Don’t listen to him. Don’t listen to him. This isn’t true. It can’t be true.
“How he made principal field agent is anyone’s guess. Do you know how he got that scar on his neck? Do you? Oh, it’s not a pretty story. Then again, Rose was there. Did she tell you about it, about him, about his incompetence?”
Each time through the loop, the mention of his father’s scar shatters something inside her brother, something fragile, already on the edge of splintering. Why that and not all the other garbage Botten’s been spewing, she’s not sure. But it always works. The fear in her veins turns to sludge. Watching her brother break this one last time may break her.
Something wars in Henry’s expression. His gaze has never left Botten’s face, but now he glances away as if he’s hiding something, something that looks like a smile.
“My father,” Henry says, his voice full of conviction, “was a good man.”
Ophelia doesn’t see Botten signal for another blow, but this punch sends Henry to the ground. This time, he doesn’t get back up. The agents approach, one aiming a field boot at Henry’s stomach, the other at his head. Ophelia’s heart thrums, and the monitors back in Seattle scream. She knows what this blow does to Henry, or, more accurately, to his mind. This is the killing blow. This blow steals his clever, astute, and marvelous mind.
Ophelia can’t bear to watch.
“Enough!” Gwyneth has rounded the front of the sedan, cell phone clutched in her hand, finger poised to dial.
Everyone stills at the sound of her voice, one full of outrage and the absolute certainty that no one defies a Worthington-Wells.
“Stop right now, or I’m calling 911.” Gwyneth shoots Botten a glare, and then her gaze travels this very public intersection. “Assuming, of course, that someone hasn’t already.” That icy eyebrow and chilling smile come next. “Enjoy explaining this to a small-town police chief.”
Ophelia flutters, not daring to hope. Yes, it’s true that Gwyneth, on occasion, has tried to intervene. Often, she’s too late, stepping in only after the blow that leaves Henry with a traumatic brain injury, his mind muddled, unable to think, slow to react.
Botten scrutinizes the area as if, only now, he’s realized that, in his arrogance, he’s let things slip. Then he assesses Gwyneth and the threat she poses. Will she make that call?
Oh, undoubtedly.
A crafty grin splits his face. Botten holds up his hands in a gesture that says, Yes, boys, it’s been fun, but let’s wrap this up.
They drag Henry into that second car, his feet scraping against the asphalt. Deliberately, they knock his skull against the doorframe before shoving him into the backseat. He’s sandwiched between those two brutish agents, and there is no escape, not that he appears conscious enough to try. Botten heads for the sedan, the agent with the fractured hand hobbling after him.
The cars swing around, speed past Gwyneth, and head down the street toward the housing development.
Gwyneth remains at the stop sign. Her gaze travels in the opposite direction. She peers at the road that leads to the center of town and the exit onto the interstate. She could be at the airport in an hour, Ophelia thinks, less if she floors it. And Gwyneth would most definitely floor it.
Instead, her presumptive sister-in-law leans across the driver’s seat and digs out a second phone from that silver-sided briefcase. She pecks out a quick message—one Ophelia can’t see, never mind read—and tucks the phone away once again, the picture of efficiency.
Then Gwyneth Worthington-Wells gets behind the wheel, executes a precise three-point turn, and drives after Henry.
Chapter 82
Pansy
King’s End, Minnesota
Sunday, July 16
“Pansy, Pansy. Are you awake?”
Why Jack is bothering to whisper, I’m not sure. He wants to wake me. Maybe I shouldn’t be feigning sleep. My hand rests on the letter my mother wrote, tucked beneath my pillow. Her words play in my head over and over again. Her voice, so close, so strong, it’s like having her here again. I want to remain in that space, warm, cozy, and unmoving.
But I must move; I must appear unremarkable. I’ve been practicing for this moment—and the ones to follow—all my life. Waking up groggy after an episode with the Sight is part of that.
“Pansy?” Jack still speaks in a whisper, his voice tender and worried. “Are you okay?”
“Hm?” I make a big show of rolling over. “Jack?” I lift onto one elbow. “What’s wrong?”
“Mort’s gone.”
This I know. Mortimer never fails to hit every creaking floorboard on his way down the stairs. While he can manage stealth, he clearly didn’t bother to an hour ago. In his wake is the aftertaste of betrayal.
