut, Henry pulled out the burner phone and started pecking out a frantic text message. He was so intent that when the door swung open again, his thumb hit send before he could finish. He palmed the phone, tucked it beneath the fleece blanket, and tried to calm the pulse that hammered in his throat.
Mortimer Connolly shadowed the threshold. He was a big man, taller and broader than Henry. Five years in the field had sharpened the man’s skills. His gaze was canny, and it assessed Henry with nothing but skepticism.
“Just seeing how you’re doing.” Mort’s words were mild, although his tone implied something else entirely, something along the lines of what you’re doing rather than how.
“I’m recovering. Slowly.”
Mort gave a nod but remained silent. This was a fairly standard interrogation tactic, and really, it was beneath the man to even try. Henry could go for days without uttering a word. He slipped into his invalid persona, let his eyelids droop, wincing as if even shifting his position was too strenuous. He was working up a good bit of drool when Mort let out a dismissive snort.
“Right. I’ll let you sleep.”
Oh, how the mighty have fallen. Yes, it was there in Mortimer’s tone, pity mixed with contempt. It was there in the way he eased the door closed, nothing but solicitude and disdain. Well, let him think that. Let him tell Botten that.
Let everyone believe that Henry Darnelle was down for the count.
Chapter 57
Pansy
King’s End, Minnesota
Friday, July 14
My lips touch the rim of the teacup, the porcelain warm and comforting. But at that moment, I’m not sure what startles me more: the aroma or the drops of blood that, thankfully, hit the saucer. A few more drops land, my hands tremble, and watery pink liquid threatens to spill over the edge.
Beneath me, the burner phone buzzes with an incoming text, but I don’t have enough hands or focus to deal with that now. Instead, I return the teacup and saucer to the desk, and the dishes jangle. My nose continues to drip, so I dig out a bath towel from the hamper. The terry cloth is musty, and it’s also a pale pink, which I’m currently ruining by bleeding into it.
I sit on the floor and contemplate the very obvious fact that my best friend is trying to drug me.
I made one of Rose’s special teas. I’m not sure I got it right, so it might taste a little off.
It might taste a little off. No, it tastes exactly like my mother’s restorative tea when you double, or possibly triple, the recipe. Pungent, yet soothing, almost seductive, with the lull of lavender. Why on earth try to pass it off as something other than what it is? Why not suggest that I need the restorative? Clearly, there are times when I do. And now, all things being equal, this might be one of them.
Except nothing is equal. Nothing is right about any of this. My stomach churns as if I did drink the tea. Mort should know better. That much restorative has a way of coming right back up. Unless he counted me on drinking so much, so quickly that it would knock me out. I consider this along with what to do next. Can I eat dinner? Or did he poison that as well? Honestly, if I can’t trust my best friends from the Enclave, who can I trust?
The burner phone buzzes a reminder.
I crawl across the bedroom floor, the towel draped over my shoulders just in case. The bleeding has mostly stopped, but I don’t want to leave a trail across the carpet. I paw under the mattress until I find the phone. Several more messages have arrived, and I read them one by one.
Don’t drink th
The tea, damn it. Don’t drink the tea. Mort did something to it.
Yes, indeed, he did.
If you can, when you leave tonight, make it look as if you’re still in bed. Pillows, blankets, clothes. That sort of thing.
