Chapter 4
Don’t screw this up, Jensen.
Am I getting a small whiff of déjà vu as I make my way from the diner to the park?
Maybe a little. But this, I remind myself over and over, is different.
I’m not facing Granny Annie and her delicious but deadly brownies.
And this time, I made sure I’m prepared.
Since I know nothing about pig showing, I found a consultant to teach me everything I need to know to pass as a halfway decent pig… shower? Handler?
Whatever. None of it matters as long as I catch The Witch.
I reach the entrance to the park and take a paved path that winds its way through a copse of trees. A squirrel foraging in the grass startles and bolts for the nearest tree, where it scolds me from the safety of a low branch.
If I catch The Witch—no, when I catch The Witch, all of my past mistakes will be forgiven.
Cressida will be all, “Jensen, I had my doubts, but you proved me wrong.” And then she’ll say, “You’ve done what not even the most experienced agents could do.
I’m sorry for not seeing how incredible you are at your job,” and I’ll be like, “It’s okay.
Some of us aren’t showy about our mad skills,” and then a bunch of reporters will be outside the office yelling, “Agent Jensen, tell us again about how you did it,” and I’ll say…
Okay, well, I don’t know yet how I’m going to do it.
I don’t really understand what’s so special about this pig show.
Sure, it’s a large event—for Farrowville, West Virginia.
And The Witch does tend to target unexpected people and places.
Even so, this doesn’t feel like her jam.
She likes making a splash. Her last attack took out a sitting state senator and destroyed a priceless Vermeer painting at a museum fundraiser. This…
This feels different.
The show barn stretches out in front of me, and I force myself to focus on the task at hand, which is to convince my consultant that I’m just a girl, standing in front of a pig, trying to learn how to make him the prettiest pig at the ball and win the pageant and go home with a shiny trophy or whatever you get for winning a pig show.
I’m almost to the propped-open door of the barn when a man suddenly appears in the doorway. “You’re late,” he says.
I blink, looking at the chunky brown watch Sally would obviously wear. “It’s not even two yet,” I say. “I have three minutes.”
“My dad always says if you’re on time, you’re ten minutes late.”
And that’s when I realize that he’s not actually a man. Though he’s tall, his shoulders are still narrow, his smooth cheeks softly rounded with baby fat, the giant belt buckle gleaming at his waist probably the heaviest thing about him.
“Um…Wayne Walker?” I say.
Please don’t be Wayne, please don’t be Wayne, please don’t be—
“That’s me.”
Oh.
Oh, no.
He’s a kid. Maybe—maybe—early teens at best.
I’ve hired a kid as an MBI consultant. This is only the most important case I’ve ever been involved in, and I’ve put my faith in someone who can’t get into a PG-13 movie without an adult.
Cressida is going to kill me. And I don’t mean that figuratively. She’s going to bring back capital punishment for failed agents, maybe hold an old-fashioned witch burning or something to remove the stain of my failure from the MBI.
Unless she doesn’t find out. The payment is going through a few layers so that Wayne—or I guess his parents—can’t tell the money is coming from the MBI.
Sure, eventually Cressida will know I searched up “best pig handlers in Farrowville” and said to myself, “Hey, this person can’t drive, smoke, or vote—perfect!
” But hopefully by then I’ll have nabbed The Witch, and then it won’t matter.
Or maybe The Witch will have succeeded and killed everyone at the show and at least then I won’t have to face Cressida.
Cheered by that thought, I give Wayne my best Sally smile. “It’s nice to—”
He holds up a hand. “I’ve seen your pig already,” he says. “We’ve got a lot of work to do. Come on.”
Right. Now I have to learn about pigs.
Perfect.