Page 84 of Faultlines

“Very.”

He stands. I guess the meeting is over. He pauses at the door, and I think he’s going to say something else, but he continues on.

The door clicks shut with a finality. I think about deleting the message—my thumb hovering over the trash icon—but Ellie is grinning beneath that crooked crown, and Brooke’s laugh is frozen mid-breath, and I can’t. Not yet. I tell myself I’ll delete it tomorrow. I power the screen off instead.

The rest of the afternoon refuses to move. I check the clock so many times that I start to doubt whether I’m reading it right. By four o’clock, my concentration is gone and I’m pretending to work, when a knock sounds against my office door. Before I can answer, Ellie pushes it open, a gust of fresh air from the hallway following her in. “Hey, Dad.”

A smile tugs at my mouth, chasing away some of the day’s tension. “Hey yourself. Did you thank Grandpa for dropping you here?”

She drops her backpack onto the chair across from my desk with a thump and collapses with a sigh. “Yes.”

“Tough day?” I ask, a hint of amusement in my voice.

“I’m exhausted,” she groans, slumping further into the chair.

I laugh. “You’re thirteen.”

“Exactly. It’s a very difficult age.” She sticks her hand in the bowl of candy on my desk and starts sorting through it, the crinkle of wrappers a soft sound.

“You always take all the good stuff.”

“I’m your daughter. You should hide it if you don’t want anyone else to eat it,” she deadpans, a mini-chocolate bar already in her hand.

She always has a calming effect on me. I set aside the plans I’d been pretending to review, pushing them to the edge of my desk.

“What’s wrong?” I raise an eyebrow, a slight smile playing on my lips.

She sinks lower into the chair. “Nobody knows their lines, and according to Ms. Whitmore, we’re entering the panic stage.”

“That sounds serious.”

“It is serious.” She points the candy bar she just unwrapped at me like a tiny, chocolate-coated scepter. “Do you know how hard it is to rule a kingdom when the White Rabbit keeps forgetting his cues?”

“I imagine it’s extremely challenging.”

“Thank you.”

I nod solemnly, mirroring her seriousness. “Leadership is difficult.”

“Exactly.” For several minutes, she regales me with tales of rehearsal disasters and various middle-school catastrophes, her voice rising and falling. “Ms. Whitmore says dwelling is unproductive.”

“Did she really say that?”

“No.” She grins, a flash of mischief in her eyes. “But it sounded smart.”

Minutes later, we head downstairs to the parking lot. The school is a short drive, and as we pull out, she resumes chatting.

We arrive at the school, and kids are carrying costume pieces and props. Someone tests stage lights, sending a blinding white beam sweeping across the empty seats. The entire space feels one step away from complete catastrophe.

“You are right about the havoc,” I tell Ellie, my voice just audible above the noise.

“We’re getting too close to opening night for this nonsense,” she replies in a serious tone.

Apparently, that explains everything.

Brooke spots us from the stage, and relief flashes across her face before she replaces it with a professional smile. The expression is subtle enough that no one else would notice, but I notice everything about her.

“Mr. Bennett,” she calls from the stage, and I find myself standing a little straighter without meaning to.