Chapter 14 Fault Lines
FAULT LINES
NATE
You know what's fucked up? I've gotten really good at avoiding things.
Like, expert level. I can spot a conversation I don't want to have from a mile away and find seventeen different ways to not be in the room when it needs to happen.
It's a skill I picked up from years of living with Scott—always one step ahead of whatever shitstorm he was brewing.
But the thing about avoidance—it only works until it doesn't. And right now, watching Jake hunched over his laptop like he's trying to disappear into it, I can feel that familiar itch under my skin. The one that says do something even when I have no fucking clue what that something is.
Jake sits there with his shoulders pulled up to his ears, defensive as hell. The sight of him like that—isolated, angry, shutting me out—it does something to my chest.
It’s been a few days since the engagement party.
Days of Jake treating me like I'm radioactive, leaving rooms when I walk in, avoiding eye contact like it'll kill him. I've been telling myself to give him space, let him cool off.
But we're living in the same fucking house, breathing the same air, and this tension is choking everyone.
I pour coffee, mostly because I need something to do with my hands while I figure out how the hell to approach this. Jake doesn't look up, but his jaw gets tighter when he hears me moving around.
Every line of his body screams leave me alone, but I tried that and it got us absolutely nowhere.
"How's school going?" I settle into the chair across from him, keeping it neutral.
His fingers stop on the keyboard for half a second. "Fine."
The word drops between us like a rock. I wait for more, but he's already back to typing, hitting the keys harder than necessary like he's trying to punch through them.
"You figured out your major yet?"
"Yes, Nate." Sharper now.
I sip my coffee—it tastes bitter, matches the mood here. Through the window I can see Mom's roses, the ones she planted after Scott bailed. They're still blooming, stubborn as hell.
"Listen, I know things are—"
"Just stop." Jake slams the laptop shut. Sound echoes through the kitchen like a gunshot. "We talked about this at the party. I told you what I needed from you this summer."
"That's ridiculous—"
He's already pushing back from the table, but fuck that. I'm not done.
"When did you stop believing I gave a shit about you?"
It lands exactly how I wanted it to—unexpectedly, cutting through his armor just enough to make him actually think instead of just reacting. For a second his mask slips and I see the kid underneath all that anger.
But then his phone buzzes on the table. The caller ID flashes Dad and something cold slides down my spine.
Jake grabs it fast, but not fast enough.
Our eyes meet for a split second and there's something there—guilt maybe, or fear.
"Hey." His voice changes completely. Smaller, careful. "Yeah, give me twenty minutes."
I watch his face while he listens to whatever Scott's saying.
His free hand fidgets with the laptop edge, and there's tension in his shoulders that wasn't there before.
I know that tension. I used to carry it myself when I was trying to read Scott's moods, figure out which version of him I'd be dealing with.
"No, that's fine. I'll bring the files." Pause. "Okay. See you soon."
He hangs up and starts gathering his stuff, moving with that frantic energy you get when you know you can't keep someone waiting.
"Jake—"
"I have to go." Already heading for the door, laptop bag over his shoulder. "Dad—" He stops. "You know what, forget it."
Dad. That word hits me wrong every fucking time.
Scott Sullivan stopped being our father the day he decided his pride mattered more than his family. But Jake still uses that title like it means something.
I want to tell him a million things. Want to explain how Scott operates—starts small with a comment here, suggestion there, until you're so turned around you can't tell which thoughts are yours and which ones he planted in your head.
But Jake's already gone, front door slamming behind him while the sound echoes through the empty house.
I sit there staring at the spot where he was, and that familiar weight settles in my chest. Helplessness. It's the absolute worst feeling—it makes me feel like I'm twelve again, small and scared and completely fucking paralyzed. This is what Scott does.
He divides and conquers, finds cracks in relationships and wedges them wider until families break apart from the inside.
My phone buzzes.
Nick
Can you come down to Sonder? Need to talk to you about something.
My gut twists.
Something's wrong.
I should be used to this feeling by now—my life's basically been a series of unfortunate events since I was old enough to pay attention.
I grab the Mustang keys, grateful for an excuse to get out of this house and away from its ghosts.
The car's been sitting in the garage since I left, covered like some sleeping beast. When I pull off the tarp, the black paint gleams in the dim light and for a second I'm seventeen again, working on this engine instead of trying to fix things that might be permanently broken.
The Mustang purrs to life like it's been waiting for me.
As I back out, the radio kicks in and "Lucky Man" by the Verve fills the car. I have to laugh at the bitter irony—a song about fortune and fate when my life feels like anything but lucky.
Driving through Eden in daylight feels different—less forgiving than it did the night of the party.
Every corner holds a memory, every building a story I'd rather forget.
But there's something about being behind the wheel of this car, windows down, music playing, that makes it bearable.
Like I'm moving through the past instead of being trapped in it.
Sonder looks better than when I left.
Jay's behind the counter, clearing glasses with practiced efficiency. But when I walk through the door, there's someone else here I wasn't expecting.
Officer Danny Stanton—the cop I turned myself in to last summer after my fight with Evan.
"Nate, you remember Danny," Nick says, and there's something in his tone that makes me pay attention.
I shake Danny's hand, noting how he studies my face like he's looking for something specific.
"Good to see you again, Nate. I hear you've been doing well."
"One day at a time, right?"
Danny nods like he knows exactly what that means. "That's all any of us can do."
"Jay, leave it. Come out back with us," Nick says.
The office is cramped with all of us in here, but it's private, which apparently matters for whatever conversation we're about to have.
"What's this about?" I settle into one of the mismatched chairs Nick keeps back here.
Nick and Danny exchange one of those looks that says they've already discussed how to handle this, who's going to deliver the bad news.
"You remember when I told you about the stuff happening in South Side?" Nick asks.
"Yeah." The things he mentioned while we were in Spain. Families getting forced out, businesses closing, fires starting out of nowhere.
Danny leans forward, cop instincts engaged.
"It's more than market forces. I've been flagging these incidents for months, but my reports keep getting buried. Captain says I'm seeing patterns that aren't there, but I know something's off."
"What kind of incidents?"
"Suspicious fires in rent-controlled buildings.
Code violations that appear overnight for businesses that've been operating fine for years.
Sudden increases in drug activity in specific neighborhoods—always right before property values tank.
" Danny's jaw is tight, frustration radiating off him.
"And every time I try to investigate, I get told to focus on other cases.
Evidence disappears. I've had to start making backups of everything I find. "
Nick picks up the thread. "The timing's too convenient. These aren't random acts of urban decay—they're coordinated. Someone's systematically clearing out South Side, and they're not being subtle about it."
I feel cold certainty settling in my stomach, even before Nick says what I'm already thinking.
"Nate, we think it's Scott behind this whole operation."
That fucking name.
Even though I saw it coming, it still burns a hole in my chest.
Of course it's Scott.
Of course he found a way to profit from other people's misery while keeping his hands clean enough to maintain his reputation.
"You have proof?" I ask, though I already know from their faces.
"Nothing that would hold up in court," Danny admits. "But I've been a cop for twelve years, and I know when something really fucking stinks. Problem is, I'm starting to think there are people in the department getting paid to look the other way. I don't know who to trust anymore."
"Danny's skating on thin ice with his captain," Nick adds. "He's already been told to let it go, which tells us the corruption goes higher than we thought."
"There's no hard evidence it's Scott," Danny continues, "but after what he pulled with you last year, it wouldn't surprise me if he's graduated to bigger schemes."
Jay, who's been quiet this whole time, finally speaks up.
"I might have an idea." He glances around, making sure we're keeping this private.
"There's a guy I used to know who might be able to help track down files, financial records, that kind of thing.
Adrian Di Laurentis. He grew up here but lives in London now.
Big tech guy, works in cybersecurity. If anyone could dig up digital evidence, it'd be him. "
The name sounds familiar, but I can't place it. "You think he'd help?"
"Worth asking. He never liked how certain families in this town operated. If Scott's really behind this, Adrian would want to know."