Page 86 of Faultlines
“Oh, he knows. Not every detail, but he knows enough.”
She folds her arms across her chest. “What did he say? Did he… did he tell you to end it?”
“More or less.”
The last trace of color drains from her face. Her eyes meet mine, dark and troubled.
“We should finish. Ellie’s waiting for me.” I gesture toward the door, already stepping back.
The consequence of my choices stands thirty feet from my car when I get to the parking lot, wearing a Queen of Hearts t-shirt and laughing with her friends.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
STRESS CONCENTRATION
Claire
The shopping cart veers slightly to the left, its front wheel squeaking with every turn as I push it down the pasta aisle. I stop in front of the shelves and pick up a jar of marinara, turning it over without really reading the label.
Quiet conversations drift through the aisles, punctuated by the steady beep of checkout scanners. It’s ordinary enough that, for a little while, I almost forget everything else.
Almost.
“Claire?”
I freeze, the cool glass still in my hand, and turn to find Jennifer Starling standing at the end of the aisle pushing a cart laden with groceries.
“Jennifer. Hi.”
Mona’s mother offers me a smile, but it seems oddly tentative, and I sense a flicker of hesitation. We exchange the usual pleasantries, the conversation unfolding like a well-rehearsed script.
How have you been?
How’s work?
How’s Ellie?
The conversation is normal, the steady hum of the grocery store fading into the background, but something feels off, and I can’t quite pinpoint what. She keeps glancing at her shopping cart, then back at me, as though debating whether to say something.
Finally, clearing her throat.
“How’s Ethan doing?”
“He’s good.”
She nods slowly while shifting her weight, her jacket rustling softly. “He’s been helping with the drama program a lot, hasn’t he?”
“He’s volunteered quite a bit this summer.”
She forces a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“I’ve noticed. I think that’s wonderful. The kids seem to love having him around.”
“Ellie certainly does.”
“Of course.”
There it is again—that hesitation. I set the pasta jars back on the shelf. “Jennifer?”
