Chapter 3 - The Fracturing Foundation
Back in Dallas, the suburban house on Maplewood Drive was in a state of terminal, unmitigated shock.
Helen Brooks stood in the center of Claire’s empty bedroom, staring down at the bare mattress with wide, uncomprehending eyes. The room smelled of nothing. No lingering perfume, no scattered clothes, no dirty laundry waiting to be washed. It was sanitized, stripped down to the bare drywall and pale carpet like a crime scene where the victim had neatly packed up their own murder.
“Richard!” Helen shrieked, her voice cracking with a hysteria that usually only appeared when Madison dropped her iPhone in the toilet. “Richard, get up here right now!”
Richard Brooks lumbered up the stairs in his flannel pajama pants, rubbing sleep from his bloodshot eyes. He had stayed up late watching a college football rerun after the awkward, subdued Thai dinner where Madison had pouted because the spring rolls weren't crispy enough.
“What is it, Helen? Can’t a man sleep on a Saturday—”
“Look!” Helen pointed a trembling finger at the stripped bed. Then she marched over to the nightstand, snatched up the brass house key resting on the pillow, and shoved it into Richard’s chest. “She’s gone. She actually left.”
Richard frowned, looking down at the key as if it were a venomous insect. “Don’t be ridiculous. She went out for coffee. She’s probably blowing off steam because we canceled the restaurant. You know how dramatic she gets when she doesn't get her way.”
“Her suitcases are gone!” Helen screamed, tears springing to her eyes not from grief, but from pure, unadulterated narcissistic outrage. “Her laptop bag! Her passport drawer is empty! Look in the closet—all her winter coats are gone! She didn't go for coffee, Richard! She’s gone!”
At that moment, the door to the master suite down the hall creaked open, and Madison shuffled out wearing pink silk pajamas, rubbing her eyes.
“Why is everyone yelling?” Madison whined, her voice carrying that sharp, nails-on-a-chalkboard whine that had terrorized the household since she was seven. “My head hurts. Someone was slamming doors.”
“Your sister packed up her entire life in the middle of the night and ran away like a criminal,” Helen hissed, spinning around to face her younger daughter.
Madison blinked, processing the information. A flicker of genuine confusion crossed her face, quickly replaced by annoyance. “Wait. Does this mean nobody’s going to Whole Foods? I wanted organic Greek yogurt.”
“Madison, this is serious!” Helen cried. “She blocked our numbers! I just tried calling her and it went straight to voicemail!”
Richard finally felt the first cold drop of reality hit the back of his neck. He walked over to Claire’s desk, pulling open the drawers. Empty. He checked the floorboard where Claire always kept her emergency cash box—lifted the wood, and found nothing but dust bunnies.
“She planned this,” Richard muttered, his face turning an alarming shade of mottled red. “For how long? Weeks, probably.”
“Call her!” Helen demanded, shoving Richard’s arm. “Call her work! Call her boss! Tell her she has forty-eight hours to get back under this roof or she’s cut off!”
Richard pulled out his phone, dialed Claire’s mobile number, and hit call.
“The subscriber you have dialed is not accepting calls at this time. Please try again later.”
He tried again. Same automated rejection.
He tried calling the main line of the accounting firm where Claire had worked for the past three years.
“Hello, human resources, this is Richard Brooks, father of Claire Brooks,” Richard barked into the receiver the moment a polite clerk answered. “I need to speak to her immediate supervisor regarding her attendance policy.”
There was a brief pause on the other end of the line.
“Mr. Brooks? One moment, please.”
A minute later, a crisp, professional voice came on the line. “Mr. Brooks? This is Arthur Vance, managing partner of Vance & Associates Accounting. How may I help you?”
“Claire didn't show up for her shift this morning,” Richard blustered, completely unaware of how inappropriate his call was. “She’s throwing a juvenile tantrum and refusing to answer our calls. As her father, I demand to know if she requested personal leave, and if not, I want her put on disciplinary probation so she learns a lesson about responsibility.”
Silence stretched across the phone line for so long that Richard thought the call had dropped.
When Arthur Vance spoke again, his voice had lost all polite customer service warmth. It had dropped into a cold, lethal register that could cut glass.
“Mr. Brooks, let me make something abundantly clear to you,” Vance said slowly. “Claire Brooks is one of our most brilliant, reliable senior auditors. She does not take unauthorized leave. Furthermore, three days ago, Ms. Brooks submitted her official two weeks’ notice, accompanied by an early buyout of her contract and a transfer request to our newly opened corporate branch in Austin, Texas.”
Richard froze. The phone nearly slipped from his sweaty palm.
“Her... her what?” Richard stammered. “A transfer? To Austin? That’s impossible! We didn't authorize any move! Her life is here!”
“Her life,” Vance snapped coldly, “is none of your business. She is a twenty-five-year-old independent woman. And quite frankly, Mr. Brooks, after hearing the tone in which you just spoke about an employee who single-handedly saved three major client accounts for this firm last quarter, I am exceedingly glad she is getting away from whatever toxic environment produced your phone call. Do not contact this office again.”
Click.
The dial tone buzzed in Richard’s ear.
He lowered the phone slowly, staring blankly at the wall.
“Well?” Helen demanded, wringing her hands. “What did they say? Is she fired? Is she coming home?”
Richard looked at his wife, then over at Madison, who was currently checking her reflection in the hallway mirror.
“She didn't run away,” Richard whispered, a cold sweat breaking out across his forehead. “She transferred to Austin. She planned her escape weeks ago.”
Helen gasped, her hand flying to her chest. “Austin?! Without telling us?! Who’s going to pay the water bill next month? Who’s going to drive Madison to her therapy appointments on Tuesdays?!”
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For the first time in twenty-five years, the house on Maplewood Drive fell completely, terrifyingly silent.
Because for the first time in twenty-five years, nobody was coming to fix it.
