Page 96 of Faultlines

I think back to my conversation with Lucy and Sloane yesterday.

“We’ll go while Ethan’s at work,” Lucy said gently. “We’ll pack whatever you and Ellie need.”

Lost in thought, I hear the distant thud of a car door closing. I glance outside and see Reid getting out of his sports car at the main house, the afternoon sun reflecting off the chrome. As he walks toward the steps, Jensen comes out onto the porch and points toward the barn. Reid nods and starts down the path that leads to my door.

I set down my coffee, suddenly nervous.

A few minutes later, a sharp knock sounds at the apartment door, making me jump. I consider ignoring it. But after gathering my courage, I unlock the door and pull it open.

Reid looks at my swollen, red-rimmed eyes.

“Oh, Claire,” he says quietly as he steps inside and wraps me in a tight hug.

I bury my face in his shoulder. The rough fabric of his shirt is a small comfort as I begin to cry. When I finally pull myself together, I gesture for him to come inside.

My voice is hoarse when I finally speak. “I have nothing to offer you. I haven’t been to the store. Lucy and Jensen have been leaving food for me.”

“I’m fine, Claire. You don’t need to worry about me.”

“I guess Ethan called you?”

“He did. He’s worried about you, but I told him he lost that right. I told him last week he was going to lose the best thing that ever happened to him if he wasn’t careful.”

I pause, the implication of his words sinking in. “You knew?”

“I suspected, and then I figured it out after the conference.”

I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste copper. “Why didn’t you come to me? I thought we were friends, Reid. I’ve known you my whole life. I would have come to you if the situation were reversed.”

“I’m sorry, Claire. I kept telling myself I’d find the right time, but I never did. I thought if I said something, I’d lose you both—and I was too selfish to risk that. I chose the coward’s way out, and I let you get hurt.”

“I need you to leave.”

He offers that sympathetic look again. “Okay, I’ll go. But for what it’s worth, I am sorry. And I’m here for whatever you need.” He turns and walks out.

I sink onto the edge of the sofa and stare at the closed door. The apartment feels impossibly quiet. The adrenaline that carried me through the last two days is gone.

Ethans name glows on my screen while I search for the courage to press it. So many conversations sit behind that contact. Thousands of text messages. Hundreds of photographs. An entire marriage condensed into a few digital folders.

Instead of opening our messages, I tap the photo album.

The first picture is of seven-year-old Ellie standing proudly beside a sandcastle. Ethan kneels next to her, reinforcing the walls while she points out the inferiority of his engineering skills.

The next is Christmas morning, the glow of the tree reflected in our eyes. Then a family vacation. Then Ethan asleep in a lounge chair with toddler Ellie sprawled across his chest, one small hand wrapped around a lock of his hair.

I keep scrolling.

Our first house.

Our tenth anniversary.

The day we brought Ellie home from the hospital.

Birthdays. School events. Holidays. Ordinary afternoons.

The worst part is that none of it feels fake. That is the one thing I cannot reconcile. This would be easier if Ethan had been a terrible husband, if he’d spent years neglecting us or treating us poorly. Then maybe I could understand what happened. I could look back and find the warning signs I missed.

But that isn’t our story.