16. Fault Slip
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
FAULT SLIP
Claire
Wednesday arrives faster than I’d like. Despite spending the better part of a week preparing for the meeting with the board, I still don’t feel ready.
My notes are organized. The incident timeline is printed.
Copies of our revised safety procedures sit neatly in a folder beside me.
None of it quiets the voice in my head. What if I missed something?
I smooth invisible wrinkles from my blouse before making my way down the hallway toward the conference room. Every step feels heavier than the last.
The conference room is already half full when I walk in.
Denise Mitchell, our board chair, rises to greet me with a warm smile. Around the table sit six other board members, along with our executive director. Coffee cups, notepads, and neatly stacked copies of Heidi’s incident report are arranged in front of them.
The sight of the report makes my stomach tighten.
“Claire,” Denise says, extending a hand. “Thank you for meeting with us.”
“Of course.”
“We know this has been an incredibly difficult few months.”
I nod, taking the empty chair at the end of the table.
Karen waits until everyone has settled before speaking. “First, I want to be clear about why we’re here.” Her voice is calm, measured. “This isn’t about assigning blame. We know the staff responded quickly, followed protocol, and most importantly, that Heidi received immediate medical attention.”
A small breath escapes my lungs.
“But,” she continues gently, “an event like this requires us to ask difficult questions—because we owe it to every resident in our care to learn from it.”
Around the table, heads nod in agreement.
Denise folds her hands. “Can you walk us through everything that happened that day?”
I glance down at my notes. Then I close the folder, because I don’t need a script for this. Taking a steadying breath, I meet their eyes.
“I can.”
My mind is still replaying the board meeting the following morning when I arrive at Juniper House—and find Heidi standing on the porch with arms crossed. She looks thinner, though not alarmingly so. More concerning is the look in her eyes. Her confidence has vanished, making her appear hesitant.
I spend the next several days helping her transition back into the house.
We review treatment recommendations, coordinate therapy appointments, and ease her back into daily routines.
Throughout it all, something still feels off.
She seems withdrawn. Several times I catch her staring into space as though she were somewhere else.
Every time I ask if she’s okay, she gives the same answer, “I’m fine. ”
I give her space, busying myself with paperwork. Pushing her will only make her retreat further.
One afternoon, I look up from my desk, and Heidi is standing in the doorway.
“I lied to you a few months ago.”
My stomach tightens. “About what?”
“The cut and bruise on my cheek. I didn’t run into an open cabinet door in chemistry lab.”
I stop writing mid-word, my pen pressing into the paper.
The ink bleeds through to the intake form beneath, blurring the emergency contact line I’m filling out.
I don’t lift the pen. I know that if I move—if I so much as shift in my chair—my face will betray everything.
Years of training, of maintaining composure while children described horrors, and still my hands want to shake.
I focus on the stain spreading beneath the pen, until I can trust my voice again.
“Okay,” I mumble.
“Jake, my boyfriend—” The word just sits there, blunt and heavy.
Boyfriend. I didn’t know she had a boyfriend.
My stomach pulls tight, like a thread about to snap.
She swallows hard before continuing. “He’s a senior at Riverstone High.
He plays on the football team. We met when I was at his high school for a track meet.
” Riverstone is a few towns over and our high school’s biggest football rival.
Something in me goes cold and sharp at the same time. I want to find this punk who hurt her and make sure he never gets near her again.
She tells me about the first time he got angry and physical, when she was late meeting him after school.
“He just got this look—and squeezed my arm.” She traces the memory on her own skin.
“After that, I started checking in all the time, just so he wouldn’t get upset.
” The story continues like that, each step into the darkness sounding like an act of love.
She finally says, “I thought he loved me,” tears stream down her face. I see past the anger and the self-destructive choices to the core of her: a girl so desperate to be loved she accepted cruelty instead.
I move my chair a little closer. “You deserve so much better. I hope you know that.”
Her shoulders shake. Since I’ve known her, this is the first time she’s let herself cry—in front of me.
“I have to report this, Heidi,” I say.
“You can’t. His dad is a judge. Last summer, half the football team got caught with pills at that lake party—suspended. But not him. His parents ‘donated’ the new stadium that fall. That’s how it works in Riverstone.”
“Don’t worry about that right now. You let me worry about that, and I’m going to do everything in my power to keep you safe.”
The morning after Heidi confides in me about Jake, I find myself at work long before anyone else arrives.
Detective Hale arrives from the Juniper Ridge Sheriff’s Office to take a statement and speak with Heidi. I call her to my office. When she spots the detective, her shoulders tense.
“You told.” Her voice cracks on the second word.
“I’ve spoken with the people whose job it is to help keep you safe.”
“Heidi—”
“I knew I shouldn’t have told you.”
We both look up when the detective clears his throat.
“Hi, Heidi. I’m Detective Hale.” He offers a small smile, the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes yet—he’s saving that for when she’s ready to believe it.
“I’m just here to listen. Our primary job, as Mrs. Bennett said, is to help keep you safe.
Why don’t you tell me what happened, and then we’ll figure out the next steps together. ”
The three of us spend the next hour in my office as Heidi speaks, and the detective takes notes for his report.
We discuss with her what to do if Jake contacts her or if she sees him.
I want her to know she isn’t facing this alone anymore.
She reluctantly admits that he’s recently contacted her through multiple social media accounts.
Together, we review her privacy settings, block his accounts, and document his messages.
When we’re finish, the detective informs us he will be in touch with updates.
I touch base with Detective Hale three times over the next week, and I’m disappointed by the lack of updates.
Heidi was correct about his parents. When detectives showed up at the door, his father stepped onto the porch and denied everything like a man reading from a script.
Before they could finish their questions, his mother appeared behind him with a business card already in hand—Harrison & Vale, the same firm that has buried three separate Title IX complaints in the last two years.
The detectives were informed that any further communication would be handled through counsel, and the door clicked shut with the finality of a vault.
By the time I step out the front doors of Juniper House, the sky has settled into that deep blue that comes just before nightfall.
The girls finished dinner nearly an hour ago.
Marisol headed home after reminding me—for the third time—that I needed to stop staying so late. I told her I was almost done.
I lied.
I sling my purse over my shoulder and step outside. The parking lot is mostly empty except for my car. Across the street, beneath the dying light, a black pickup truck sits along the curb.
I pause. It isn’t unusual for vehicles to park there. Still...
Something about it makes me look twice. The engine is running. I can’t make out the driver through the windshield. I unlock my car and glance back as I climb inside. The truck hasn’t moved. I shake off the feeling and pull onto the road.
At the first stop sign, I check my rearview mirror.
Headlights.
Dark pickup.
I tell myself it’s just a coincidence. There are only so many ways out of this neighborhood.
I turn right. The truck turns right. I tell myself not to be ridiculous.
Left at the next light. The truck follows.
I grip the steering wheel a little tighter. By the third turn, my pulse has climbed high enough that I can hear it.
If it’s following me...
Don’t drive home.
My phone is beside me in the cupholder, maybe I should call for help, but what would I even say? A truck is behind me? The thought feels absurd. I glance in the mirror again. The truck keeps a normal distance. Never speeding up or falling back.
Almost...
Patient.
I decide to test it. Instead of taking my usual route, I turn into the grocery store parking lot. The truck slows. For one suspended heartbeat, I think it’s turning in too. Instead, it continues straight through the intersection.
Gone.
I sit there gripping the steering wheel long after the taillights disappear, and eventually I laugh.