Three … two … one…
Gwyneth’s scream shatters the morning.
“Shit.” Mort tosses his empty cup into the sink. The mug clatters against the stainless steel but only suffers a small chip. He races down the hall with Jack on his heels. Ophelia follows, spinning and dancing along the hardwood.
In the office, Gwyneth clutches a fleece throw. Pillows and blankets line the sofa in a human-like form, disturbingly so. Henry is very good at this sort of thing, also disturbingly so. Gwyneth looks to Mortimer, and a new kind of fear lights her expression, but not that of losing a loved one. No, this is a terror born from failing a tyrant. And if Reginald Botten is anything, he is certainly that.
“Pansy?” Jack doesn’t wait for an answer. He takes the stairs two at a time and crashes against her bedroom door in a shoulder-splintering slam.
She’s left it locked.
Oh, she is so very clever.
Jack pounds his fists against the wood, shouting her name, pleading, although he must sense it’s a lost cause, that she isn’t in the house, never mind her bedroom.
“Sweet pea, please. If you’re in there, open up. Please, Pansy. Please.”
It’s enough to break your heart. Jack continues to pound until Mort shoves him out of the way, pulls out a set of lock picks, and gets to work. Yes, lock picking is one of those skills they teach at the Academy, although Ophelia never found much use for it. But since the lock on Pansy’s door is more than one of those push-button models, it takes Mort several tries to thwart it.
When the door opens, Jack launches himself over Mortimer and yanks back the comforter. Nothing but pillows greets them.
Mort exercises his extensive four-letter-word vocabulary. He pulls out his phone and brings up an app.
“What are you doing?” Jack asks.
“Trying to get a read on her. She’s still in the area, which means?—”
Jack points to the nightstand and Pansy’s Enclave-issued phone resting on the charger.
More delicious four-letter-words. Really, Mort’s a genius, at least when it comes to swearing. His observation skills, however, could use a little work.
The next half an hour is both very, very entertaining and disastrous.
Jack heads outside, umbrella and laptop in hand. He scans the area—again, and again, and again—a futile exercise that neither Mort nor Gwyneth can get him to stop.
“Try again, buddy,” he whispers to his umbrella. “She can’t be too far.”
Logic dictates that she can’t be. After all, Henry’s rental is still in the driveway, and everyone knows Pansy Little never drives anywhere. Her bike is in the garage, next to that bright-red vintage convertible hiding beneath a tarp. Jack even contacts the one and only ride-share driver in King’s End, waking them in the process.
Waves of hurt and confusion roll off Jack’s umbrella, so thick that Ophelia is forced to swallow them down. They clog her throat, get stuck next to her ribcage. Pansy is Jack’s best friend, and by extension, his umbrella has bonded with hers. With Pansy’s umbrella dormant in the housing development, the connection is broken.
And that feels like death.
In the office, Mort and Gwyneth exchange barbs filled with blame.
“You should’ve checked,” he says, jaw clenched, molars grinding.
Gwyneth’s spine stiffens. She has gone full-on ice queen and will brook no accusations from mere peasants. “Well, clearly, she didn’t drink the tea, so maybe you should’ve checked.”
But beneath the recriminations is the realization that they’re both in this together. Because with Henry and Pansy gone, they’re both in some very deep shit.
That’s when Mort’s phone rings. He pulls it from his pocket and stares at the screen, a pallor chasing the angry pink from his cheeks. His gaze meets Gwyneth’s, and he looks like a man condemned.
“It’s Botten,” is all he says.
Chapter 63
Pansy
