Page 122 of Fault Lines
“Thank you, Mr. Porter,” I said, voice thick. “I appreciate how much you care.”
He patted my arm and tried to smile. “You’ve been here long enough, Olivia. I think you should call me Richard now.”
I couldn’t help but laugh a little.
“Thank you, Richard.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Friday, eight PM, the Rusty Anchor was exactly as advertised—never trendy, never full, never empty enough to be sad. We took our usual spot at the bar, two high stools bolted to the floor under the glow of amber pendant lights, the counter itself a sanded-down monument to years of spilled drinks and worn elbows. The air tasted of malt and fried pickles, and the only music was whatever the bartender let bleed from his phone behind the taps.
Nate was in a rare good mood, riding the warm front of an early summer storm. His cheeks were already pink from the walk over, and the condensation on our pint glasses formed a neat, sticky ring around his coaster. He had on a gray Henley that made his eyes look almost blue, and he was telling a story about an ancient, unreadable book that had arrived at the store with every page glued shut by honey.
“It was like a biblical curse,” he said, gesturing with his glass, “except instead of smiting the enemies, it just ruined my day. Took me three hours and a metal ruler to get through one chapter.”
I laughed. “You should’ve just sold it as-is. ‘For the serious collector: unopened mystery, some assembly required.’”
He grinned, teeth bright in the dim. “You joke, but some jackass would absolutely pay double for the ‘novel experience.’”
We clinked glasses, the sound swallowed by a burst of laughter from the pool table in back. For a few minutes, the world shrank to just us and the beer and the soft haze of our voices moving toward each other.
Then his phone buzzed against the bar, a high, insistent whine. Nate glanced at the screen, and the color drained out of him like someone had pulled the plug. His thumb hovered, uncertain. I leaned over to peek.
“Unknown Number,” I read. “Could be Rachel with another burner phone. Maybe she’s plotting to catfish you again.”
He didn’t laugh. His jaw set, and he slid his finger across the screen.
“Hello?”
There was a pause—a crackle, then the cold machinery of a pre-recorded voice. “You have a call from the State Correctional Facility. Inmate name: Jernigan, Christopher. Press one to accept, or hang up to decline. This call may be recorded—”
Nate’s hand twitched, but he pressed the one, and the world sharpened to a wire-thin edge.
“Hello?” Nate said, voice a half-step higher.
Another pause, then: “Nathaniel. My boy.” The voice was raspy, stretched thin with distance and regret. “It’s me.”
I could hear every word, the phone’s speaker loud enough for both of us. Nate froze, like someone had trapped him in ice.
“What do you want?” Nate asked, no anger, just the clipped efficiency of a man reciting a script he’d rehearsed for years.
“I wanted to talk,” the voice said. “It’s been a long time.”
Nate’s breath went shallow. “Not long enough.”
I reached for his hand under the bar, but he kept it flat against the wood, his knuckles gone pale.
The voice—his father, the monster who’d ruined everything—kept talking. “I miss you. I wanted to see how you are.”
Nate flinched. I squeezed his thigh, felt the tremor running through it.
“I don’t need anything from you,” Nate said, quieter now. “You lost the right a long time ago.”
There was a sigh, and for a second, I heard the ghost of the man who used to tuck Nate in at night, who’d called him “champ” before the liquor turned everything dark.
“I know I did,” his father said. “I know I hurt you. I just want you to know… I’m sorry. I’ve spent years thinking about what I did. To you. To your mother. I wish—” His voice broke, and the static filled the gap. “I wish it had been different.”
Nate said nothing.
