Page 104 of Faultlines

I sit at the kitchen table and open my laptop, finding my inbox overflowing. My eyes stop on an email from Ellie’s school. I click the message. It’s professional and cautiously worded.

Subject: Important Update Regarding Alice in Wonderland Performance

Dear Parents and Guardians,

Due to unforeseen circumstances, Ms. Brooke Whitmore will be stepping away from her position at Juniper Ridge Middle School effective immediately. We appreciate her dedication to our students and wish her the very best.

Please be assured that the Alice in Wonderland performance will continue as scheduled. The administration is actively working to identify leadership for the rest of the production. Additional information will be provided soon. Thank you for your patience and support.

Sincerely,

Gerald Harrington, Principal

I read the message several times.

Good.

Now I don’t have to worry about running into Brooke. After Friday night, she can’t remain at the school. In a town this size, rumors spread quickly.

A few minutes later, I hear hurried footsteps followed by Ellie rushing into the kitchen with her phone clutched in her hand.

“Did you see this?” she asks.

I close my laptop with a soft click. “Yes.”

Her face, usually so open, is a storm of confusion and palpable concern. “What does ‘unforeseen circumstances’ even mean?”

I know what it means, but I can’t tell her.

“I’m not sure,” I reply.

She slumps into the chair opposite me. “Who’s going to direct the play?”

“I don’t know.”

“Opening night is the end of next week.”

“I’ll see what I can find out.”

She grabs something from the refrigerator before stepping out onto the porch.

My phone, resting beside my laptop, lights up with a frantic chorus of notifications. I notice the flurry of messages from parents. The explosion of speculation is like a digital wildfire spreading through the community.

The school’s chosen words— “effective immediately,” “stepping away”—are designed to reveal as little as possible, while still explaining her sudden disappearance.

I should feel vindicated, but the satisfaction doesn’t arrive.

A chair scrapes against the tiled floor. I look up to see Lucy on the other side of the kitchen island.

“What?” I ask, my voice edged with suspicion.

Before she can respond, the back door swings open and Sloane walks into the kitchen carrying an iced coffee the size of a small child. She wears oversized sunglasses, and struts like she’s about to walk a red carpet instead of into Lucy’s cozy kitchen.

“Morning,” she announces, her voice a theatrical whisper.

“I sense plotting,” I say.

She drops into a chair next to me. Whenever those two agree on something, the rest of us usually suffer. “Oh, she knows we’ve discussed her.”