I stand, brush the grass from my jeans, and pick up my umbrella. Because if there’s a part of me that insists I mourn, there’s another part that refuses.
It’s this part that leads me back through the older section of the cemetery until I find the hole in the fence. Agent Darnelle’s jacket is still there, swaying in the breeze. I tug it free, careful of the edges that threaten to shred it. I consider the jacket in my hands and the hole in front of me.
I decide to repair both.
Chapter 8
Henry
King’s End, Minnesota
Sunday, July 9
Damn it. He’d forgotten his jacket. Henry sat down hard on the bed, one already made up with mints on the pillows, the room itself pristine. On the desk, a vase of fresh flowers wafted their scent into the air, making it impossible to churn up the anger he longed to feel.
Well, almost.
A rustling came from the doorway, the sound both insistent and self-satisfied. In it, Henry heard the refrain of I told you so.
His umbrella loved being right. Then again, so did Henry.
It had to be a funeral, didn’t it? But that was the Screamers for you. They had an uncanny prescience. They’d knocked him right off his stride, had him abandoning a fellow agent—technically, an apprentice agent, so really, that was worse—and retreating like a rookie on a first field assignment.
Henry could’ve handled anything other than a funeral.
Damn it. Again.
He turned his attention toward the door and his umbrella leaning against the wall. “Well? What should we do now?”
This rustling brought a smile to his lips, although not a particularly happy one. “No, I doubt Agent Little or her umbrella would appreciate a social call.”
His own umbrella begged to differ.
“A bit distracted, are we? By what? Some fetching polka dots and pretty pink ruffles?”
A disgruntled thump, and then all was quiet.
But leaving the room was an option. As was collecting his jacket and perhaps a few readings in the housing development while he was there? Henry looked once more toward his umbrella.
“Shall we?”
Henry ended up in the Riverside B&B’s dining area. The establishment was more a bed and breakfast, lunch, and possibly snack sort of establishment. They set him up in a cozy—and private—alcove, kept the coffee coming, and served him a late lunch while his umbrella stewed in the seat across from him, impatient and still disgruntled.
“I need to review my notes,” he said, mostly under his breath.
“Sir?”
One of the waitstaff stood next to his table, coffee carafe in hand, the aroma of a rich, dark roast clearing his head. Carrie, her name tag read.
“I’m talking to myself.” Henry managed a short laugh. “About work.”
Carrie gave him a grin. “Do that a lot myself.” She hefted the carafe. “More?”
“Thank you.”
“So, work. Does that mean you’re in town on business?”
Did many people venture to King’s End on business? Unlikely, but he considered the question, considered what it might yield. “I’m visiting someone.”
