Page 139 of Faultlines

“I thought so. Small town. I’ve worked with Bennett and Cross a few times over the years.” Daniel then glances discreetly toward Ethan’s table. “I take it that things are complicated.”

“Might be putting it mildly. We separated last summer.”

He nods and redirects the conversation back to the project.

CHAPTER FIFTY

HEALING FAULT

Claire

Marisol and I are halfway through our morning walkthrough when Amanda calls from the community room.

“Claire, can you come look at this?”

She points to the large bookshelf along the back wall, and I stop short. Since I started at Juniper House, it’s leaned precariously to one side, several shelves pulled loose and the trim cracked. Now it stands perfectly straight. The damaged trim has been replaced, the shelves are sturdy, and the wood has been refinished.

I run my hand along the smooth edge. “Who fixed this?”

Amanda shrugs. “I’m not sure.”

I glance at Marisol and notice she’s suddenly fascinated by the bulletin board on the opposite wall, her back rigid.

“Marisol.” My voice is low.

“Yes?” she turns, her smile bright.

“What’s going on? Does this have anything to do with the zero-dollar maintenance invoices I’ve been reviewing?”

Her expression is almost offensive in its innocence. “Maybe?”

I cross my arms, giving Marisol my best mom look.

“Fine. Ethan has been making repairs, and he didn’t want you to know.”

“What? Since when?”

“Several months.” I continue staring at her until she finally caves. “Since before Thanksgiving.”

My jaw drops. “Before Thanksgiving?”

“It started with the greenhouse fence after the windstorm.”

I remember the fence. I also remember approving estimates to repair it. “You’re telling me Ethan fixed it?”

She nods.

Honestly, I don’t know what to say. As we continue through the building, Marisol points out more of Ethan’s work. A repaired vanity here, new lighting there, fresh paint, rebuilt cabinets—the list goes on. The farther we walk, the more examples she finds.

“He usually comes after hours,” she says.

I look at her. “Why?”

“You’re asking the wrong person.”

The following Tuesday, I enter Juniper House through the maintenance entrance at the rear of the building. Somewhere down the hallway, a rhythmic thudding breaks the silence—the unmistakable sound of power tools. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I follow the noise. The closer I get, I recognize the whir of a drill and someone muttering under their breath.

When I round the corner, Ethan is standing on a ladder replacing damaged ceiling tiles. He’s unaware of my presence, so I keep watching him. His sleeves are rolled up, and he has a faint sheen of sweat on his brow. Dust covers his shirt, and he has a pencil tucked behind one ear.