She skirted the decrepit, cookie-cutter houses, the hideous sign above the gate, not to mention the gate itself. For all anyone—and by that, she means Leah—knew, Ophelia was standing in the center of a lush meadow, one filled with a startling number of wild roses.
It’s taken her any number of those loops to realize it’s this last detail that sealed her fate. Roses. Wild ones. And there’s a connection to Rose Little that Ophelia can taste but can’t discern.
It was then, with the mention of the roses, that Botten sent Leah from the room, ostensibly to fetch fresh towels, a cold compress, and some bottled water. The refrigerator in the lab was conveniently empty, those soft, Turkish-cotton towels nowhere to be found. Only the best for their star.
When Leah was gone, Botten’s voice changed. He leaned in close, the coffee on his breath pungent and persistent. There was no escaping its stench. Even now, if she ever wakes, Ophelia swears never to drink coffee again.
“I know where you are, my dear,” he whispered. “And I know when you are.”
I doubt that.
“So you see why I can’t let you return.”
Only then did she truly see as she stood there in the center of the King’s End housing development. She caught glimpses of familiar faces: Mortimer Connolly, Gwyneth Worthington-Wells, and many of her peers from the Botten’s Best List. Everyone milled about the space, darted in and out of tents, walked the perimeter.
And then there was Henry. An angry purple bruise had bloomed beneath one eye. His cheekbones were battered, his lower lip swollen, and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. Although he wavered, his stance was strong. Perhaps most frightening were the field agents—brutes, every last one—at his side, restraining him.
A moment later, Reginald Botten stepped from an air-conditioned communications van, his gaze on Henry, his face alive with a cruel smile. And Ophelia realized the Sight had shown her something irrevocable.
“Not that anyone will believe you if you do return,” Botten, or at least, the version of him in Seattle, added. “Not even Daddy will. The Sight is so unreliable, and everyone knows that Ophelia Connolly acts out for attention. Any investigation will take months. And in the meantime?”
Botten let this question hang in the stench between them.
“In the meantime, your brother will be in the field. And you know how dangerous that is. Accidents do have a way of happening to even our most dedicated and resourceful field agents.”
Even then, even with the threat to Henry’s life hanging over her, Ophelia was determined to do the right thing. She would emerge; she would tell Henry. He would believe her even if no one else did.
Except for one small thing.
She couldn’t fight her way to the surface. Not without Botten’s help, not without Henry’s. Her brother was an ocean away. He’d never make it back in time. And Botten let her sink deeper and deeper, the Sight protecting her in its own way. Ophelia sometimes wonders what would have happened if Leah hadn’t burst back into the lab with towels and water. If she hadn’t flung herself over Ophelia, sobbing at this unexpected turn of events.
Would Botten have taken a pillow, covered her face? Or would that have attracted too much scrutiny? She doesn’t know. This is one outcome the Sight has never shown her.
So now, Ophelia exists in this netherworld. If she emerges, Henry dies. If she remains, Henry dies. As for the world, there’s no guarantee it will continue to spin no matter what she does. Except for the thing Botten doesn’t know, the one thing he can’t know.
He doesn’t know that Ophelia has seen the future, or at least its many permutations. The future isn’t nearly as threatening as the past. The past is certain. If Ophelia hasn’t seen the past, then that means someone else will. That someone must be Pansy Little. Ophelia thinks: yes, Botten should be afraid of that.
But now he’s sandwiching Ophelia’s hand between Leah’s. Ophelia’s heart beats a cadence that must alert the nurse, but no one comes. Has Botten tried this before? She casts her mind through all those endless loops, certain he has. He’s not a man to leave things to chance or grow complacent.
But he’s never caught her here, in Adele’s basement. She’s never had to worry about what Leah sees and then relays to Botten. Ophelia casts about, but there’s no safe place to rest her eyes, and Leah’s connection worms through her thoughts, grasping and growing stronger. At the start of her sabbatical, Ophelia had the strength to kick her cousin from her head whenever it pleased her. Now?
Now, Leah’s the one with the power to push past Ophelia’s defenses. Her heart continues to flutter in her chest, wild and chaotic. She ignores Henry and focuses all her will on Pansy.
Can you hear me? I need your help.
Pansy raises her head, lips parted in a tiny o. She blinks as if that will help her see Ophelia and then nods ever so slightly.
Find something that I can look at, a photograph, an old one. Whatever you do, don’t look at Henry.
Pansy abandons Henry mid-sentence. His mouth is open, ready to carry on the discussion. He looks taken aback, but his brow is wrinkled in concern rather than exasperation. Pansy crawls over to boxes that line the lower shelves and shuffles through their contents until her hands grasp several packets of photos.
Yes, those! Dump them all out.
By rote, Pansy does and spreads them across the floor. Ophelia scans them, hoping one will yield something she can use.
“What do you see, my dear?” Botten croons. He’s always patient and charming at the start of a session.
“It’s a jumble.” Leah’s voice has that faraway quality, half in her mind, half in Ophelia’s. “It’s a series of images, and I can’t unscramble them. Maybe the Sight?—”
