Chapter 15 Realization (Doris Vale POV)
Three days. It's been three days since Donald canceled our coffee date, and I haven't heard from him since. No texts, no calls, nothing.
I tell myself he's busy. The case—Robert Eric, the businessman—is probably consuming all his time. But the silence gnaws at me, persistent and sharp.
By the fourth morning, I make a decision.
I'm going to bring him coffee. Something small, simple, a gesture that says I'm thinking of him without demanding anything in return. Maybe he needs that. Maybe I need that.
I get ready carefully—jeans, a soft gray sweater, my hair pulled back. I stop at Bean & Bone first, ordering two medium lattes. Claire raises an eyebrow when I ask for both to go.
"Making a delivery?"
"Something like that."
"Tell Don I said hi." She winks, handing me the cups in a cardboard carrier.
"I will."
The drive to the precinct takes ten minutes. I've looked up the address—it's a brick building downtown, American flag out front, a handful of police cruisers parked in the lot. I pull into a visitor spot, grab the coffees, and head inside.
The lobby is small, functional. A desk sergeant sits behind bulletproof glass, typing at a computer. A few people sit in plastic chairs along the wall—a woman with a crying baby, an older man reading a magazine.
I approach the desk, setting the coffees down. "Hi. I'm here to see Detective Donald Eric?"
The sergeant barely looks up. "He expecting you?"
"No. I just wanted to drop something off."
"Name?"
"Dora."
He picks up a phone, pressing a button. "Eric? Got a visitor. Says her name's Dora." A pause. "Yeah. Okay." He hangs up. "He'll be down in a minute. You can wait over there."
"Thanks."
I grab the coffees and move to the chairs, sitting on the edge of one. The woman with the baby glances at me, then away. I balance the coffees on my lap, my heart doing something stupid in my chest.
Minutes pass. Five, then ten. I check my phone—no messages.
Then I hear footsteps. I look up, and Donald is walking down the hallway toward the lobby. He's in his work clothes—dark slacks, white shirt, sleeves rolled up. His expression shifts when he sees me, surprise flickering across his face.
"Dora?"
I stand, holding up the coffees. "Thought you could use this."
He stops a few feet away, his eyes moving from the coffees to my face. "You didn't have to do that."
"I know. But I wanted to."
He opens his mouth to say something, but before he can, a voice cuts through from deeper in the hallway.
"Detective Eric! Phone!"
The world narrows.
That voice. Sharp, commanding, dripping with authority. I've heard it before.
My chest tightens, my breath catching. I turn slightly, trying to see who called, but the hallway is too crowded, too many bodies moving.
Donald glances back. "I gotta take that. Sorry. Can you—"
But I'm not listening. The voice echoes in my head, louder now, impossibly loud. I know that voice. I know it.
"Dora?" Donald's face blurs at the edges. "You okay?"
"Yeah. I..." My hands are shaking. The coffees slosh in their cups. "I have to go."
"What? You just got here."
"I forgot something. I'm sorry." I shove the coffees into his hands, nearly spilling them. "I have to go."
"Dora, wait—"
But I'm already moving, pushing through the door, out into the parking lot. The rain has started, cold and sharp, soaking through my sweater in seconds. I fumble for my keys, dropping them, picking them up with trembling fingers.
Inside the car, I lock the doors, my breath coming in ragged gasps. My hands grip the steering wheel, knuckles white.
That voice.
I pull out my phone, my fingers shaking so hard I can barely unlock it. I scroll through my files, through the videos I've saved, until I find it—the body cam footage Mr. Hargrove showed me. The footage I made him send me a copy of, even though he warned me not to watch it again.
I press play.
The screen flickers to life. Grainy footage, timestamped three years ago. The community center, dimly lit, radios crackling. Officers moving in jerky motions.
And then his voice.
"This is Detective Donald Eric. Put the gun down!"
My stomach drops like a stone.
The voice on the footage matches the voice in the hallway. Sharp. Commanding. Arrogant.
"Donald, stand down!" another officer hisses.
"You're not in control here! Drop it, or I'll drop you!"
The hostage-taker panics. "Back off! I'll do it, I'll..."
A gunshot. Sarah's body jerks, blood blooming across her blouse. She crumples.
I drop the phone into my lap, pressing my palms against my eyes. My chest is heaving, my breaths coming too fast, too shallow.
No. No, no, no.
Donald Eric. Detective Donald Eric.
The man from Vegas. The man I've been falling for. The man whose touch makes me feel alive for the first time in years.
He's the one who killed Sarah.
A sob breaks free, raw and jagged. I press my fist to my mouth, trying to stifle it, but it keeps coming. Tears blur my vision, hot and relentless.
I hired The Surgeon to destroy his family. To make him pay. And I didn't even know it was him.
I lean my forehead against the steering wheel, my body shaking with sobs. Rain pounds against the windshield, the sound deafening.
How? How did this happen?
Vegas. That night. It was random, a chance encounter. We didn't exchange names. Didn't ask questions. Just two broken people trying to forget.
And now...
I sit up, wiping my face with the back of my hand. My reflection stares back at me in the rearview mirror—mascara streaked, eyes red and wild.
What do I do?
The Surgeon is already working. Robert Eric is dead. Others will follow. And Donald...Donald doesn't know. He has no idea I'm the one orchestrating his nightmare.
My phone buzzes on my lap. I glance down.
A text from Donald: You okay? You seemed upset. Call me when you can.
I stare at the message, my vision blurring again.
Call him. Tell him. Stop this.
But I can't. Because if I tell him, he'll know what I've done. He'll know I hired someone to murder his family. He'll know I'm the monster.
And The Surgeon won't stop. He made that clear. The job's started. He'll finish it, with or without my permission.
I lock my phone and toss it into the passenger seat. My hands grip the steering wheel again, and I start the car.
I drive home on autopilot, the rain blurring the road ahead. By the time I pull into my parking spot, my hands have stopped shaking, but my chest still feels hollow, carved out.
Inside the apartment, I drop my keys on the counter and stand in the middle of the living room, staring at nothing.
Donald Eric.
The man who killed my sister.
The man I'm falling in love with.
The man whose family I've condemned to death.