54. Base Isolation
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
BASE ISOLATION
Ethan
When my alarm goes off the next morning, I’m already awake, staring at the ceiling.
After a quick shower, I drive to the ranch earlier than necessary.
The closer I get, the more convinced I become that I’m not simply dropping Claire off at work and driving away.
Whoever targeted her vehicle had an agenda.
Until we know more, I have no intention of letting her out of my sight for very long.
When I pull into the driveway, she appears at the top of the stairs that lead from the apartment. She has one hand on her hip and the other on the shiny metal railing. She taps her wrist as if checking a watch then narrows her eyes at me.
She stomps down the stairs and over to my truck, carrying her laptop bag. “You said a little after eight o’clock.”
I glance at the dashboard clock, its green numbers glowing. “Yeah, well it’s a little before that.”
“It’s not even seven-thirty.”
One shoulder lifts in a half-hearted gesture, the leather seat creaking beneath me. “I got here early.”
“You’re forty minutes early. I haven’t even had coffee yet.”
“I needed to make sure you’re okay.”
She rolls her eyes and puts on her seatbelt. The exchange makes me smile. The annoyance feels almost normal.
We’re both quiet on the drive. The only sound is Claire tapping on her phone. I keep one eye on the road and the other on every vehicle around us.
As we’re driving through downtown, I make a quick decision to stop at The Cinnamon Finch.
“Before you complain,” I say, cutting off her protest, “I’m grabbing us both coffee and breakfast. I know you’re too upset to eat anything. Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
I step out of the truck and lock her inside. Paranoid or not, I honestly don’t care.
Through the window, I see her face—confused at first, then tightening into something harder. She tries the handle. It doesn’t move. She doesn’t bang on the glass or shout; she just stares at me, and I feel the weight of that stare like a hand on my throat.
If she stopped to think, she’d realize she isn’t actually trapped. All she has to do is unlock the door manually.
Ten minutes later, we’re back on the road. I know getting her to eat will be an argument.
When I park outside Juniper House, she seems to realize I’m not leaving right away.
“What are you doing?” she says sharply.
I turn to her. “What?” I ask, keeping my tone neutral as my hand hovers near the door handle.
“You are not coming inside.”
I pull the handle. “I absolutely am.”
“Ethan.”
“Claire.”
She glares at me, her eyes flashing. I return the look. After an intense staring contest, she finally gives in with an exasperated sigh. “You are impossible.”
“Nothing you can do will stop me.” By then, I’m already climbing out of the truck, the door slamming shut behind me.
She mutters a curse I can’t hear as she stomps across the parking lot.
Marisol is waiting near the front office when we walk inside. One look at us, and she sets down the stack of files in her hands. “Oh good,” she says, her eyes flicking between us. “You’re fighting already.”
“Don’t encourage him,” Claire tells her.
“I wasn’t encouraging him,” she replies, her smile widening.
“You were smiling.”
Marisol’s smile widens further, a knowing glint in her eyes. “I smile at lots of things.”
I understand why these two are friends.
“Marisol, did you go home last night?” Claire asks, her voice more serious now.
“Eh, define home?” she replies. The question hangs in the air, but before I can ask what she means, my impatience takes over. I need to know what the police had to say.
Minutes later, the three of us gather around a computer monitor in Marisol’s office.
The video quality is terrible—grainy and dark.
I don’t know why we’re watching it again.
It’s just clear enough to confirm the faint outline of a figure discernible, but frustratingly unclear about almost everything else.
A hooded figure enters the frame from the edge of the darkened parking lot and moves toward Claire’s SUV. The person crouches beside each tire in succession before disappearing back into the inky blackness.
The entire incident takes less than two minutes.
I lean forward. “That’s all we have, I’m guessing?”
She dibs her chin, and her face takes on a grim expression. “Tasha gave the police the note found on your windshield and a copy of the security footage.”
“Any strange vehicle sightings?”
“No.”
“Any witnesses?”
“No.”
“Anything useful?”
“No.”
I run a hand through my hair. Fantastic.
“So, we basically don’t have any more information than we had last night?”
“Pretty much.”
Silence settles over the room, punctuated only by the low hum of the computer as the video begins replaying. Eventually, Marisol breaks it. “Do you think it could have been Jake?”
Claire’s expression hardens, and I look between the two women, with a prickle of unease.
“Who’s Jake?” I ask.
Neither answers right away.
Marisol glances toward Claire, who continues staring at the monitor.
“Claire.”
She finally exhales. “He’s Heidi’s boyfriend—or hopefully ex-boyfriend.”
My brow pinches as I look between them. “The one who was responsible for her needing stitches?”
“Yes, among a few other things,” Marisol says.
“I’m going to need someone to elaborate.”
Claire rubs her forehead. “It’s complicated.”
“Then uncomplicate it.”
She gives me a look of pure ice. My tone was a mistake, but I don’t particularly care. My temper is starting to rise. “What is going on?”
Neither woman seems eager to answer.
“Heidi started seeing Jake again,” Claire says.
“What?”
“On and off,” Marisol replies.
“She started sneaking out to see him again a few weeks before I returned,” Claire says, reaching across her desk and turning off the security footage that’s been playing on a loop.
“I’ll be back to pick you up. Don’t leave without me.” I turn and walk out.
I’m so angry with myself that I was so far up my own ass that I didn’t know what was going on here. The morning sun feels oppressive as I drive to the office.
When I stomp through the front doors, Reid looks up from his desk with pinched brows. I hear his concerned voice, and realize he followed me into my office. “Well, that’s not good.”
I toss my keys onto my desk and drop into my chair. “What isn’t?”
“Your overall demeanor.”
I rub my eyes. “I always look like this.”
He snorts. “No, you don’t. This is your special edition face.”
I look at him. “My special edition face?”
“The one that appears right before an arrest.”
I laugh. “I have never been arrested.”
“There’s still time.” He studies me. “What happened?”
I consider telling him nothing. Reliving it feels like wading through thick mud. But the silence in my own head is worse. When I finish updating him to my latest life drama he sits staring at me.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“That’s never true. You always have something to say.”
“I’m trying to understand how concern for your wife’s safety somehow turned into a conversation about you.”
“See? This is why I didn’t want to tell you.”
“Because I tell you the truth?”
“Because you’re annoying.”
A grin spreads across his face. “I’ve been called worse.”
I stare up at the ceiling not sure what to say.
“You’re worried about her. That’s perfectly normal.”
I lower my gaze, the weight of his words registering. “Yeah. I’m worried about all of them—Claire, Ellie, the girls at the house. Someone targeted her, and I feel helpless.”
He nods thoughtfully. “Then do something about it.”
“What do you think I’ve been trying to do?”
“No, I mean something useful.”
“Helpful—and smug.”
He ignores me. “If it’s going to make you feel better, work from Juniper House for a while.”
Processing his words I ask, “What?”
“You’re an architect, not a brain surgeon. Ninety percent of what you do can be done at any desk or table.”
I sit up abruptly, my mind running through what this means.
“You have that look that says you’re about to handle this in a way Claire is absolutely going to hate.”
A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth.
“Tell me you’re not going to storm into Juniper House and make yourself at home. You need to ask her first. Nicely.”
“Of course I’ll ask nicely. What kind of guy do you think I am?”
“I don’t believe you.”
I stand, reaching for my things. “I’ve already pushed her boundaries enough for one lifetime. I’ll be nearby—close enough to intervene, invisible enough that she can pretend I’m not there if that’s what she needs right now.”
“Not exactly what I said.”
“What?” I say as I continue gathering files.
“Claire already thinks you’re incapable of respecting boundaries.”
I sling my bag over my shoulder.
He sighs. “At least text me when she throws something at your head, or take a video.”
“That’s friendship.”
“No,” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Friendship is documenting your final moments for future generations.”
Ten minutes later, my truck’s engine rumbles to life, and I turn in the direction of Juniper House. The farther I drive, the better the idea sounds. Reid is correct, I can work from anywhere; the office doesn’t require my physical presence.
I pull into the parking lot, convinced this is an excellent plan. That confidence lasts until I walk through the front doors.
I find Claire standing near the reception desk, talking with Marisol and two other staff members. They all glance up at the sound of the door opening, and their conversation abruptly stops.
Claire’s gaze darts from my face to my briefcase, and back to me, and her expression darkens. “Whatever this is, no,” she says as she circles her finger in my direction.
I glance at Marisol, who is biting back a smile. “I feel like we’re missing some details.”
Claire points directly at my stuff. “What is all of that?”
“My work.”
“What are you doing?”
The smile threatening to appear on my face probably isn’t helping. “I’ve decided to work remotely for a while.”
“Remotely.”
“Yes.”
“Here.”
“Yes.”
She folds her arms. “Ethan.”
I gesture around us. “This building has internet access. You won’t even know I’m here.”
Marisol makes a suspicious choking noise.
Claire whirls toward her, eyes flashing. “Stop encouraging him.”
“I’m not encouraging him.”
“You’re smiling.”
“I’m smiling because this is objectively funny.”
“It is not funny.”
“It’s a little funny.”
Claire lets out a frustrated breath and closes her hand around the pendant at her neck. I almost feel guilty, and then I remember the threats.
“You know,” Marisol says casually, “there’s an empty room in the basement.”
Both Claire and I turn toward her, and she shrugs. “It used to be storage.”
She continues before Claire or I can say another word. “It hasn’t been used in years. Half the stuff down there should be thrown away anyway.”
“No.”
“It has a desk.”
“No.”
“It has a locking door.”
Marisol turns to me with a knowing smile. “If you’re willing to clean it out yourself, you’re welcome to use it.”
I glance at Claire. She looks horrified. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” she says, throwing both hands in the air.
Marisol speaks up again. “Honestly, it’s not the worst idea. Having another adult around might be helpful, especially since there’s been a strange dark-colored truck parked across the street a few times lately.”
“How many times has it been there?” I ask. “Has anyone gotten a license plate or called Detective Hale?”
Claire rolls her eyes.
“You’re not getting rid of me now.”
“I’ve called and reported it the times I’ve seen it, but haven’t been able to get a plate number,” Marisol replies.
My jaw tightens. “Has anyone actually seen the driver?”
“No one has seen the driver. The windows are tinted too dark,” she replies.
“You stay out of my way,” Claire says pointedly at me, her voice edged with a warning.
I raise both hands in surrender. “Absolutely.”
“You don’t interfere with staff.”
“Of course.”
“You don’t insert yourself into conversations.”
I place a hand over my heart. “You have my word.”
Judging by the look on her face, she doesn’t believe me, and Marisol’s expression mirrors hers.
Marisol and the two other staff members exchange a look that suggests they’re already taking bets on how long it will take before I break at least one of those promises. Unfortunately for them, I am too busy carrying my things toward the basement to defend myself.
Later, as I haul a broken desk out of the storage room, Claire passes me without a word. Her silence a clear statement. But that’s not enough to dampen the sense that this is where I need to be.
Early afternoon, I take the gravel path toward the back fence. It isn’t really my job to inspect anything, but years of walking construction sites have trained my eyes to look for what doesn’t belong.
A gate near the equipment shed stands half-open, and I could’ve sworn Marisol said she made sure it was latched yesterday. I pull it shut until the latch clicks into place.
Probably maintenance.
Still...
I glance toward the tree line before continuing.
Near the vegetable garden, fresh tire tracks cut through the damp grass.
I crouch, studying them for a second before shaking my head.
Could’ve been anyone. The security light mounted above the rear entrance catches my attention next, the housing is cracked, but not enough to stop it from working.
Just enough that someone—or something—hit it recently.
I make a mental note to replace it.
As I round the corner of the building, something flashes white beneath a bench. A cigarette butt. Juniper House is smoke-free. One of the contractors, maybe, or could be one of the girls. I toss it into a nearby trash can.
When I straighten, the hairs on the back of my neck rise. I scan the tree line.
Nothing.
Just wind moving through the leaves. I tell myself I’m being ridiculous and head back toward the building.