“Everyone is up in arms.” She waves a hand, indicating the neighborhood. “They don’t know whether to call the police or start planning an engagement party. Guy Gunderson is worried he’s here to foreclose on your house.”
I try not to roll my eyes. I mean, I really, really try. They could always just ask me. But then, that would put an end to all the gossip.
“I own this house, and the property taxes are paid.” I think. Maybe. I shake my head, promising myself to check later.
“I have at least twenty direct messages,” Adele adds, “telling me I need to come home, and there’s a long community thread full of speculation.”
The retirees in the neighborhood have taken to the Hey Neighbor app with an enthusiasm that’s a little frightening.
“He’s here for my field agent examination,” I say. “So absolutely, they can throw me a party afterward, assuming I pass, but we’re not inviting Henry Darnelle.”
This time, Adele drops her teacup. It clatters but doesn’t break. Tea slops into the saucer. She blinks, grasping for composure and then losing her grip on it completely.
“Harry’s son?”
For the first time since my mother vanished, her voice cracks. All of her does. With the mere mention of Henry Darnelle, I’ve chiseled something open. It lasts as long as a breath, maybe two. The demeanor of the professional nurse slips away, and all I see is the woman whose loss runs as deep as mine.
“Harry?” I echo, and my voice, too, is rough.
“Harry, Harrison Darnelle.” She nods, a little frantic, and gropes for her phone.
She scrolls, and while I can’t see the screen, I suspect someone snapped a picture of me and Agent Darnelle this morning.
“From the Enclave?” I keep my words as soft as possible, as if I’m afraid to touch an exposed nerve.
“Yes.” Adele pulls in a breath, one hand resting against her heart as if to calm it. She sets down the phone. “The Enclave.”
That’s easy enough to check. I dash from the kitchen in search of my laptop, the wave of her emotions nearly pushing me through the door.
When I return to the kitchen, Prince has snuggled on Adele’s lap. She weaves her fingers through his fur. Her smile is bright again, even if her eyes hold sorrow.
Like all agents in the Enclave, Henry Darnelle has a profile. His, of course, is loaded with accomplishments and commendations. Mine? Not so much. But each profile contains a lineage. Henry Darnelle is the son of Harrison (Harry) Darnelle and Miranda Connolly.
And Harry Darnelle died in February of this year.
Oh. The knowledge knocks into me, resonating like a blow to my solar plexus. The funeral. The expression on Agent Darnelle’s face. Now I recognize it. It’s a match for my own every time I look in the mirror.
“Yes. Harry Darnelle is Agent Darnelle’s father.” Softly, I add, “But he died recently. In February.”
“I know. Rose told me.”
“She did?” This past year has been a blur, patrolling, caring for my mom, witnessing the steady decline of her health. Was she still well enough to go online in February? I rummage through the memories of those days, but the threads are tangled, full of chaos and sorrow.
“They had a connection that went beyond…” Adele shakes her head and uses a napkin to sop up the spilled tea before pouring a fresh cup. “I’m not sure I should tell you this. It was before you were born and before your mother met your father, but for a time, I thought Harry Darnelle was the one, that he’d stay here in King’s End with your mother.”
And now his son is here to administer my field agent examination.
Yes, the Enclave is small. Yes, a coincidence like this could happen. Yes, I’m skeptical anyway.
“Of course, he was betrothed?—”
Of course. Always remember rule number six: When someone tells you they’re not betrothed, don’t believe them.
“—but he was planning on having it annulled.”
Again, don’t believe them. I suspect this rule was born from my mother’s own betrothal. She never said who in the Enclave it was or even which family line. Her excuse? “Oh, you’re sure to encounter him at some point in your career. Less awkward—at least for you—if you don’t know.”
“So, what happened?” I ask Adele.
