Page 148 of Faultlines

I look at the two women who have stood beside me through the hardest year of my life.

“No.”

I hear footsteps and look up from my desk just as Daniel walks into my office—without knocking. He leans against my bookshelf. “Bad time?”

“Depends. Did you bringing chocolate?”

His grin appears. “Possibly.”

The exchange earns a laugh.

He and I have found an easy rhythm. It started with work. We spent so much time discussing the boys’ home that, somewhere along the way, we became friends.

Yesterday, he caught me staring at a photo that fell out of his wallet. ‘High school sweetheart,’ he said, before I could apologize. ‘Cancer. One year from diagnosis to funeral.’

He didn’t look at me when he said it, just kept his eyes on the table. But his hands shook slightly as he picked up the photo and deposited it back into his wallet.

We walk the Juniper House property, and discuss potential locations for a boys’ facility. Daniel wants to see the greenhouse and talk through ideas for vocational training programs. He asks thoughtful questions, and never seems impatient when I launch into details about staffing ratios or licensing requirements. It’s easy and I enjoy his company. I can’t help but wonder if this is how it started with Brooke and Ethan.

Once we’re back on the front porch he says, “How did counseling go?” He waits patiently, giving me space to answer if I want to.

“It was difficult.”

“I imagine so.”

We continue walking in silence before I hear myself speaking again. “I learned that the story I had been telling myself wasn’t entirely true.”

He studies me thoughtfully. “That sounds enlightening.”

“It was.”

I’m brought out of my thoughts by footsteps coming swiftly down the hall, followed by the appearance of Tasha. “Claire.”

I’m already looking at the door when she turns the corner.

“Hey, Tasha. What’s⁠—”

“Your SUV, the tires are all flat,” she stammers.

Still not processing her words, I follow her out to the parking lot.

“What the hell?” I say more to myself.

“I don’t know. I noticed when I came to get something from my car. I didn’t see anybody in the parking lot.”

I take my phone out of my pocket and start dialing before I even think about what I’m doing. The police non-emergency line first—I know it by heart from work, from all the times I’ve had to report incidents at Juniper House. But the automated voice asks me to hold, and I’m standing in a dark parking lot with slashed tires, and suddenly the hold music feels like an invitation for whoever did this to come back. I hang up.

My thumb finds Ethan’s number without permission, muscle memory from decades of calling him first.

“Claire?” his voice is tight with alarm.

“Hey… someone slashed all four of my tires in the parking lot of Juniper House.”

“Go—go back inside and wait for me. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Fifteen minutes later, his truck barrels down the drive. He rushes over, breathing heavy as he scans me for injuries. “I told you to wait inside.”

“I did go back inside. I just came out when I saw your truck turn down the lane.”