Chapter 14 Distraction (Doris Vale POV)
The knock on my door comes at seven-thirty, three sharp raps that make me jump. I'm still in the kitchen, drying the last of the dinner dishes. I set the towel down and move to the door, checking the peephole.
Donald stands in the hallway, his jacket soaked, hair plastered to his forehead. Even through the distorted lens, I can see the exhaustion carved into his face.
I unlock the door and pull it open. "Hey."
"Hey." His voice is flat, distant. "Can I come in?"
"Of course." I step aside, and he walks past me, water dripping from his jacket onto the floor. "You're soaked. Let me get you a towel."
"It's fine."
"It's not fine. You're dripping everywhere." I grab a towel from the bathroom and hand it to him. He takes it without a word, running it over his hair, his movements mechanical.
"You want coffee? Tea? Something stronger?"
"Coffee's good."
I move to the kitchen, starting the machine. He peels off his jacket, draping it over the back of a chair, and sits at the table. His shoulders are hunched, his hands clasped in front of him.
"You eaten?" I ask, pulling mugs from the cabinet.
"Not really."
"I've got leftover pasta. I can heat it up."
"Sure. Thanks."
I plate the pasta and microwave it, the hum filling the silence. When it's done, I set it in front of him along with a fork. He stares at it for a moment, then picks up the fork and takes a bite.
We eat in silence. I sit across from him with my coffee, watching him over the rim of my mug. He's here, but he's not. His eyes are distant, his jaw tight, like he's somewhere else entirely.
"Bad day at work?" I ask finally, my voice soft.
He looks up, blinking like he's just remembered I'm here. "Yeah. Sorry. I'm not great company tonight."
"You don't have to apologize."
"I feel like I do." He sets his fork down, rubbing his face with both hands. "I just… needed to get out of my head for a bit."
I want to ask. I want to know what happened, why he looks so hollowed out. But something stops me—the way his shoulders are drawn up, the way his hands won't stop moving. Whatever it is, he doesn't want to talk about it.
"You want to watch something?" I ask instead. "There's an old movie on. Nothing serious."
He nods. "Yeah. That sounds good."
We move to the couch, and I turn on the TV, flipping through channels until I find something black-and-white—some noir film with shadowy streets and sharp dialogue. I sit on one end of the couch, he sits on the other, a careful distance between us.
For a while, we just watch. The movie plays, the characters moving through their drama, but I'm not really paying attention. I'm too aware of Donald beside me, his presence heavy and strained.
Halfway through, he shifts, leaning back, and his hand finds mine. His fingers are cold, trembling slightly. I squeeze back, and he exhales, the sound shaky.
"Thanks," he murmurs.
"For what?"
"Being here. Not asking."
I nod, my throat tight. "Anytime."
The comfort returns, fragile but real. We sit like that for the rest of the movie, his hand in mine, the silence no longer oppressive but something softer. When the credits roll, he doesn't move.
"You okay?" I ask.
"Getting there."
But he doesn't sound convinced.
I turn off the TV, and the room falls into dim quiet, the only light coming from the streetlamp outside. I shift to face him, still holding his hand.
"You want to talk about it?"
He shakes his head. "Not really. It's just… work. A case. Complicated."
"The one on the news? The businessman?"
His jaw tightens, and I see the flicker of something in his eyes—pain, maybe, or anger. "Yeah. That one."
"I'm sorry."
"Not your fault." He pulls his hand away, running it through his hair. "I just… I shouldn't have come here like this. You don't need my mess."
"Hey." I reach for his hand again, holding it firmly. "I don't mind your mess."
He looks at me, something unreadable in his eyes. Then he leans forward, pressing his forehead to mine. We stay like that for a moment, breathing together, the weight of everything he's not saying pressing down on us both.
Then he pulls back, standing abruptly. "I should go."
"You don't have to."
"I do." He grabs his jacket, still damp, and pulls it on. "I've got an early start tomorrow. And I'm not… I'm not good company right now."
I stand, following him to the door. "Donald..."
"I'll call you," he says, not meeting my eyes. "Maybe in a few days. I just need to… deal with this."
My chest tightens. "Okay."
He pauses at the door, his hand on the knob. "Rain check on coffee tomorrow? I don't think I can do it."
"Yeah. Of course."
He nods, then opens the door and steps into the hallway. I watch him go, his footsteps heavy on the stairs. The door closes, and I stand there, staring at the empty space he left behind.
I press my palms against my eyes, breathing through the knot in my chest. He's pulling away. I can feel it.
The next morning, I tell myself I'm not going to Bean & Bone. There's no point if he's not coming. But by ten, I'm restless, the apartment too small, the silence too loud.
I grab my purse and walk the two blocks, the air cool and crisp. The café is quiet when I push through the door, just a few regulars scattered at tables. Claire looks up from the counter and grins.
"Morning, Dora! Your usual?"
"Yeah. Thanks."
"Don not with you today?"
My chest tightens. "He's working."
"Ah, the boyfriend on duty." She winks. "He'll turn up eventually. Can't stay away from you for long."
I force a smile. "Yeah. Maybe."
She makes my latte, and I take it to my usual corner table. The café feels different without him—too quiet, too empty. I pull out my notebook and phone, trying to distract myself, but the words on the screen blur together.
I think about the news. About Robert Eric, the businessman found dead. About Donald's face on TV, tight and distant. About the way he looked last night, haunted and unreachable.
And I think about The Surgeon. About the contract. About the families I paid to destroy.
My stomach twists. It's not connected. It can't be. Robert Eric is just some businessman. A random victim. Nothing to do with Donald.
But the unease won't leave.
I sip my latte, staring out the window. A couple walks by, holding hands. A kid on a skateboard zips past. Normal, mundane, safe.
By noon, I give up. I pack my things and leave, Claire waving as I go.