Chapter 9
Claire
The next day crawled by in the way only school days could, which came from pretending to be composed in front of two dozen children while your heart was frayed at the edges.
By mid-morning, my throat already burned from reading aloud three picture books, my hair frizzed from running my hand through it.
But the kids were gentle today. Softer, maybe they sensed my sadness.
Lily wasn’t in class, and the empty desk near the window carried a quiet gravity. The children kept glancing at it, then at me, as if waiting for reassurance I didn’t entirely have.
We spent the last hour making cards, bright and earnest. Smudged crayons. Stick figures with crooked smiles.
One card had a purple cat with wings. Another had a rainbow that took up the whole page. Every one of them had Lily’s name.
By the time the final bell rang and the classroom emptied in a wave of backpacks and laughter, I felt like I’d aged a decade.
I gathered the cards carefully, smoothing the papers as though they were fragile. Maybe they were. Grief made everything delicate.
Outside, the sunlight was gold and dwindling.
The air smelled faintly of motor oil from Ben Hartley’s mechanic shop across the street, its garage door rolled open, country rock drifting from a dusty speaker.
He was bent over Sophie’s old hatchback, sleeves rolled up, grease streaking the curve of his forearm.
Sophie stood by the bench, sipping iced tea and chatting with him while keeping an eye on her four-year-old, Owen, who zoomed toy cars across the pavement.
For a moment, I just stood there, the folder of cards tucked under my arm, breathing in the familiar rhythms of this town. Maplewood in its unpolished, comforting simplicity.
Sophie spotted me and waved me over.
“You look wiped,” she teased, patting the bench beside her.
I sat, exhaling. “Long day.”
“When is it not?” she said dryly. Then her expression softened. “How are you holding up with… well, everything?”
I shrugged, because the answer wasn’t simple. “Trying not to think too far ahead.”
She nudged me with her shoulder. “I heard Ethan’s back.”
I closed my eyes for half a second. “Yep.”
“And?”
Her tone was knowing. Too knowing.
“And what?” I deflected.
“Claire.” Sophie arched a brow. “Don’t start.”
I picked at a loose thread on my sleeve. “There’s nothing to start. He’s here. That’s all.”
“That’s not ‘all’ and you know it.”
She lowered her voice. “Just… be careful.”
I forced a small smile. “I’m fine.”
She gave me a look that said she believed me exactly zero percent, but she let it go.
“So,” I said quickly, “how was Lily with Owen yesterday?”
At that, Sophie brightened. “Sweet as ever. Quiet, but she warmed up after a while. Owen made her a ‘sand soup’ at the playground. She pretended to eat it.”
I laughed softly. “You should have taken a sip.”
She laughed sarcastically.
“Poor kid,” Sophie murmured. “She’s been through too much.”
I nodded. My heart squeezed.
Protectiveness for Lily was second nature, but now it came with the sharp edge of fear, fear that the ground beneath all of us had shifted in ways we couldn’t have predicted.
After a few more minutes of small talk, I stood, saying goodbye to Sophie and Ben, and made my way toward the Walker house.