Page 157 of Fault Lines
But it was something new.
∞∞∞
I woke to voices in the kitchen. They were trying to whisper, but the walls in this house were designed to amplify every argument, every joke, every failed attempt at secrecy. I recognized Rachel’s cadence first—a brisk, caffeinated burr, the way she dropped consonants like they were party favors she could afford to lose. Jackson’s voice was lower, calm as the bottom of a well, but I could tell from the way he repeated himself that he was nervous. Cam’s interjections were rare, just a grunt here and there, but I pictured him hunched over the counter, arms folded tight enough to keep himself from doing or saying something regrettable.
I considered feigning sleep. If I was lucky, I’d slip back under before anyone noticed. But my bladder had other ideas, and besides, the smell of bacon was wafting in from the kitchen, demanding a verdict.
I shuffled out, still in the sweats and giant t-shirt Rachel had packed for me. The kitchen was fuller than I’d seen it in months: Rachel perched on the counter with a mug of black coffee, Cam at the stove, Jackson slicing oranges with the precision of a man trained to avoid all accidents, legal and otherwise.
Rachel saw me first. “Oh my god, zombie Livi,” she crowed, but she set down her mug and closed the gap in two strides, arms open for a hug.
She was careful, but still squeezed tight enough to make my ribs protest. “You look like shit. No offense.”
“None taken,” I said, voice thick. “Is this an intervention?”
Cam turned, spatula in hand. “She needs food. Her blood sugar’s a disaster.”
I rolled my eyes, but Rachel grinned. “Listen to Doctor Oz over here. He’s got your entire day scheduled out.”
Jackson set down his knife, wiped his hands. “You want coffee? Juice?”
I nodded to the coffee, and he poured, adding just enough cream and sugar to make it taste like the sweetened milk I loved as a kid. He was good at reading the room—always had been—and I wondered how much of his presence was really for me, and how much for Cam, or even Rachel.
The four of us crowded around the island, picking at eggs and toast and bacon, the conversation ricocheting in every direction. Rachel managed to keep things light—she had a way of stuffing the room with noise, making it hard to focus on anything but the present. Still, there was an undercurrent. Jackson kept glancing at me, as if checking for fresh breaks. Cam hovered, always within arm’s reach but never crowding.
Eventually, the talk drifted to logistics.
“Have you heard anything?” Jackson asked, his tone soft but insistent.
I shrugged. “Not since… that night.” I left the rest unsaid, but everyone heard it.
Rachel jumped in. “We talked to Mr. Porter yesterday. He’s banning Nate from the store until he ‘gets his head on straight.’ His words, not mine.”
I blinked, surprise eclipsed by a punch of guilt. “He’s… really doing that?”
Jackson nodded. “Said it’s for everyone’s safety. Including Nate’s. He wants you to stay away, too. At least for now. In case Nate tries to find you there.”
I tried to laugh, but it came out jagged. “I’m a hazard to myself, I guess.”
Cam set his coffee down, hard. “You’re not going back there. Not unless it’s safe.”
The air went dense. Rachel and Jackson both shot me sympathetic looks.
I swallowed, then said, “He was good at that job. Better than I ever was.”
Rachel rolled her eyes. “He was a mess, Livi. He always has been.”
I felt the need to defend him, but the words stuck. I settled for, “He tried.”
Jackson shifted, leaned forward. “Mr. Porter said he’d let you know if anything changes. But for now, he wants to make sure you’re okay.”
I nodded. “I appreciate it.”
Rachel drained her mug and hopped off the counter, making for the bedroom. “I brought you actual clothes, by the way. Sweats are a look, but I figured you’d want a change.”
I managed a thank you, and she winked. “I’ll lay them out. Do not make me dress you like a toddler.”
When she was gone, Cam finally said what I’d been waiting for.
