“Give me five minutes.”
“I’ll give you ten. But please hurry.” With that, Terrence did hang up.
Chapter 9
Pansy
King’s End, Minnesota
Sunday, July 9
Mending Agent Darnelle’s suit coat is not an unpleasant task.
On the kitchen table sits a teapot, aromatic steam rising into the air. I brewed my mother’s version of Constant Comment, the flavor sharper—it tastes like oranges and ambition. True, the Screamers scattered without a counterattack. Even so, I’ve added a few drops of post-encounter tincture. Already, the concoction is clearing my head.
With tiny scissors, I cut the loose threads on Agent Darnelle’s jacket. The material is oddly smooth and light. It feels resilient between my fingers. I consider whether I’m about to ruin the thing. I hold it close, inspecting the weave, and the faintest hint of aftershave reaches me, full of warm vanilla but with a distinct bite. The scent is sexy, maybe even a little wild, and at odds with the schoolmaster persona he’s been projecting.
I slump in my chair, exhausted from the morning and this line of thinking. I will not dwell on Agent Darnelle’s aftershave. Or on my reaction to it. I spread the jacket on the kitchen table and pick up the needle, determined to mend a completely different type of fence.
I’m finishing up the last stitch and biting off the thread—an excuse to smell that warm vanilla—when a tap-tap-tap comes on the kitchen door.
Heat floods my cheeks, although why I should feel guilty about mending a jacket, I can’t say. But I feel caught out. I’m certain Agent Darnelle will charge through the door, demand his jacket and my resignation.
Instead, my neighbor, Adele Monroe, pokes her head inside.
Her eyes are bright and blue, her dark hair threaded with silver. She lugs a huge canvas sack full of crochet projects, and under one arm, a curly-haired dog of undetermined breed. Poodle, definitely, but the rest is anyone’s guess.
“We’re back!” She sets the dog on the floor, and he comes bounding for me.
With a single leap, he lands in my lap. I have to shove the suit coat aside so his tiny claws don’t rip my handiwork to pieces. In the process, I nearly spill the tea. The porcelain rocks against the table. Adele drops her bag and rushes forward, hands steadying the teapot.
“Sorry, sorry.” She turns to the dog, who is currently trying to lick my face. “Prince, be good.”
“He’s fine.” Truly, my kitchen hasn’t been this lively in ages, and Prince is a bundle of chaotic comfort in my arms. “Are you home for a while?”
Adele works as a contract nurse. This time of year, she takes jobs in the Twin Cities. She stays in rentals that allow Prince to tag along and attend the meetings of the crochet guild. Since it’s almost state fair time, that means the house next to mine has been dark these past few weeks.
“I start a new contract on Tuesday, but there were some things I wanted to pick up from home, some extra supplies for the state fair.” She waves a hand at the bag bulging with a rainbow assortment of yarn. “I’ll head back sometime tomorrow.”
She gives me a once over. Her eyes aren’t simply bright and blue—they’re perceptive. She’s far too professional to let emotions play across her face, but I don’t need the Sight to tell me she’s worried.
“And it’s good to spend a little time at home,” she adds, but her voice lacks conviction.
The guild is crocheting a horse for the state fair. No, I don’t understand why. I do know that the project is huge, it’s coming down to the wire, and they need every last member to complete it before the fair opens next month. Sundays are prime crocheting days.
So why is Adele here and not there?
As if in answer, her phone pings. She casts it an awkward glance like she wants to grab it and silence it, and her cheeks redden. I haven’t checked the Hey Neighbor app since yesterday. Judging by Adele’s expression, I’m pretty sure I don’t want to.
“Have some tea,” I say instead.
Prince and I continue our reunion while Adele busies herself with finding a second cup and saucer. We are distantly related on my father’s side of the family, second cousins or something like that. She is—or was—my mother’s best friend, her confidant.
Adele understands things about King’s End other residents only glean. She can’t see the Screamers, not like I do, but she has a sense for them. She knows about the Enclave and why I spend my days patrolling the streets. So, news of Pansy Little strolling toward the housing development with a well-dressed, handsome stranger?
That would bring her rushing home from the Twin Cities. To test this hypothesis, I say, “Yes, he’s here from the Enclave.”
Her cup rattles against its saucer. Her cheeks flush once again, but her gaze narrows on mine.
