Page 154 of Faultlines

Both Claire and I turn toward her, and she shrugs. “It used to be storage.”

She continues before Claire or I can say another word. “It hasn’t been used in years. Half the stuff down there should be thrown away anyway.”

“No.”

“It has a desk.”

“No.”

“It has a locking door.”

Marisol turns to me with a knowing smile. “If you’re willing to clean it out yourself, you’re welcome to use it.”

I glance at Claire. She looks horrified. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” she says, throwing both hands in the air.

Marisol speaks up again. “Honestly, it’s not the worst idea. Having another adult around might be helpful, especially since there’s been a strange dark-colored truck parked across the street a few times lately.”

“How many times has it been there?” I ask. “Has anyone gotten a license plate or called Detective Hale?”

Claire rolls her eyes.

“You’re not getting rid of me now.”

“I’ve called and reported it the times I’ve seen it, but haven’t been able to get a plate number,” Marisol replies.

My jaw tightens. “Has anyone actually seen the driver?”

“No one has seen the driver. The windows are tinted too dark,” she replies.

“You stay out of my way,” Claire says pointedly at me, her voice edged with a warning.

I raise both hands in surrender. “Absolutely.”

“You don’t interfere with staff.”

“Of course.”

“You don’t insert yourself into conversations.”

I place a hand over my heart. “You have my word.”

Judging by the look on her face, she doesn’t believe me, and Marisol’s expression mirrors hers.

Marisol and the two other staff members exchange a look that suggests they’re already taking bets on how long it will take before I break at least one of those promises. Unfortunately for them, I am too busy carrying my things toward the basement to defend myself.

Later, as I haul a broken desk out of the storage room, Claire passes me without a word. Her silence a clear statement. But that’s not enough to dampen the sense that this is where I need to be.

Early afternoon, I take the gravel path toward the back fence. It isn’t really my job to inspect anything, but years of walking construction sites have trained my eyes to look for what doesn’t belong.

A gate near the equipment shed stands half-open, and I could’ve sworn Marisol said she made sure it was latched yesterday. I pull it shut until the latch clicks into place.

Probably maintenance.

Still...

I glance toward the tree line before continuing. Near the vegetable garden, fresh tire tracks cut through the damp grass. I crouch, studying them for a second before shaking my head. Could’ve been anyone. The security light mounted above the rear entrance catches my attention next, the housing is cracked, but not enough to stop it from working. Just enough that someone—or something—hit it recently.

I make a mental note to replace it.