Page 68 of Faultlines

I lay out the details of the conference, weaving a story from legitimate workshops and seminars I found online. The lie is seamless, professional, and everything I say is technically true.

When I finish, she nods, a thoughtful expression on her face. “Honestly, it sounds good for you.”

I’m thrown by her immediate acceptance. “Really?”

“Of course.” Her voice is warm. “You’ve been working nonstop for months. If this is something you need, go.”

The trust in her voice should be enough for me to change my mind. Instead, I smile and nod. “I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about me being gone for the weekend.”

She laughs, a clear, ringing sound. “Ethan, you’ve been gone every night for the last month. At least this is work-related.”

I mention the conference to Reid while we’re reviewing plans for the Mercer Development project, blueprints rustling between us.

“Hey, that architecture conference in Seattle this coming weekend? I signed up.”

That gets his attention. His chair creaks under his weight, his expression unreadable. “You voluntarily signed up for a conference?”

“Yes.”

He squints at me, a hint of playful suspicion in his expression. “Did you lose a bet? There’s no other reason you’d sign up for a conference.”

“Hilarious.”

“No, seriously. You hate conferences.”

“I don’t hate conferences.”

He’s right. I’ve spent years complaining about conferences, networking events, hotel ballrooms, and awkward small talk. The sudden shift is noticeable, and judging by the look on Reid’s face, he’s noticed it.

“This one looks interesting,” I say.

He studies me for several seconds. “Interesting.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“It’s clearly something.”

He shrugs, a slight shift of his shoulders. “I just find it surprising.”

I become defensive, a knot tightening in my stomach. “Maybe I’m just trying something different.”

“Sure.” He searches my face before giving a single nod that feels more like a verdict than agreement.

That night, after Claire falls asleep, I sit alone, staring at my phone. The room is dark except for the small rectangle of light in my hand.

For days, I’ve been building this cover story. On my desk is the conference brochure. My inbox contains the hotel confirmation. The route is mapped out. Each lie is plausible on its own, but stacked together, they have a dangerous weight.

Her name waits beneath my thumb, daring me to decide. For several seconds, I stare at it, the letters shimmering.

Before, the lies were small, improvised, almost accidental. I told myself I was just responding to circumstances, not steering them. But this weekend—booking the room, clearing my calendar, rehearsing what I’d say to Claire—required planning. Intention. I’m not drifting into something anymore; I’m already there.

Finally, I type a message.

Have you decided?

I lean back against the headboard, the cool wood pressing against my scalp. I stare at the message for a long time, before typing again.