Page 19 of Faultlines

The word lands between us, small and heavy. She’s heard me say this before, or something like it. Heard Claire say it too, in the rushed phone calls, the promises to make it up to her, the I’m sorry, work was crazy texts. All those words that mean everything and nothing when you’re thirteen.

I want to tell her that I know how it looks. That I see the empty chair at her ceremony, the way she scanned the crowd for her mother’s face and found only me. But I’m standing here defending Claire again, and I’m not even sure if I’m trying to convince Ellie or myself.

“She would,” I assure her.

She nods, wiping away a tear.

“And for the record?” She looks at me. “The next time someone insults your mother⁠—”

A tiny smile appears. “Yeah?”

“Use only words,” I tell her with a wink.

CHAPTER SIX

COMPRESSION

Claire

The whiteboard is a graveyard of good intentions: Bake Sale, Silent Auction, Community 5K. Nothing that will fix the gap. “We’ve tapped every donor,” I murmur, more to myself than to Marisol.

“We could sell our kidneys,” she says.

I laugh. “Barely legal.”

“Barely.”

I rub my temples, a familiar headache blooming. It feels like I’ve spent every minute of the last three weeks in this room, staring at the same widening funding gap. Even the memory of Ethan handling Ellie’s school conference—another thing I’d missed—is just one more failure in a month of them.

A scream tears through the ceiling above us. My body goes rigid, then I’m moving before I even form a conscious thought.

One second, I’m staring at a budget shortfall, and the next I’m running upstairs with my legs barely keeping up with me. My gut instinct screams that whatever is happening, it’s not good.

Marisol and I find a group of girls huddled outside a bathroom.

I push through and find Heidi—on the floor—pulse thready. My knees hit the tile.

“Heidi.”

Compress—one, two, three, four, five. The rhythm of breathing, counting and compressions takes over. At some point there are hands on my shoulders, pulling, and I’m fighting them, still counting, still—Sirens. My hands won’t stop shaking.

Someone says, “Stable,” and the word doesn’t register until I’m suddenly bent over, gasping, relief like a fist in my throat.

I’ve been sitting in the same chair for almost three, maybe four hours. The hospital waiting room is bright and too cold. I replay every missed sign and conversation. Every warning I walked past.

“Claire.” I don’t look up. A warm hand lands on my shoulder, and I flinch as my brother-in-law eases into the chair beside me. He’s wearing scrubs with his hospital ID clipped to his chest. Someone in the emergency department must have recognized my name. In Juniper Ridge, family relationships are common knowledge. “How is she?”

I swallow. “Stable.”

“Good.”

I nod once, twice, then stare straight ahead again.

Jensen studies me. “Have you eaten?”

I don’t answer.

“How long have you been here?” he asks after a beat. I honestly don’t know. He sighs.