Faultlines Read Online Free Page A

built.”
    “That one-bedroom shack? It’s in worse shape than the old farmhouse.”
    “We’ve done some work on it,” Libby said. “It’ll be fine to camp out in.”
    Whatever, lady. Sergeant Huckabee’s expression was full of his doubt.
    Libby put the registration and insurance card back in the glove box and tucked her driver’s license into her wallet.
    The sergeant smiled, and this time it seemed genuine. “I hope the next time we meet, it’ll be under better circumstances.”
    “You can count on it,” she said, emphatically.
    He turned to go, turned back. “Just so you know, we’ve had a couple of reports of vandalism at the Little B, nothing too serious. One of the construction workers got his truck door keyed.”
    “That happened on our property. We’re the ones who reported it,” Libby said. “A policeman from Wyatt came and checked it out. He thought it was kids.”
    “Yeah, that’d be my guess.”
    “I thought stuff like that only happened in the city.” Not that she’d ever experienced vandalism, not in all the years she’d lived in Houston, or growing up in Dallas. “People around here are always bragging they never lock anything.”
    “My advice? Keep your house and car locked up. Crime can happen anywhere, especially in summer. It’s hot. Kids get bored. You know.”
    “Right.” Libby didn’t have any of her own, but as a former high school guidance counselor, she’d had dealings with plenty.
    “Just keep an eye out, okay? You see anything you don’t like, give 911 a shout.”
    Libby said she would; she watched as Huckabee returned to his patrol car, and for a moment, after he settled behind the wheel, their gazes locked in her rearview mirror. She realized he was waiting for her to leave first. Not out of politeness, she thought. But because he was the law, the authority in this county, and he wanted her to remember that. Annoyed, she started her car and drove onto the highway, picking up speed. A couple of miles later, glancing into the rearview mirror again, she saw he was behind her, separated by some two or three car lengths but keeping pace. Was he there deliberately? She checked her speedometer. Fifty-five. Was he baiting her?
    They rounded a curve, and the road straightened out. Libby kept an eye on her speed. Huckabee came up behind her so near to her bumper, she could see the collar of his uniform shirt digging into his neck; she could distinguish his facial features, the broad ledge of his brow, the close-set eyes, well-shaped nose and mouth, his square chin. She thought he might be smiling.
    Abruptly, the red and blue lights flashed across the top of the cruiser. Libby flinched. Her heart rose, pounding, in her ears. What had she done now? She slowed, heading again for the road’s shoulder. But instead of pulling in behind her, the sergeant went around her, engine gunning. The shriek of the siren pierced the air. Watching his taillights disappear, she thought maybe he liked to scare people. Maybe cops in small towns had nothing better to do.
    Reaching her own property, she signaled a left turn, and her heart sank when she saw that the gate was open. Augie Bright, her contractor, was already here, then. But of course he would be. Between one delay and another, she was more than an hour late for their meeting.
    Still, Libby didn’t hurry. The one-lane road that led to the homesite didn’t allow for speed. Surfaced in caliche, it unwound along a series of curves, a pale champagne-colored ribbon of rubble, defining a gentle incline. Thickets of native shrubbery pressed close on either side. She let down the windows, and taking a deep breath of the air that was laden with the smell of cedar, she felt her body loosen. There was the sound of the gravel under the tires, the hum of the car’s engine, the rush of the warm summer breeze, and her own rising sense of anticipation. She was bent forward rounding the final curve, and there it was, the view, a vast panorama of