“No, no. Keep going. It will resolve itself, I’m sure.”
Ophelia’s scrambling now, keeping Leah out and letting Pansy in, working to direct her. Then she spies something red. It’s gorgeous and perfect.
That one. Pick that one up and hold it out in front of you.
Without question, Pansy does. Her arm doesn’t even tremble. Must be all that yoga.
“Pansy, are you—?” Henry’s there, hovering, ever protective.
And get him to shut the hell up. His life depends on it.
Pansy raises a finger to her lips. By some miracle, Henry obeys. He obeys without another word, without protest. If Ophelia ever escapes this loop, she swears she’ll ask Pansy for her secret.
“Oh, a car,” Leah exclaims. “Wait, no, it’s a convertible, a red convertible. It’s an old-fashioned one, but really sweet. I’d love a ride like that.”
“What model?”
A long pause follows Botten’s question. Really, he knows better and should be content that Leah can tell the difference between a sedan and a convertible. Asking her what kind of convertible is taking things a bit too far.
Leah’s hands convulse around Ophelia’s, an involuntary response full of fear and dread. Botten can lavish praise and condemnation in equal measure. Fail him one too many times, and you’ll find yourself with the sort of shit assignment not even permanent post agents endure.
“It’s all right, my dear.” Botten is back to crooning. “That part doesn’t matter. What else do you see?”
“A man. I think it’s Henry Darnelle.”
Ophelia’s heart seizes and shrivels. She’s certain her attention hasn’t strayed from the photograph. Certainly, Pansy’s hasn’t. Her arm is still outstretched, still defying gravity. But it’s possible that Leah caught a glimpse of Henry and has named him rather than the man in the photograph.
“God, he’s so handsome. I always wanted to sleep over at Ophelia’s and not the other way around, in case he’d be there.”
Ophelia longs to roll her eyes at this but doesn’t dare. A side effect of this connection is that Leah’s ability to filter dwindles to nothing. Yes, she’ll tell Botten what Ophelia sees. Leah will also recite every last thing she feels about that.
“Let’s try to stay on task, shall we?” Ah, there’s the eyeroll, right there in Botten’s tone. “How about an inventory of the surroundings,” he continues. “A convertible, yes?”
“Yes.”
“And it’s red.”
“Yes.”
“And there’s a man. Where is he?”
Ophelia’s pulse pounds in her neck, but her gaze never wavers.
“He’s in the convertible, like he’s going to drive somewhere.”
If Ophelia could, she’d release a breath. As it is, she keeps her focus locked on the photo.
“Anything else?” Botten prompts.
“There’s a woman, but I can’t really see her face. She’s wearing a head scarf like she thinks she’s glamorous or something.” Leah snorts, the sound dismissive.
“Ah, yes. A convertible has a way of tangling the hair.”
Botten’s soft, strange revelation sends a shockwave through Ophelia. The words contain a surprising amount of tenderness. It’s almost as if Botten is there, just outside the frame of the photograph. Or perhaps behind the camera.
There’s a whisper of a sound, almost like a gasp, and then a commotion reaches her. Maybe because she’s tethered to Leah, the noise is amplified. Maybe it’s her mother’s avenging anger. Whatever the case, everyone in the bedroom gets an earful when Miranda Connolly bursts in.
“How dare you! How dare you! I cannot leave my child alone for even an hour without you and the Enclave assaulting her once again?—”
