32. Fault Mapping
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
FAULT MAPPING
Claire
I lean toward the bathroom mirror and swipe a fingertip beneath my right eye. No smudges. I step back and study my reflection, wondering for the third time if mascara is overkill for sneaking into a middle school after hours.
Ridiculous.
I smooth the front of my navy blouse, tug unnecessarily at the hem, then glance down at my fitted jeans and ankle boots. Practical. Comfortable. I won’t need to change after dinner.
The doorbell rings. I draw a slow breath and head downstairs. When I pull open the front door, all I can do is stare. Lucy stands on my porch looking perfectly normal. Beside her, Sloane appears to have wandered straight off the set of a low-budget detective movie.
“Oh… my.”
Sloane curtsies. “Thank you.”
“No. no. no.” I shake my head. “What are you wearing?”
A weary sigh escapes Lucy’s lips. “I asked the same question.”
Sloane smooths the front of her black trench coat, an absurd choice for a mild summer evening. It falls to her knees, giving her the unmistakable air of someone who expects to exchange classified information in a dimly lit parking garage.
“It’s called blending in,” she singsongs.
“You’re wearing sunglasses.”
“It’s still light outside.”
“It’s almost seven o’clock.”
“Exactly.”
I stare at her. The silence stretches between us, broken only by the distant buzz of cicadas. She stares right back, completely serious.
Lucy sighs in profound resignation. “You haven’t even seen the rest.”
A terrible feeling settles in my stomach. “The rest?”
Without a word, Sloane opens her trench coat. Attached to her belt are a small, leather-bound notebook, a tactical flashlight, scuffed binoculars, and what appears to be a walkie-talkie.
I blink. “Are we calling ourselves The Goonies now? Should we start calling you ‘Data’?”
Lucy, leaning against the doorframe, bursts out laughing.
“Why do you have binoculars?”
Sloane looks confused. “For surveillance.”
Lucy mutters something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like a prayer.
“Sloane, we’re going to dinner,” I reiterate.
“I know.”
“At a restaurant.”
“I know.”
“We are not infiltrating a hostile government.”
“You don’t know that.”
Finally, Lucy brushes past both of us, the faint scent of her lavender shampoo trailing behind her as she walks into the house, the screen door slapping shut. I’m laughing so hard, tears are streaming down my face, the tension finally breaking.
“See? This is why I’m standing here. You need me,” Sloane says with a triumphant smirk.
“No, you’re here because a psychological evaluation wasn’t required before allowing you to create family group chats.”
“Also true,” she drawls, a smug grin playing on her lips.
Lucy’s muffled voice drifts from the kitchen. “Do you have wine?”
“Top cabinet.”
Sloane pulls a bottle of amber liquor out of her coat pocket. “We may need this.”
“No,” I say, plucking the bottle from her hand. “I need this after dealing with you.”
She removes her sunglasses and places them on the counter. “I would like everyone to know that this operation has been methodically planned.”
Lucy twists off the wine cap with a grunt. “That’s what worries me.”
Sloane ignores her. “I have identified several points of entry.”
“We are not breaking into a school.”
“I never said we were breaking in.”
“You used the word ‘operation.’ Literally.”
“Operations can be legal.”
Lucy pours herself a generous glass of wine. “Nothing with the words ‘points of entry’ sounds legal, and we all know why you know your way around that school, troublemaker.”
“That’s a very limiting attitude.”
A few minutes later, we all pile into Lucy’s SUV. Long dog hair clings to the leather seats, still warm from the day’s sun. Sloane insists on sitting in the back, claiming every successful operation requires someone to monitor the surroundings. Lucy and I wisely decide not to ask.
Unfortunately, without any prompting, Sloane spends the first ten minutes of the drive outlining her elaborate investigative strategy. Lucy and I repeatedly point out its glaring flaws to no avail.
By the time we pull into the restaurant parking lot, its brightly lit sign glowing against the twilight, I’m no longer thinking about Ethan, Seattle, or my awkward conversation with Jennifer Starling.
Instead, I’m trying to figure out if it’s possible to voluntarily disown a cousin. Oddly enough, it’s the most relaxed I’ve felt all week, amidst the absurdity.
Dinner itself is enjoyable, this is largely because Sloane spends most of it explaining increasingly absurd investigative theories, her voice animated, while Lucy and I take turns reminding her that we are not, in fact, private investigators.
I can almost forget why we are here. By the time we leave the restaurant it’s well after ten o’clock.
The closer we get to the school, the quieter I become. Sloane, however, only gets louder. “I just want everyone to know that this is where preparation separates professionals from amateurs.”
Lucy’s brow pinches. “You’re a boutique manager. At a vineyard.”
“Details.”
“You sell handbags.”
“Leadership is leadership.”
I stare out the passenger window. “Can we please remember that we’re only here because you insisted?”
Sloane looks offended. “No. We’re here because you have a gut feeling that I’m not letting you ignore any longer.”
“We’re here because you wouldn’t let it go.”
“Also true, and because I love you.”
The school parking lot is empty when we pull in, and the building is dark. Rehearsal ended over an hour ago.
“What’s the plan?” Lucy asks.
Sloane grins. “Follow me.”
Instead of the main entrance, she leads us around the side to a narrow service corridor behind the gymnasium.
I stop. “What are we doing?”
She doesn’t slow. “Taking the scenic route.”
“There is no scenic route.”
“There is if you know where to look.”
Sloane stops beside an unmarked metal door, hidden behind overgrown, skeletal shrubs that scrape against the brick. Lucy and I exchange a look.
“What is that?” I whisper.
“An entrance.”
“I can see that.”
Lucy narrows her eyes. “How do you know about this?”
Sloane looks too pleased. “Unlike you two, I led a very interesting double life in middle school,” she says, rolling her eyes.
“You got detention constantly for causing havoc.”
She pulls a small case of lock picks out of her back pocket.
Lucy squeaks, “Where did you get those?”
“Let’s just say I was an extracurricular enthusiast.” She kneels, scraping at the lock. Every second stretches until it finally clicks, and the door creaks open into inky blackness.
“Oh my God,” Lucy mutters, shivering.
“See?” Sloane says triumphantly. “Preparation.”
We step inside. The hallway smells of disinfectant. Our footsteps echo on the linoleum as we move deeper, even Sloane seems to understand that this is no longer funny.
The closer we get to the auditorium, the more I feel like I’m going to vomit. Part of me still hopes we find nothing, because then all of this has been in my head. Maybe Ethan is who I’ve always believed him to be; maybe we’re all crazy.
Then we hear faint unmistakable female laughter, and we all freeze. Sloane looks at me, her face now pale. I look over at Lucy, whose eyes are wide and unblinking.
Slowly, with unspoken dread we move forward.
The auditorium is dark save for a few anemic work lights near the stage. Then we hear another sound, a muffled thud, coming from backstage.
Every instinct screams at me to turn around. Each step forward is a small negotiation with myself. The three of us remove our shoes and continue walking until we reach the storage room behind the stage.
A low, rhythmic, unmistakable sound emanates from behind the door. My brain catches up to what my ears already know, a sickening lurch in my gut, and I dig my fingers into Sloane’s arm.
Lucy almost runs into my back. I can feel her breath on my neck. “What—” she starts, her voice a reedy whisper.
I hold up my hand, palm out. “Shh.”
The sounds are clearer now, the muffled thumps and creaks.
Sloane, her voice a rasp, “Is that—”
I nod. The three of us stand frozen in the narrow corridor. A low, male murmur resonates through the thin wood.
Ethan.
Then a woman’s breathy voice answers. I know that voice.
Brooke.
My throat closes and understanding settles.
Lucy’s eyes are enormous. She looks at me, then at the door, then back at me, and mouths, “Ethan?” I give the smallest nod.
Sloane presses her shoulder against mine, and I feel her trembling. Her hand finds my upper arm and grips it tight.
From behind the door, the rhythm quickens, a relentless, insistent pounding. Brooke makes a sound—a sharp gasp that doesn’t belong here, not now—and I feel my face go hot.
My feet remain rooted to the cold concrete, refusing to move.
How long has this been going on?
The three of us stand pressed together in the narrow corridor, acutely aware of our absurdity. But something holds us there. Not voyeurism. Something closer to shock. The kind that pins you to a spot while your brain struggles to comprehend.
Brooke’s sharp cry causes Sloane’s grip on my arm to tighten.
A sliver of light spills from the room into the hallway. I lean into the cold plaster, peering inside. My brain halts while assembling the scene.
Brooke faces us, unaware, her back to the industrial shelving.
Ethan’s back is to us. He supports her thighs against the metal with his hands, and her legs are wrapped around him.
Her dress is gathered at her waist. One high heel remains on, the other is lying on the carpet.
My brain lands there before everything else reclaims my attention.
Their movements are punctuated by the shelving’s rhythmic creak. I see his shoulders, the shift of muscle beneath his shirt—the controlled movement of his hips. Brooke is not controlled. That is the thing the gap in the door shows me, the thing I’ll never be able to unsee.
He moves, and she absorbs it, her hips rising to meet his thrust. Their rhythm is slow and unhurried. When he shifts and she makes a guttural sound, and her back arches off the shelving as he changes the angle.
My feet have gone numb where I’m standing.
Sloane’s fingernails are now digging into my skin. I am acutely aware of Lucy beside me, her palm pressed flat over her mouth.
This isn’t a mistake. This isn’t an accident. This is an arrangement.
Their slow deliberate rhythm intensifies. Brooke’s voice is continuous now, unguarded, and unselfconscious, as the shelving unit scrapes against the wall.
Beside me, Sloane lifts her phone, the screen a pale rectangle in the dim light, and I don’t stop her. The phone remains steady in her hand for several seconds, then she lowers it again, the faint click of the screen going dark.
Ethan says her name, and I have to look away.
Then it goes silent.
I look from Lucy to Sloane. We step back from the door with unnaturally soft footsteps. We move single file down the corridor to where we left our shoes before stopping. We stand in the wider hallway where the air is cooler, and look at each other under the flickering lights.
“Oh God, I just realized… that was them in the tact room during the fundraiser.” I say, right before I double over and vomit. Lucy rushes over and holds back my hair, rubbing my back.
I straighten and lean against the cinder block wall, needing it to hold me up. There’s nothing to say—not yet. The right words haven’t formed, and I doubt they’ll materialize soon.
Sloane shoves her hair back with both hands, a frustrated gesture, and fixes her gaze on the stained ceiling tiles. “I’m going to rip him to shreds.” She glances back down the hallway, then turns her gaze to us.
Lucy utters, “Okay. What do you want us to do?”
“Nothing,” I say, the word a strained whisper. “Right now, we do nothing.” I push off the wall and try to access a functional version of myself.