Because I also know this. There isn’t a scenario that doesn’t involve a great deal of damage, betrayal, and blood.
Chapter 85
Ophelia
King’s End, Minnesota
Sunday, July 16
Botten can’t help himself. This, Ophelia knows. It’s another of those pyrrhic victories that he succumbs to this urge to gloat. Without fail, he always makes his way across the task force’s bivouac and enters the tent where they’re holding Pansy.
Like the confrontation with Henry, this meeting always happens. Ophelia has seen enough photographs of Rose Little to know that, despite her coloring, Pansy resembles her mother. Here, in the shadow of the olive-drab canvas, the similarity is startling.
So much so that Botten hesitates, the tent flap still clutched in his hand as if he plans to leave rather than enter.
But enter, he does. He always enters the tent, pulls up a folding chair, and sits just out of spitting range of Pansy. After all, the man isn’t a fool. However, there is a scenario where he miscalculates the distance.
That’s one of Ophelia’s favorites.
They always have Pansy secured to a chair, sometimes with zip ties, sometimes with rope. Once, they forgot about her hands, and she greeted Botten with a double middle-finger salute.
This is also one of Ophelia’s favorites.
Botten regards Pansy in what is meant to be a judgmental, unnerving manner. He’s channeling his Academy headmaster persona, bringing its full weight to bear. While the maneuver certainly works on thirteen-year-olds, it has little effect on the woman who sits across from him now.
Or rather, it shouldn’t. Pansy’s lip quivers ever so slightly. But she doesn’t speak. She never does. Always, it’s Botten who initiates the conversation, such as it is.
“I see my evaluation of your skill set was correct and that the talent Agent Darnelle spoke so highly of appears quite absent.” His gaze roves in a lewd manner. “Perhaps it was a different sort of talent that had him so enthralled?”
Botten doesn’t know Pansy as well as he does Henry. Truthfully, he all but ignored her existence at the Academy. So, this blow? Doesn’t land.
Or, again, it shouldn’t. Pansy looks like she’s about to deny the accusation. Then she lowers her eyes to her bound hands.
“My mother said I should do everything I could to pass my exam.”
What! Never in all these trips through the loop has Pansy said anything remotely close to this. Where’s her strength, her defiance? If nothing else, Pansy always calls Botten on his bullshit. Ophelia is outrage itself. She swirls and swirls and swirls. Her outburst reverberates around the tent with so much force that the canvas shudders.
Botten’s attention is pulled upward toward the rippling fabric, but Pansy’s gaze never leaves her hands.
“Hm. Interesting,” is all he says, but whether he’s referring to Pansy’s confession or the wayward canvas is hard to say.
Worry churns inside Ophelia. A faraway beep, beep, beep starts up. She tries to clamp down her rampaging anger, her ragged breathing, her bruised and battered heart. This is Pansy’s last stand. Why isn’t she making the most of it? She’s as vulnerable and cowed as a first-year cadet during the intake interview.
The confusion that plays across Botten’s features confirms that he, too, is perplexed, or perhaps dissatisfied with this encounter. Taunting Rose Little’s daughter is right up there with watching those brutes tag-team Henry. Where is the fiery defiance her mother was so famous for? Why no swearing, no spitting, no double middle-fingers? This is clearly not what Botten expected. It’s certainly not what Ophelia expected, either.
This is like poking roadkill with a stick, mildly interesting but hardly worth the time or effort.
Botten heaves a sigh and pushes against his thighs to stand. “You must have been a great disappointment to your mother.”
Pansy merely drops her head lower, as if this accusation is too much to bear.
Botten pauses at the tent flap, as if he’s waiting for Pansy to meet his gaze one last time. Her shoulders remained hunched, nearly to her ears. She’s folded in on herself, defeat and despair swirling around her.
Ophelia wants to weep.
“Try to pull yourself together, my dear. Despite everything, you can still be useful to the Enclave.” With that, Botten lets the tent flap close behind him. His voice is light as he calls out to someone across the bivouac, something about sunrise and preparations. His tone, his demeanor, and his entire being radiate triumph.
Now, Ophelia wants to scream. She wants to take Pansy by the shoulders and shake her hard. She wants…
