Page 94 of Faultlines

By three o’clock, the sky outside is a uniform gray. Claire’s last text from yesterday sits as a lonely blue bubble. Peter confirms Ellie is fine.

I can’t wait for the phone to ring any longer. If Claire is with Lucy and Sloane, I’ll drive out to the ranch and see what they’re up to.

The property feels muted when I arrive. Lucy’s SUV isn’t parked beside the house, and the usual activity around the barn seems absent. As I step out of my truck and start toward the front porch, I stop short.

Sloane sits in one of Lucy’s rocking chairs, a glass of iced tea resting on the arm. Leaning casually beside her is a shotgun. The late afternoon sun glints off its barrel. I stare, processing the scene. What the hell?

She looks up and offers a small, almost imperceptible wave. “Afternoon.”

My eyes remain fixed on the shotgun, its dark metal is a stark contrast to the weathered wood of the porch. “Why do you have a gun on the porch?”

She follows my gaze. “Oh. That.”

“Yes. That.”

“It’s not mine.”

A bead of sweat traces a path down my temple. “That doesn’t answer the question.”

“It belongs to Lucy.”

“Why is it out here?”

She considers the question, as if it requires additional thought. The soft creak of the rocking chair is the only sound. “Because carrying it around seemed unnecessary.”

I wonder if this conversation makes perfect sense to her, or if she’s committed to confusing me.

“Where’s Claire?”

“She’s not here.”

“Where is she?”

“I can’t tell you.”

The answer lands with a dull thud. “What do you mean? What’s going on?”

She sets down her glass on the small table beside her, and my eyes drift back toward the shotgun. “Should I be worried?”

She follows my gaze and rolls her eyes. “I don’t know. You tell me.”

I fight the urge to take a step back at her words. She stands, the sudden movement jarring, and walks toward the door. The action feels oddly deliberate, almost as though she is positioning herself between me and whatever answers I’m looking for.

Before she can step inside, I try again, “Sloane, what’s going on?”

This time I think she might finally tell me.

“This is a small town, Ethan. People like to gossip. They compare notes.”

The blood drains from my face, leaving my skin feeling clammy. “What specifically are you referring to?”

“I’m no longer president of the Ethan Appreciation Society.”

My hand moves toward my pocket. I need to call Claire. Before I can pull out my phone I hear. “Don’t.”

“I’m calling my wife.”

“And she doesn’t want to talk right now.” Her voice reflects certainty.