The morning is so quiet in this part of King’s End that the whisper of tires against asphalt reaches her, followed by a car door shutting and the beep of the lock. Ophelia can’t move, although she dearly wishes she could.
Is this why the Sight hasn’t released her? Why she isn’t back in Seattle? Three cups, waiting patiently on the kitchen counter. Who else but Botten would be heading up the walkway, stepping across the porch, knocking on the door?
But that rap is too soft, too courteous, and Mortimer’s smile is far too broad, nothing but anticipation and joy. He barges straight through her on his way to the door. He is so substantial, so forceful that Ophelia somersaults in his wake.
There, on the porch, is Jack Ling. Mr. Tall, Dark, and Nerdy, as Ophelia always calls him, and always to his laughter. The two men stand there, wavering, neither breathing. Their on-again, off-again relationship is one of the Enclave’s worst-kept secrets.
“Hey, buddy.” Mort’s voice is tender, almost tentative. After the briefest hesitation, he pulls Jack into a hug. And after the briefest hesitation, Jack returns it.
“Sorry about the red-eye,” Mort adds.
Jack pushes his glasses up and rubs the bridge of his nose and then rubs his eyes, which are dark and soulful and, yes, shot through with tired pink veins. “You got coffee?”
“I got you covered. Coffee for days.”
Jack places his umbrella into the stand, easing it next to Mortimer’s. Jack’s umbrella is slate gray with a hint of silver threaded through the canopy. You have to peer closely to discern the sparkle, much like with Jack himself. They head for the kitchen, and Ophelia follows, curious about what Jack might sense. He has barely taken a sip from his mug when a frown clouds his brow. He surveys the ceiling.
“Pansy?” he asks.
“Sound asleep.”
Jack’s frown only deepens. Ophelia swears she hears his unasked question. Are you sure?
Mort must hear it, too, because he adds, “It’s been a rough couple of days. She was exhausted and opted for a restorative.”
No, you drugged her, or at least tried to.
“Rose’s recipe, so she’ll probably sleep until noon.”
Jack nods, but Ophelia can taste the waves of doubt flowing off him. Jack Ling has always been perceptive, possessing a sensitivity bordering on the Sight, although without the annoying, and devastating, side effects. During her sabbatical, he often assisted Leah. While he couldn’t channel what Ophelia saw, his gentle touch often eased her headaches after a session. After the coma struck, he’d spell Henry during those first horrible days when her brother tried in vain to bring her back.
Jack doesn’t always trust his intuition. Like Henry, he needs data to crunch, to back up what he senses. This makes him an excellent analyst. But right now, he’s warring with himself because he can’t reconcile what Mort is telling him with what he perceives.
The clip of heels strikes the stairs. They pause, and the creak of the office door follows. Ophelia’s heart rate kicks up. Will her presumptive sister-in-law even notice? The longer the deception, the better for Pansy and Henry. The door closes with the softest of clicks, and Ophelia lets herself melt into a kitchen chair. The heels take up the march again, down the hall, growing ever closer.
“Ah, Gwennie,” Mort says as she clears the doorway. “So good of you to grace us with your presence.”
All he gets is a frosty raised eyebrow in return. No one does the icy arch like Gwyneth, and anyone other than Mortimer Connolly would be sputtering an apology.
She turns to Jack. “It’s good to see you, Agent Ling. How was your flight?”
“Not bad for a red-eye.”
It’s Jack, rather than Mort, who pours Gwyneth a cup of coffee, then lifts the pitcher of cream in question.
“Yes,” she says. “You remembered.” He hands her the cup, the gesture coaxing a genuine smile from her.
Jack always remembers those little things. How you take your coffee, your favorite color, and even where you left your keys. He scans the ceiling again and then peers down the hallway.
“How’s Agent Darnelle?”
“Sleeping. I didn’t want to disturb him. I’ll check his vitals in a bit.”
A hint of indecision washes across his expression, but Jack speaks, his voice calm rather than anxious. “Maybe you should check now.”
Gwyneth’s eyes widen in alarm, and Ophelia leans forward in her chair. This is either going to be very, very entertaining or disastrous. She’s not sure which.
“Right. I’ll do that.” Gwyneth sets down her coffee cup, takes up her silver briefcase from the sideboard, and heads for the office.
