“Use this.” He hands me a burner phone.
“Why, Agent Darnelle, you’re full of surprises.”
“Sometimes you have to break a few rules,” he says, and gives me that sexy wink.
Chapter 32
Henry
King’s End, Minnesota
Wednesday, July 12
Pansy’s description of the silo was apt. It did feel wrong. The sort of wrong that had Henry turning the dials on his equipment every few minutes, changing the sensitivity, gauging the quality of the air and soil.
Once or twice, he adjusted his umbrella, slung cross-body with the quick-release strap. Other than a soft tremble at the small of his back, his umbrella remained quiet.
He held up one of the photographs from that long-ago site survey. Decay was the first word that popped into his head. The structures were the same: the silo, the house, and, farther back, a stable with a corral. But unlike in the photos, everything was weathered and gray. The peeling yellow paint on the farmhouse looked diseased. The air in this space was dry and tasteless, without a whisper of a breeze.
“When was the last time someone lived here?” he asked.
Pansy shielded her eyes against the sun’s glare, momentarily lost in thought. The dreamy look reminded him of Ophelia. Henry wondered, not for the first time, if those with the Sight simply had better access to memories.
“Five years ago or so, about the time they broke ground on the housing development. The family that was renting said they didn’t like the noise, but”—she waved a hand toward the road and the development—“it wasn’t just the noise.”
He nodded. “Who owns this land?”
“Technically?” She cast her gaze toward him, and her eyes held a glint of amusement. “I do.”
Henry lowered the photograph and stared at Pansy straight on. “Excuse me?”
“My mother bought it at the same time she bought the house. At least, I think she did. When she signed that over to me, this parcel of land came with it.” She scanned the area again. “I keep thinking I should do something with it, but at this point, I’m not sure I could even sell it.”
“Who owns the housing development?”
“The Kingston heirs owned the land, but who, exactly, they sold it to, I don’t know. Some big development company, I think. Every once in a while, the town council talks about doing something, then they table the motion.”
Yes, he could understand that. Both these spots were festering wounds. Henry pulled out another photo for comparison. And yet, these particular pictures didn’t have that feel. But this was not his forte. He eyed Pansy. Asking her, a mere day after an attack? He shook his head and pulled out yet another photograph as if sheer numbers could make up for lack of expertise.
“You can ask me,” she said a few moments later, her voice soft and inviting.
“Pardon?”
“You want me to do something, and I said you can ask me.”
Oh, well, damn the Sight anyway.
“And it’s not the Sight.” She waved a hand at him. “You’re all frustrated and twitchy.”
“Am I, now? I beg to differ.” He was about to launch into a lecture about seniority and protocol in the field and any number of things that would make him sound like a pretentious asshole. Meanwhile, Pansy merely stood there, her expression mild.
Henry heaved a sigh, not so much in defeat but in relief. To be fair, he was frustrated and twitchy, although he blamed the latter on the silo’s looming presence. “I don’t want you to invoke the Sight,” he said, because yes, he wanted, needed, her opinion. “However, I would like your take on the disparity between the photographs and?—”
“The here and now?”
“Exactly.”
He handed her a photograph, and they stood side by side, arms extended, taking in the same view, comparing it to the same past. They remained like that until Henry could feel the tremble in his arms, the muscles protesting.
