2. Hidden Fault
CHAPTER TWO
HIDDEN FAULT
Ethan
A stack of files topples off the desk, knocking my old sketchbook to the floor.
Charcoal-smudged drawings scatter across the carpet.
I kneel to gather the pages. Claire on the porch of our first apartment, squinting into the sun.
Claire on the college quad, a book open across her knees.
I’d forgotten I used to draw her without asking, the way you hum a song without meaning to.
I can’t remember the last time I did that.
“Mr. Bennett?”
I shove the sketchbook into my desk drawer and turn. Hattie stands in the doorway, purse already on her shoulder.
“Your last appointment canceled. I’m leaving early—don’t forget Ellie’s ceremony.”
“Right. Thanks.”
She’s gone before I can say more.
I check my phone, half-expecting a text from Claire but there’s nothing. Lately, Juniper House gets the best of her, and we get whatever’s left. Even when she’s home, her mind is miles away.
Twenty years of building Bennett & Cross Architecture, and now that the firm can thrive without me, all I want is a family dinner without someone checking emails. It feels like we’re managing two separate lives under the same roof.
I stand, catching sight of the photo on my desk—Claire and me at her cousin’s wedding, six years ago. I’m whispering something in her ear, and she’s laughing, her entire face given over to it. I linger for a second, trying to remember what I said to make her laugh.
I grab my keys and head for the door, the unasked question following me: when did we stop trying to make each other laugh?
I pull into the parking lot at Ellie’s middle school. As I search for Claire’s car, I notice its absence. I look at my phone, expecting a text explaining she’s running late. Instead, the screen is blank. No missed calls or messages, so I text her.
Are you on your way? I just arrived at the school. I’ll grab us a seat.
I kill some time in the lobby, chatting with Jennifer Starling—Mona’s mom, before I make my way into the auditorium.
As I settle into a seat near the front, still nothing from Claire. It doesn’t even look like she’s read the message I sent earlier. Ten minutes later, the ceremony begins, and she still hasn’t arrived.
After ninety minutes of speeches and awards, I make my way to the center aisle with the rest of the parents.
Ellie secured first place in the school’s science fair, a project that received more than a little help from her grandfather, Peter.
He’s a retired science teacher who seemed more invested in the competition than she was.
Thirteen years of fatherhood have taught me to read Ellie. When she stepped onto the stage, her eyes scanned the audience. Upon finding me, her gaze flickered to the empty seat beside me. Her smile faltered for only a fraction of a second before she recovered, turning back to the principal.
“Excellent job, Ellie-bean,” I tell her when she finds me at the back of the auditorium.
She groans, rolling her eyes dramatically. “Dad, stop.”
I sling an arm around her shoulders and pull her into a quick side hug. “You’ll always be Ellie-bean.”
“You’re so embarrassing.”
“Occupational hazard of being a dad.”
Before I can respond, her face lights up. “Oh! Dad, come meet Ms. Whitmore,” she says, grabbing my wrist and tugging me toward the auditorium doors.
“Ellie, I know how to walk.”
“Clearly not fast enough.”
I laugh, allowing her to pull me through the crowd.
As we step through the double doors, we stop beside a woman surrounded by a cluster of parents.
She’s petite, with long blonde hair falling over one shoulder, and a laugh that cuts through the lobby chatter.
When she turns toward us, her smile is open and bright.
“Hi, Ms. Whitmore.”
“Hi, Ellie. Congratulations again. You should be proud of yourself.”
Ellie beams, then turns to me. “Dad, this is Ms. Whitmore, my new English teacher.”
“It’s nice to meet you at last, Mr. Bennett,” she says, extending her hand. “I’m filling in for Mrs. Davison until the end of the year. Ellie’s told me so much about you and Mrs. Bennett.”
I shake her hand and smile. “I hope that’s a good thing.”
“Mostly,” she says, giving me a wink.
“Okay, that’s enough grown-up conversation. We’re leaving.” Before either of us can object, Ellie grabs my arm and pulls me toward the exit.
“It was nice meeting you, Mr. Bennett,” she calls after us.
“You too.”
As the doors swing shut, I catch one last glimpse of her smiling at Ellie’s theatrics.
As soon as we settle into the truck, I glance down at my phone. Claire has finally responded.
Claire: Sorry. One of the girls at Juniper House needed stitches this afternoon.
I read the message, the same tired excuse landing somewhere behind my sternum.
I set the phone face down in the center console, a dozen frustrated replies dying on my tongue. Before I can decide on one, Ellie breaks the silence.
“Ms. Whitmore is my favorite teacher.”
I glance over and notice her face brighten. Her enthusiasm is contagious. Most middle schoolers complain about their teachers, but Ellie praises hers. “What makes her your favorite?”
“She really listens, not like most adults. And she makes reading fun, which I didn’t think was possible. Plus, she’s in charge of the summer drama program.”
“Well, those seem like pretty proficient qualifications.”
“They are.”
The way she says it makes me suspicious. I can hear the slight pause she puts in before certain words. She is building toward something. I glance at her. “What?”
“What do you mean, what?”
“Ellie.”
She lets out an exaggerated sigh, leaning her head against the window. “Nothing.”
“Uh-huh.”
After a few seconds of silence, she finally caves.
“Okay, fine. Ms. Whitmore is looking for parent volunteers for the summer drama program.”
I bite back a smile. “And?”
“And—” She picks at a loose thread on her dress. “I was hoping Mom might sign up. I told her that Mom used to volunteer at my school all the time.” The excitement that animated her face earlier fades.
“But I’m sure she’ll be too busy.” She says it with a practiced casualness.
I check the rearview mirror, not for traffic but to avoid her gaze. It’s the certainty in her voice that hits me—at thirteen, she’s already learned not to hope for too much.
The rest of the drive home passes in a blur of traffic lights and my own thoughts. It’s only when I shift the truck into park in our driveway that I realize how unusually quiet Ellie is. When I look back, I see she’s staring out the passenger window, twisting the award ribbon around her fingers.
“Everything okay, Ellie-bean?”
Her shoulders lift in a small shrug. She picks at a loose thread on her seatbelt for a long moment, then finally meets my eyes. Her voice is barely a whisper when she asks, “Does Mom love those girls more than she loves me?”
Not at all what I was expecting. “Sweetheart, your mom loves you more than anything.”
“Then why wasn’t she there tonight?”
The question doesn’t belong only to Ellie. Lately, part of me has been asking it too.
“One of the girls had an incident today and needed medical attention. Your mom had to stay and help.”
Her eyes well up with tears she refuses to shed. “She promised she’d be there,” she whispers, quickly adding, “But I get it.”
I search for something helpful to say as I cut the engine. “Your mom isn’t choosing those girls over you. She’s just... she’s trying to do the best job she can. It’s not about you, Ellie. It’s never been about you.”
She doesn’t respond, so I continue. “You’re her favorite person in the entire world—you’re even above me.” I give her an exaggerated wink, hoping to coax a smile. A reluctant grin finally appears. I wish I had a clever comeback, or a reassurance I believed myself.