I’d shoo Agent Darnelle back outside, but he has already crossed the threshold. His hand hovers above the stand, and then he lets his umbrella fall. It lands with a clunk. I ease my own umbrella in after, but three is clearly a crowd. No one is happy with this new arrangement.
“So, your mother is home?” he asks, hanging up his hat on the coat tree.
“Not exactly.”
“But her umbrella is here.”
“Yes, I know.” And I know all the implications of that. My mother must be home because no one from the Enclave, active or retired, travels without their umbrella.
“Then can I speak to her?”
“That’s going to be difficult.”
“We just spoke yesterday.” Concern clouds his brow. “Is she ill? Does she need a doctor?”
I open my mouth to answer, but no words come out. Not that it matters. He’s barreled his way into the house and down the front hallway.
“Agent Little? Agent Rose Little? I’m sorry to intrude.” Determination replaces the concern. He will speak to my mother even though she isn’t here to speak to. “It’s urgent that we talk.”
His voice echoes throughout the space. It’s a wonder he can’t hear the emptiness in reply, that I’m the only one who lives here, and this house hasn’t truly been a home for three long months.
“Agent Darnelle, please. Maybe I can help you instead.” I gesture toward the front parlor.
He halts, turns, and then purses his lips as if the front parlor isn’t ideal but will have to do.
He paces the length of the room before easing the messenger bag from his shoulder. From its depths, he pulls out a large, brown paper package.
“Do you remember when I said I thought I’d seen the housing development before?”
I nod.
“My father left me some photographs, photographs of King’s End, of the land where the development now sits.” He tugs a few photos from the package in illustration. And yes, that’s the space, as I remember it, with its meadow and trees and wild roses before the construction company broke ground.
“I believe he was trying to tell me something, but I can’t fathom what that might be. He neglected to leave me any notes.” He rubs his temples as if the next words pain him. “Your mother figures prominently in the photographs, and they’re all of King’s End. I thought she might be able to help me.”
My mother and Harry Darnelle. I feel the tug, the temptation. I don’t dare close my eyes, and I manage the barest of sniffs. I want to swipe beneath my nose, but that’s such an obvious tell that I can’t bring myself to do it.
“And then there’s this.” From his suit coat pocket, he pulls a card. “Your mother sent this. It’s postmarked the day my father died.”
I remember what Adele told me, that my mother somehow knew Harry Darnelle had died, that they had some sort of connection. “She would send a card,” I manage, my voice shaky.
Agent Darnelle’s lips twist, his nostrils flare, and it’s like my response has made him angry. “I told no one about my father’s death for three days.”
I hold absolutely still, sensing that if I speak again or even blink, I’ll make everything worse.
“Do you understand what I’m saying? I told no one.” He’s emphatic in this, the envelope rattling in his grip. “No one knew. I didn’t contact the Enclave, or family, or friends. So, can you explain to me, Agent Little, how your mother knew my father had died?”
No, actually, I can’t. I’d call Adele if it would help, but I doubt she knows how either.
“So, thirty years ago, my father was here in King’s End,” he says, glancing around the room as if he’s seen it before. “And I think … I think?—”
“Something happened.” Oh, blame the Sight. The words fly from my mouth unbidden. I have no hope of reeling them back or explaining myself.
“Then you know? You can tell me?”
So much relief blooms in his expression that I hate to disappoint him. I shake my head.
“Then your mother?—”
