Page 90 of Faultlines
Without a word, Sloane opens her trench coat. Attached to her belt are a small, leather-bound notebook, a tactical flashlight, scuffed binoculars, and what appears to be a walkie-talkie.
I blink. “Are we calling ourselves The Goonies now? Should we start calling you ‘Data’?”
Lucy, leaning against the doorframe, bursts out laughing.
“Why do you have binoculars?”
Sloane looks confused. “For surveillance.”
Lucy mutters something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like a prayer.
“Sloane, we’re going to dinner,” I reiterate.
“I know.”
“At a restaurant.”
“I know.”
“We are not infiltrating a hostile government.”
“You don’t know that.”
Finally, Lucy brushes past both of us, the faint scent of her lavender shampoo trailing behind her as she walks into the house, the screen door slapping shut. I’m laughing so hard, tears are streaming down my face, the tension finally breaking.
“See? This is why I’m standing here. You need me,” Sloane says with a triumphant smirk.
“No, you’re here because a psychological evaluation wasn’t required before allowing you to create family group chats.”
“Also true,” she drawls, a smug grin playing on her lips.
Lucy’s muffled voice drifts from the kitchen. “Do you have wine?”
“Top cabinet.”
Sloane pulls a bottle of amber liquor out of her coat pocket. “We may need this.”
“No,” I say, plucking the bottle from her hand. “I need this after dealing with you.”
She removes her sunglasses and places them on the counter. “I would like everyone to know that this operation has been methodically planned.”
Lucy twists off the wine cap with a grunt. “That’s what worries me.”
Sloane ignores her. “I have identified several points of entry.”
“We are not breaking into a school.”
“I never said we were breaking in.”
“You used the word ‘operation.’ Literally.”
“Operations can be legal.”
Lucy pours herself a generous glass of wine. “Nothing with the words ‘points of entry’ sounds legal, and we all know why you know your way around that school, troublemaker.”
“That’s a very limiting attitude.”
A few minutes later, we all pile into Lucy’s SUV. Long dog hair clings to the leather seats, still warm from the day’s sun. Sloane insists on sitting in the back, claiming every successful operation requires someone to monitor the surroundings. Lucy and I wisely decide not to ask.
