Page 69 of Faultlines

I want you to go with me.

I don’t wait for her response before I continue⁠—

We’ll walk where no one knows us, eat terrible room-service, and pretend life is simple just for one weekend.

After a long silence, three dots appear, disappear, appear again⁠—

Brooke: Okay.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

FRACTURE

Claire

The shrill ring of my phone jerks me awake long before sunrise. Whitney’s name glows on the screen. Overnight staff never call this early unless something has gone wrong.

Beside me, Ethan stirs beneath the covers, letting out a sleepy sigh as I reach for the phone.

“Claire Bennett,” I whisper.

Whitney’s voice is thin and shaken, just above a whisper. Someone vandalized Juniper House overnight. They sprayed graffiti in angry, black slashes across the side of the building.

As she finishes, I’m already throwing back the blankets. “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I tell her, my words clipped and urgent, before ending the call with a definitive click.

The drive feels longer than usual, every red light and slow turn giving the anger more time to settle into something harder. When I arrive, several staff members are already outside, their hushed voices and grave faces assessing the damage.

The vandalism is lazy but pointed—someone took a can of red paint to the siding and scrawled WHORES across the wall in wobbly, childish letters, the color still wet and dripping like something wounded.

I also note several newly planted flower beds torn apart, the young plants uprooted, and shattered glass from a broken security light glittered across the pavement.

As I walk the property with Whitney, I notice Heidi standing near the front steps. Her face is pale. She’s staring at the graffiti, her gaze fixed with an expression that catches my attention. I excuse myself from the conversation, the murmur of voices fading behind me, and walk over.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

She doesn’t answer right away. Her eyes remain fixed on the defaced wall, as if trying to decipher a hidden message. “What if it were Jake?”

“What makes you think that?”

“I saw him last week at the grocery store.”

“Did he talk to you?”

“He followed me to my car.”

The anger arrives before I can think. “What?” The word is a guttural sound.

“He didn’t do anything.” Her voice is small, defensive.

“Heidi—following you to your car is a serious matter.”

She looks away and focuses on the broken glass on the pavement. “I knew you’d react like this.”

“Because I want you to take this seriously.” My voice is firm now, unwavering.

“He just stood there, staring at me.”

I force myself to take a calming breath, to rein in the panic clawing at me. “You should have told me.”