Page 131 of Faultlines

“Yes.” She lowers her voice, leaning closer, a faint scent of coffee clinging to her. “I also pulled the security footage from yesterday. Nate is checking the exterior feed now, and maintenance is double-checking locks.”

“Marisol.”

She stops, pressing her lips together. “I know. It sounds like too much.”

“It sounds like you protected the house.”

“That’s the plan. Quiet containment, preserve evidence, and don’t scare the girls unless we have to. If the police say we need to do more, we will.”

“We don’t show this to the girls,” I say, my voice firm. “Not yet. But I want to talk to Heidi about it.”

She nods, though I see the worry she’s trying to hide. “I agree. But Claire, if Jake is connected to this⁠—”

“Then we tighten everything,” I interject, folding the sleeve back toward her, a gesture of resolve.

I find Heidi in the art room. The girls are scattered around the house, watching movies or baking cookies, already enjoying the school holiday break.

“Hi, Heidi. We’ve missed you at the ranch.”

“I guess Marisol told you?”

“She did. Want to tell me what’s going on?”

“Why, so you can give me a lecture?” She remains focused on her drawing, charcoal smudging her fingertips, still avoiding my gaze.

“No.” My response gets her attention, and she finally turns to face me.

I pull out the heavy wooden chair across from her but don’t sit too close, giving her space.

“There isn’t a lecture?” She asks skeptically.

“I’m worried about you. Help me understand.”

“He’s not terrible all the time, promises to do better, is funny and kind, and sometimes makes me feel like the only one who truly wants me around.” Her voice is defensive, as if she’s reciting a well-worn script.

“I used to think that loving someone enough was all that mattered, and if you had that, then everything else would fall into place.”

I can see her bracing at my words.

“But I’ve learned that trust and safety matter more. When someone hurts us, we have to see them for who they are, not who we wish they were.”

She nods.

“There’s something else I need to tell you.”

Her gaze is sharp with suspicion.

“We received a piece of anonymous threatening mail,” I tell her, my voice dropping to an almost conspiratorial whisper.

The color drains from her face. “I didn’t—I didn’t tell him to do anything.” Her pencil rolls off the table and taps against the scuffed linoleum floor.

“I believe you. We don’t know who sent it, but we have to take it seriously.”

“If it is him, and you contact the police, he’ll blame me.”

“We can share what we know without making you part of it.” I assure her.

She wipes the tears on her cheeks with the heel of her hand. “He said people here were turning me against him.”