Without thought, without care, Henry leapt.
Although he knew it was impossible, that he couldn’t see the space behind him, Henry had a distinct impression of Max Monroe sinking to his knees, palms pressed against his eyes, body quaking with unrepressed and unrepentant sobs.
Chapter 70
Ophelia
King’s End, Minnesota
Saturday, July 15
Ophelia shadows Mortimer. She knows where the epicenter is, has seen it many times in the loop. She hardly needs a preview of that now. Mort, on the other hand? Senior Field Agent Mortimer Connolly is up to no good.
Under different circumstances, she’d applaud that. Gwyneth has retreated to her room, leaving him unsupervised. No one should ever leave a Connolly unsupervised. Ophelia should know; she’s one herself. He’s dumped both Henry’s and Pansy’s umbrellas into the stand. They languish there, still inert. However, if one were to peer closely, one might detect that the straps are undone. And those two straps?
Somehow entwined.
Mort, however, does not peer closely or even give the umbrellas a second glance. Instead, he upends the field packs, items scattering across the floor. Unlike Jack, he doesn’t paw the contents. He examines each item with care, weighing its purpose in the palm of his hand.
To be clear, Mortimer knows a go bag when he sees one.
It’s those rolls of bills that give Henry away. The rest of the items, you could easily explain: Pansy’s emergency tinctures, the wire cutters she tucked into her pack. Even the change of underthings, extra pairs of socks, sunscreen, and those thin emergency blankets. All handy when dealing with unpredictable Screamers.
But a couple of thousand in cash? So like Henry, what with his second laptop and burner phones. It’s almost as if he’s lived by Rose Little’s rule five for all these years.
These items tell a different story, one Mort is reading now, and it casts doubt on everything else in the field packs. Why would Henry and Pansy attempt an escape? Unless they know something, unless they suspect that something—that threat—is here, in this house.
Mort stands and dusts off his hands but merely kicks the items to the side of the hallway. With purposeful strides, he charges through Ophelia with a force that tumbles her. When she’s right-side-up again, he halts and studies the space where she hovers.
A chill of foreboding blows through her. Mort raises an eyebrow as if he’s confirmed something. He’s never manifested any hints of the Sight, true. But he is a Connolly; there is that connection, however tenuous. Does he simply know that someone’s here, or does he know that she, Ophelia Connolly, is the one spying on him?
“This is none of your business.” Mort aims these words right at her face.
“What’s none of my business?”
The voice startles them both. Gwyneth stands at the foot of the stairs, nonchalantly easing the envy-inducing kitten heels back on her feet. Granted, her presumptive sister-in-law is no field agent.
She’s not incompetent, either.
Mort gives his head a shake and offers up a self-deprecating laugh. “Got one of those sensations, someone peering over my shoulder. Probably nothing.”
“Probably,” Gwyneth says, tone arch. “But I presume whatever it is you’re doing is my business.”
Mort folds his arms over his chest. “Want to shed some light on why your betrothed would attempt an actual escape? Did you let something slip?”
“I did no such thing. As far as I could tell, Henry was so injured, we should’ve evacuated him to Seattle. But, no. We certainly couldn’t do that.”
“Not my call. That’s on Botten. And he’s not going to be happy about this.” Mort kicks the detritus from the field packs. A couple of the twenties flutter and then float across the hardwood floor.
“Then maybe clean it up.”
These two. They bicker like an old married couple, with all the animosity and none of the affection. Ophelia wants to referee. Almost.
“I mean,” Gwyneth adds, and her voice is softer, approaching conciliatory. “Do we have to tell him that part?”
“How do we explain it?”
“Maybe we don’t have to.”
