30. Surface Evidence
CHAPTER THIRTY
SURFACE EVIDENCE
Ethan
I kill the engine and sit in the parking lot longer than I should. Reid’s words echo through my head. You’re playing with fire, Ethan.
I grip the handle of my laptop bag before forcing myself out of the truck. The worn leather is already warm in my hand by the time I reach the front doors.
The office hums with its usual morning rhythm. Phones ring. Someone laughs down the hall. A printer spits out page after page. Normally, the familiar chaos settles me. Bennett-Cross has felt like a second home for years.
Today, I can’t shake the feeling that Reid was wrong to interfere. Or that he was right.
“Morning, Mr. Bennett,” Hattie greets me as I pass her desk, her voice a cheerful counterpoint to how I’m feeling.
“Hattie.”
She narrows her eyes, the office lights glinting off her glasses. “You look unwell.”
“Thank you for your concern.”
“I’m serious.” She studies me for another second, a small frown creasing her brow. “Conference hangover still?”
“If only.”
That earns a laugh. “Well, your nine o’clock is waiting, your inbox is horrifying, and Reid has already asked for you twice.” Of course, he has. My stomach tightens around the thought.
“Anything else?”
“Yes.” Hattie lowers her voice, leaning closer until I can smell her peppermint gum. “I think someone stole my yogurt from the break-room refrigerator.”
I stop walking. “Again?”
“Again.”
“This is becoming a serious workplace issue.”
“I agree.”
“We should install cameras.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
I make the mistake of looking toward Reid’s office. He’s already watching me through the glass wall. My smile disappears, and I’m left with nothing on my face at all.
Hattie follows my gaze and mutters, “Good luck with whatever that is.”
I don’t bother responding because I know what that is. Reid and I have survived economic downturns, impossible projects, and one horrific attempt at office karaoke during a Christmas party—the memory of it still makes me shudder.
I’m pretending to review construction documents, the faint scent of ink and paper filling the air, when he appears in my doorway. “Afternoon.”
“Hey.” The exchange is awkward enough to make me wince.
He drops a folder onto my desk. “I reviewed the Harbor Falls proposal that was submitted last week by that new developer over in Fern Valley.”
Relief washes through me, we’re talking about work and not my personal life.
“Okay.”
“I think we should pass.”
“Why?”
“The timeline and budget are unrealistic.”
I nod. “I thought the same thing.”
We continue discussing staffing projections, environmental impact studies, and permitting issues. The conversation feels normal, the familiar rhythm of our professional banter a comfort. I start to believe things might be okay between us.
Then my phone buzzes, a soft vibration against my thigh. I glance down and see a message from Brooke. The text contains a picture of Ellie wearing an oversized costume, including a bedazzled crown, and making a ridiculous face.
Brooke: Your daughter has embraced her royal villain era.
Reid’s eyes move from my face to my phone. The comfortable atmosphere vanishes. I lock my phone and set it face down on the desk with a soft click.
“How’s Ellie?” The question sounds innocent enough, yet a thread of something sharper, runs beneath it. “Excited for opening night?”
“Very.”
He stands. I guess the meeting is over. He pauses at the door, and I think he’s going to say something else, but he continues on.
The door clicks shut with a finality. I think about deleting the message—my thumb hovering over the trash icon—but Ellie is grinning beneath that crooked crown, and Brooke’s laugh is frozen mid-breath, and I can’t. Not yet. I tell myself I’ll delete it tomorrow. I power the screen off instead.
The rest of the afternoon refuses to move.
I check the clock so many times that I start to doubt whether I’m reading it right.
By four o’clock, my concentration is gone and I’m pretending to work, when a knock sounds against my office door.
Before I can answer, Ellie pushes it open, a gust of fresh air from the hallway following her in. “Hey, Dad.”
A smile tugs at my mouth, chasing away some of the day’s tension. “Hey yourself. Did you thank Grandpa for dropping you here?”
She drops her backpack onto the chair across from my desk with a thump and collapses with a sigh. “Yes.”
“Tough day?” I ask, a hint of amusement in my voice.
“I’m exhausted,” she groans, slumping further into the chair.
I laugh. “You’re thirteen.”
“Exactly. It’s a very difficult age.” She sticks her hand in the bowl of candy on my desk and starts sorting through it, the crinkle of wrappers a soft sound.
“You always take all the good stuff.”
“I’m your daughter. You should hide it if you don’t want anyone else to eat it,” she deadpans, a mini-chocolate bar already in her hand.
She always has a calming effect on me. I set aside the plans I’d been pretending to review, pushing them to the edge of my desk.
“What’s wrong?” I raise an eyebrow, a slight smile playing on my lips.
She sinks lower into the chair. “Nobody knows their lines, and according to Ms. Whitmore, we’re entering the panic stage.”
“That sounds serious.”
“It is serious.” She points the candy bar she just unwrapped at me like a tiny, chocolate-coated scepter. “Do you know how hard it is to rule a kingdom when the White Rabbit keeps forgetting his cues?”
“I imagine it’s extremely challenging.”
“Thank you.”
I nod solemnly, mirroring her seriousness. “Leadership is difficult.”
“Exactly.” For several minutes, she regales me with tales of rehearsal disasters and various middle-school catastrophes, her voice rising and falling. “Ms. Whitmore says dwelling is unproductive.”
“Did she really say that?”
“No.” She grins, a flash of mischief in her eyes. “But it sounded smart.”
Minutes later, we head downstairs to the parking lot. The school is a short drive, and as we pull out, she resumes chatting.
We arrive at the school, and kids are carrying costume pieces and props. Someone tests stage lights, sending a blinding white beam sweeping across the empty seats. The entire space feels one step away from complete catastrophe.
“You are right about the havoc,” I tell Ellie, my voice just audible above the noise.
“We’re getting too close to opening night for this nonsense,” she replies in a serious tone.
Apparently, that explains everything.
Brooke spots us from the stage, and relief flashes across her face before she replaces it with a professional smile. The expression is subtle enough that no one else would notice, but I notice everything about her.
“Mr. Bennett,” she calls from the stage, and I find myself standing a little straighter without meaning to.
“Ms. Whitmore.”
Before either of us can say anything else, a frantic voice shouts from backstage. “Who stepped on the crown!”
“Which crown?” someone shouts.
“The Queen’s crown!” another voice calls out, equally distressed.
Ellie gasps beside me, and runs toward the voice. “My crown?”
Another student appears from the wings, their face flushed. “The caterpillar stepped on it.”
“The caterpillar did what?” Brooke asks, her voice rising in disbelief.
“I said it was an accident,” a defensive voice insists.
Voices overlap for the next several minutes, students talking over one another until I can barely make out a single sentence. The Cheshire Cat shuffles across the front of the stage, struggling under the weight of a giant cardboard mushroom whose painted cap wobbles precariously.
The White Rabbit has lost a foot and hops precariously on the other.
Alice is trying to repair a broken teacup with what appears to be duct tape, its silver sheen absurd against the painted porcelain. “Nobody panic,” she says for what seems like the fifth time, her voice calm and steady.
I shouldn’t find any of this entertaining, but I do.
“This isn’t funny,” Brooke says, catching me smiling.
“It’s a little funny,” I counter, my grin widening.
“You’re not helping.”
I lift both hands in surrender. “Tell me what you need.”
She hesitates, then glances toward a stack of scenery flats leaning against the wall, tall and imposing. “Actually, there is something.”
That’s how I end up spending the next hour designing a new section to the Wonderland set.
The entire time, Brooke moves from one crisis to another, her voice steady, the one thing in the room that doesn’t change. She’s patient when students forget lines, firm when they need structure, and funny when nerves take over.
At one point, Ellie misses a cue and looks mortified.
Before Brooke can say anything, Ellie apologizes. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I know I missed it.”
Brooke smiles. “Good thing we rehearse.”
Rehearsal finally ends and the auditorium looks as though a tornado passed through it. Students pour toward the exits while parents gather in the parking lot. Ellie quickly disappears into a group of friends.
Brooke drops into a front-row seat and rubs her hands over her face as I sit beside her.
Seventeen days. That’s all that’s left until opening night. Seventeen days until the built-in excuse we’ve been using to spend time together disappears.
Finally, I turn to her. “Reid knows.”
Her smile vanishes. “What do you mean he knows?” she whispers, the words clipped and tight.
I lean forward, resting my forearms on my knees. The auditorium is empty now, but I lower my voice anyway.
“He figured it out, but he asked me to confirm it.”
She looks away, her gaze settling on the empty stage. “Then he doesn’t know for sure.”
“Oh, he knows. Not every detail, but he knows enough.”
She folds her arms across her chest. “What did he say? Did he… did he tell you to end it?”
“More or less.”
The last trace of color drains from her face. Her eyes meet mine, dark and troubled.
“We should finish. Ellie’s waiting for me.” I gesture toward the door, already stepping back.
The consequence of my choices stands thirty feet from my car when I get to the parking lot, wearing a Queen of Hearts t-shirt and laughing with her friends.