53. Fault Exposed
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
FAULT EXPOSED
Claire
The afternoon sun is blinding as I step out of Dr. Rutledge’s office. I pause beside my car, one hand resting on the metal of the door. Ethan’s words still echo in my mind. Pieces of a truth I’d spent months imagining, only to discover the reality was more complicated than I’d prepared myself for.
“Claire.” I glance over my shoulder. He stands a few feet away, his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. “Are you okay?”
I haven’t been okay for months. But sitting in that office, something new surfaced through the grief. Understanding.
“No.”
His expression falls. Before he can speak, I continue, “But I understand more than I did this morning.”
“That’s good. Thank you for coming tonight—and for agreeing to come back next week.”
“Don’t mistake my actions for forgiveness, Ethan. I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing this for Ellie. I want us to be as amicable as possible for her sake.” My voice is steady, even if my hands betray me.
He doesn’t say anything else, as I climb into my SUV and pull out. In the rearview mirror, I catch a glimpse of him standing beside his truck, watching me leave. But I force myself to look away.
I leave the radio off during my drive, allowing my thoughts to wander. I guess I knew that Ethan blamed my work for the distance that grew between us. Sometimes I wonder if, had I not gone back to work, none of this would have happened.
Lucy is in the kitchen when I arrive, the scent of fresh lemonade in the air.
“That bad?” she asks.
“I don’t know.” The words are a whisper.
Her eyebrows rise with a silent question.
Before either of us can continue, Sloane wanders in, carrying a basket of freshly laundered clothes that smell of fabric softener. She takes one look at me, sets the basket down on the nearest surface, and abandons whatever chore she was pretending to do.
“Well?” she prods.
“Do you ever ease into conversations?” I ask.
“No.” Her reply is blunt.
I can’t argue with that.
“I assumed that in all of this, he was going to blame me.”
Lucy sets down her glass with a soft clink. “What do you mean?”
“I think part of me has been waiting for it.” The admission feels ugly.
Lucy reaches across the counter and places her hand over mine.
Sloane pulls out a chair and sits beside me. “You were never the problem.” Her voice is firm.
“I know that logically.”
With that confession, I notice the two of them exchange a look—one of those silent conversations only they have. Lucy bites her lip. Sloane exhales through her nose and gives the smallest nod, as if conceding they’ve put something off long enough.
My pulse quickens. “What?” I ask, looking between them.
Lucy opens her mouth, then closes it again.
“It’s nothing,” Sloane says.
I arch an eyebrow. “You’ve both officially forgotten how to lie. Did something happen?”
Lucy searches through the oversized tote bag resting on the table. “I wasn’t sure if you should see this.”
Sloane groans under her breath. “I told you we should’ve just thrown it away.”
“You don’t get to decide that,” Lucy says gently.
She sighs. “I know.”
Lucy finally pulls out a folded copy of the Sacramento Gazette.
A newspaper. My brow pinches as I look between them. “People still buy these?”
“They leave them outside the coffee shop every Thursday,” Sloane mutters. “Normally they’re only good for fish tanks and lining birdcages.”
Lucy slides it over to me. “I almost recycled it.”
Slowly, I unfold the paper.
The front page is exactly what you’d expect. A photograph from a concert series. An article about a vineyard festival. High school sports.
I flip to the community section. My eyes drift lazily down the page until they stop on a colorful photograph. Blonde hair and a familiar smile. For a second, my brain refuses to connect the face with the name beneath it.
Then it does.
Local Business Owner Spencer Wardell Engaged to Brooke Whitmore
The accompanying photograph shows Brooke laughing, her left hand resting against Spencer’s chest, with the oversized diamond on her ring finger impossible to miss.
She looks...
Happy.
Uncomplicated.
Like none of it ever happened.
The article talks about how they were high school sweethearts. Mentions a brief separation followed by reuniting last year. It mentions their shared love of hiking, the wedding planned for this fall, and how excited they are to begin this new chapter together.
I don’t realize I’ve been holding my breath until my lungs force me to inhale. Sloane quietly takes the newspaper from my hands before it slips to the floor.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
I stare at the wood grain on the table, absently tracing one of the swirls with my fingertip. “She’s getting married.”
Lucy dips her chin once. “I thought you should know before you heard someone in town talking about it.”
A strange laugh escapes me. “Of course she’s getting married.” Neither of them interrupts. “I don’t know why that feels...” I shake my head, searching for the right word. “Final.”
Lucy reaches across the desk and covers my hand with hers. “Because it closes a chapter you never asked to be part of.”
For so long Brooke has existed in my mind as the woman who shattered my marriage. Frozen in time. Now she’s simply...
A bride-to-be.
Picking flowers.
Tasting wedding cake.
Choosing invitations.
Living her life like she wasn’t part of the devastation in mine.
I don’t envy her, but seeing her smile reminds me that everyone eventually gets to step out of the wreckage. Everyone except the people still learning how to live with the cracks it left behind.
“You don’t have to pretend you’re okay.” Lucy says.
Sloane tilts her head. “So, you don’t hate us?”
I look at the two women who have stood beside me through the hardest year of my life.
“No.”
I hear footsteps and look up from my desk just as Daniel walks into my office—without knocking. He leans against my bookshelf. “Bad time?”
“Depends. Did you bringing chocolate?”
His grin appears. “Possibly.”
The exchange earns a laugh.
He and I have found an easy rhythm. It started with work. We spent so much time discussing the boys’ home that, somewhere along the way, we became friends.
Yesterday, he caught me staring at a photo that fell out of his wallet. ‘High school sweetheart,’ he said, before I could apologize. ‘Cancer. One year from diagnosis to funeral.’
He didn’t look at me when he said it, just kept his eyes on the table. But his hands shook slightly as he picked up the photo and deposited it back into his wallet.
We walk the Juniper House property, and discuss potential locations for a boys’ facility.
Daniel wants to see the greenhouse and talk through ideas for vocational training programs. He asks thoughtful questions, and never seems impatient when I launch into details about staffing ratios or licensing requirements.
It’s easy and I enjoy his company. I can’t help but wonder if this is how it started with Brooke and Ethan.
Once we’re back on the front porch he says, “How did counseling go?” He waits patiently, giving me space to answer if I want to.
“It was difficult.”
“I imagine so.”
We continue walking in silence before I hear myself speaking again. “I learned that the story I had been telling myself wasn’t entirely true.”
He studies me thoughtfully. “That sounds enlightening.”
“It was.”
I’m brought out of my thoughts by footsteps coming swiftly down the hall, followed by the appearance of Tasha. “Claire.”
I’m already looking at the door when she turns the corner.
“Hey, Tasha. What’s—”
“Your SUV, the tires are all flat,” she stammers.
Still not processing her words, I follow her out to the parking lot.
“What the hell?” I say more to myself.
“I don’t know. I noticed when I came to get something from my car. I didn’t see anybody in the parking lot.”
I take my phone out of my pocket and start dialing before I even think about what I’m doing.
The police non-emergency line first—I know it by heart from work, from all the times I’ve had to report incidents at Juniper House.
But the automated voice asks me to hold, and I’m standing in a dark parking lot with slashed tires, and suddenly the hold music feels like an invitation for whoever did this to come back. I hang up.
My thumb finds Ethan’s number without permission, muscle memory from decades of calling him first.
“Claire?” his voice is tight with alarm.
“Hey… someone slashed all four of my tires in the parking lot of Juniper House.”
“Go—go back inside and wait for me. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Fifteen minutes later, his truck barrels down the drive. He rushes over, breathing heavy as he scans me for injuries. “I told you to wait inside.”
“I did go back inside. I just came out when I saw your truck turn down the lane.”
“Okay, did you call the Sheriff’s department?”
“Yes, they’re sending someone to make a report and get a copy of the security video. The cameras caught someone on the property near my car. The video is grainy, but you can see them squat at each of my tires.”
“What about the note?”
“What note?”
“This one.” he says as he holds up a folded piece of notebook paper.
“Where did you find that?”
“It was folded and shoved under the windshield wiper.”
“I didn’t see it earlier. I guess I was so focused on the tires that I missed it,” I admit.
I unfold it and find scrawled handwriting:
You can’t protect them forever.
“Come on, I’m taking you home. We’ll sort out your car tomorrow. Tasha can handle the police report.”
I reluctantly agree and follow him to his truck, eager to leave.