Page 95 of Faultlines

“Did she tell you that?”

“She’ll contact you when she’s ready.”

I run a hand through my hair, now damp with sweat. Panic rising within me.

“When she’s ready?” I repeat, the words tasting like ash. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Check your phone.”

A second later, my phone vibrates against my palm and I jolt—a text, a video.

Dread washes over me as I click on it. The video starts fuzzy and dark, then focuses, the image resolving with sickening clarity.

I see the storage closet. I see myself from behind, my shoulders hunched, holding Brooke against a shelf. We’re both breathing heavily, the sound amplified and distorted, and then Brooke says my name, a soft, intimate murmur.

I turn it off, unable to watch further.

Oh God, what have I done?

For a few seconds, I can’t move. The phone remains in my hand, a dead weight, and even after the screen goes dark, I can’t seem to loosen my fingers around it.

My first instinct is to deny it, to grasp for an explanation that would make it smaller, less ugly, less real. But no explanation exists.

The porch tilts beneath me, and I have to grip the railing until the dizziness passes. My body comprehends the damage before my mind can form a complete thought. Claire’s image flashes through my head—her standing in the doorway of that room, the soft light illuminating her face.

Across from me, Sloane’s face is a portrait of shared misery. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her like this, at least not directed toward me. She tightly crosses her arms, one hand gripping her own elbow hard enough that her knuckles press white against her sleeve. The sarcasm is gone.

“That was girls’ night,” Sloane says, so quietly I almost don’t hear her over the ringing in my ears. The air, thick with the promise of a thunderstorm, presses in on me. Her jaw is tight, a muscle jumping beneath her skin. “I’ve loved you like a brother, Ethan.” She clears her throat with too much force. “You and Claire were the gold standard.”

I want to tell her to stop, to make the words unsaid. Mostly, I want to go back to this morning, to the cold sheet and the silent phone, and recognize the disaster before it finished forming around me.

“I told myself I would not cry over someone else’s marriage,” she says, with the faintest ghost of her usual bite, a tremor in her voice. “Terrible plan. Zero stars. Would not recommend.”

The joke should sound like Sloane. It almost does, but her eyes are shining, and this time she doesn’t look away fast enough. One solitary tear slides down her cheek.

“If you go looking for her right now, you’ll make this about your panic instead of her pain.” She swallows with visible effort. “And because somebody should care more about what happens to her than about making you feel better, I’m not letting you confront her right now.”

She steps back toward the door, then pauses with her hand on the metal frame. I think she is going to say something cruel. Instead, her voice comes out low and unsteady.

“People say love is supposed to survive everything. But sometimes love survives by leaving before there’s nothing left of it.”

Then she gives me one last look, and the sarcasm returns. “Congratulations, Ethan. You finally made me speechless. Historic day for the town.”

I’m pulled from my thoughts by the sharp slam of a screen door. I look up and watch her walk into the house without looking back.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

EVACUATION ORDER

Claire

I pull open another dresser drawer and stare at the handful of clothes Lucy lent me.

Nothing feels like mine.

I settle on an oversized sweatshirt that smells faintly of hay and laundry detergent, then glance around the apartment above the barn. The familiar mustiness lingers in the air, mixing with the scent of horses drifting in through the open window.

I can’t make myself go back to the house. Not today. Maybe not tomorrow, either.