Page 138 of Faultlines

His initials on the grant paperwork—D.C.M. The same initials I’ve seen a hundred times in margin notes, in the acknowledgments of papers I’ve admired. I thought he was just well-read and curious.

“A residential program saved my life,” he continues, his gaze distant. “Not overnight, but someone invested in me when I wasn’t worth much.”

“You were always worth the investment.”

He smiles at my words. “That’s what one of my counselors used to say.”

“I believe that about all the kids I work with.”

The rest of the evening passes quickly. We lean over architectural renderings, debating the need for more outdoor recreational space versus the cost. I find myself defending the need for qualified staff with a passion I haven’t felt in months.

Dinner arrives at some point, but I don’t notice the food, absorbed in the project discussion.

Eventually, I excuse myself to use the restroom. The clatter of dishes and the murmur of conversations fade as I push through the door.

Several minutes later, as I’m halfway across the dining room returning to my table, a familiar laugh catches my attention. I freeze mid-step, one heel still lifted off the floor, and slowly turn my head.

Of course, Ethan would be here. This is the place he frequently brings clients. I consider turning around, but he’s already seen me.

He’s at a large, round table with Reid and several people I vaguely recognize. When his eyes meet mine the laughter at his table dies. His smile vanishes, replaced by something unreadable.

His gaze shifts toward the direction I was headed and lands on Daniel. Color drains from his face and I know what he’s thinking. Reid catching on quickly, his eyes widening.

“Claire,” Reid speaks first.

I force a polite smile. “Reid.”

Ethan rises from his chair, a deliberate movement, his eyes never leaving mine. “Claire.” His voice is careful and controlled. There is a subtle shift in his stance—it’s a possessiveness I haven’t seen in years.

“Ethan.” My voice is devoid of emotion.

An uncomfortable silence settles over their group. Reid looks like he would prefer a root canal to participating in this conversation.

Ethan glances toward Daniel. “Date?” The question is transparent enough to be amusing.

“Business dinner.”

“With Daniel Mercer.” Not a question, just confirmation, delivered with a hint of accusation.

“Yes.”

Reid clears his throat. “It’s good to see you, Claire.”

I look at him, a genuine smile touching my lips. “You too.”

Ethan remains standing, which is undeniably awkward. I offer a polite, dismissive smile.

“I should get back to dinner.”

“Right.”

His expression is unguarded, stripped of the easy charm—before he pulls himself back together.

My pulse doesn’t settle until I slide back into my chair.

Daniel studies me, a slight furrow in his brow. “All okay?”

“My husband.” The word feels foreign.