Page 24 of Faultlines

I glance at the wall clock, its second hand sweeping with an almost audible tick. “I honestly don’t know how long this is going to take.”

“We brought all your favorites,” Ellie says.

“Thank you, honey. I’m so sorry about this.”

“It’s fine,” she replies, but the flatness in her tone tells me it’s not.

“Ellie—” I say.

“It’s okay. You’re busy.” She turns abruptly, her footsteps tapping a flat, unhurried rhythm on the polished floor as she disappears.

“Ethan—” I say as I follow him into the hallway.

“No.” The word comes out like a brittle snap.

My eyes widen. “No?”

He lowers his voice, the sound like gravel. “Don’t apologize to me.”

“I’m working. It’s important.”

“I know.”

“We received a time-sensitive request this afternoon from the Mayor’s office.”

The only sound in the hall is the distant hum of the building’s ventilation system.

“We just wanted to bring you dinner, Claire. Maybe see you for a few minutes.”

My eyes drop to the takeout bag, now a forlorn brown lump. “You think I don’t want that?”

“It’s already after hours. You’ve put in over ten hours today.”

“I don’t have time for this right now. That room full of people is waiting for me so they can also go home and eat.” I gesture behind me.

A humorless laugh eludes him. “That’s kind of my point, Claire. You don’t have time. You never have time unless it’s about work.” He doesn’t say another word as he turns and walks away, his footsteps resolute.

I follow closely, the cold air from the hallway chilling my skin. When we reach the front entrance, Ellie is waiting beside the glass door with her back to us.

As they pull out of the parking lot, the red glow of their taillights recedes into the damp darkness. I stand framed in the harsh light of the entrance, watching them leave. The automatic doors slide shut with a soft hiss, sealing me in.

The next day, I decide work can wait. I stop by to visit Heidi before heading to the office. I arrive to find her in a small, sun-drenched courtyard. She’s been through a few weeks of therapy sessions and evaluations, but with painstakingly slow progress.

She’s surrounded by flowering shrubs in a neatly maintained garden smelling strongly of jasmine. She’s sitting on a bench reading a book with her knees pulled to her chest, looking like the frightened girl who first arrived at Juniper House, shoulders drawn in, making herself as small as possible.

“You’re late,” she says.

I smile as I take the empty wrought-iron chair beside her. “I’m never early.”

A small grin tugs at the corner of her mouth. “That’s true.”

For the next hour, we talk about everything and nothing: school, books, and the terrible quality of institutional food. She tells me about the therapy dog that visits every Wednesday and has better attendance than some patients. I don’t ask questions she isn’t ready to answer.

Before I leave, she grows subdued, her gaze fixed on a distant point beyond the courtyard walls. “You know I wasn’t trying to die, right?”

The words are so soft I almost miss them.

“I just wanted everything to stop for a little while.” I listen to her talk until it’s time for her counseling session. I pull her into a hug and promise to be back soon.