Page 149 of Faultlines

“Okay, did you call the Sheriff’s department?”

“Yes, they’re sending someone to make a report and get a copy of the security video. The cameras caught someone on the property near my car. The video is grainy, but you can see them squat at each of my tires.”

“What about the note?”

“What note?”

“This one.” he says as he holds up a folded piece of notebook paper.

“Where did you find that?”

“It was folded and shoved under the windshield wiper.”

“I didn’t see it earlier. I guess I was so focused on the tires that I missed it,” I admit.

I unfold it and find scrawled handwriting:

You can’t protect them forever.

“Come on, I’m taking you home. We’ll sort out your car tomorrow. Tasha can handle the police report.”

I reluctantly agree and follow him to his truck, eager to leave.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

BASE ISOLATION

Ethan

When my alarm goes off the next morning, I’m already awake, staring at the ceiling.

After a quick shower, I drive to the ranch earlier than necessary. The closer I get, the more convinced I become that I’m not simply dropping Claire off at work and driving away. Whoever targeted her vehicle had an agenda. Until we know more, I have no intention of letting her out of my sight for very long.

When I pull into the driveway, she appears at the top of the stairs that lead from the apartment. She has one hand on her hip and the other on the shiny metal railing. She taps her wrist as if checking a watch then narrows her eyes at me.

She stomps down the stairs and over to my truck, carrying her laptop bag. “You said a little after eight o’clock.”

I glance at the dashboard clock, its green numbers glowing. “Yeah, well it’s a little before that.”

“It’s not even seven-thirty.”

One shoulder lifts in a half-hearted gesture, the leather seat creaking beneath me. “I got here early.”

“You’re forty minutes early. I haven’t even had coffee yet.”

“I needed to make sure you’re okay.”

She rolls her eyes and puts on her seatbelt. The exchange makes me smile. The annoyance feels almost normal.

We’re both quiet on the drive. The only sound is Claire tapping on her phone. I keep one eye on the road and the other on every vehicle around us.

As we’re driving through downtown, I make a quick decision to stop at The Cinnamon Finch.

“Before you complain,” I say, cutting off her protest, “I’m grabbing us both coffee and breakfast. I know you’re too upset to eat anything. Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

I step out of the truck and lock her inside. Paranoid or not, I honestly don’t care.

Through the window, I see her face—confused at first, then tightening into something harder. She tries the handle. It doesn’t move. She doesn’t bang on the glass or shout; she just stares at me, and I feel the weight of that stare like a hand on my throat.