Chapter 16 Everything Breaks (Doris Vale POV)
I lock the door behind me, the deadbolt clicking into place. My hands are still trembling. I lean against the door, sliding down until I'm sitting on the floor, my knees pulled to my chest.
Donald Eric.
The name repeats in my head, over and over, like a prayer or a curse. I can't tell which.
I pull out my phone, scrolling back through our messages. Every text, every word, suddenly heavy with new meaning.
Crazy day.
Work mess.
Bad day at work.
My thumb hovers over the screen, and I start replaying everything. His confessions at Nonna's—how he used to believe in justice until paperwork killed it. The guilt in his eyes when I asked about his work. The way he pulled away after Robert Eric died.
"A mistake," he'd said at the bar in Vegas. "One that cost someone their life. You don't come back from that."
Sarah. He was talking about Sarah.
And I told him I understood. I told him about losing the only family that mattered, about the hole it left.
We bonded over the same wound. The wound he created.
A sob breaks free, raw and desperate. I press my fist to my mouth, trying to hold it back, but it's useless. The tears come fast, blurring my vision, choking me.
I loved him. God help me, I was falling in love with him.
The man who killed my sister.
I pull myself up from the floor, stumbling to the bedroom. Sarah's photo sits on the dresser, her smile frozen and unchanging. I pick it up with shaking hands, staring at her face.
"I'm so sorry," I whisper. "Sarah, I'm so sorry."
But sorry doesn't bring her back. Sorry doesn't undo what I've done.
I set the photo down and move to the living room, turning on the TV. I need noise, something to drown out the screaming in my head. The local news is on, the anchor's voice calm and measured.
"...and in developing news, another member of the Eric family has been found dead. Margaret Caldwell, cousin to local detective Donald Eric, was discovered in her home this afternoon. Police are investigating the death as suspicious and say it may be connected to the recent murder of Robert Eric..."
The remote slips from my hand, clattering to the floor.
Margaret Caldwell. Another Eric.
The screen shows footage from the scene—police tape, officers moving in and out of a modest house, a body bag being loaded into a coroner's van.
"Sources say the victim was found with wounds consistent with surgical precision, similar to the Robert Eric case. Detective Eric, who is leading the investigation, was unavailable for comment—"
I turn off the TV, the silence rushing back like a wave. My chest is heaving, my hands gripping the edge of the couch so hard my knuckles turn white.
Surgical precision.
The Surgeon. It's him. It's happening exactly like I paid for.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table, and I jump. Donald's name flashes on the screen.
You okay? You seemed upset earlier.
I stare at the message, my vision blurring. My thumbs hover over the keyboard.
I know who you are. I know what you did.
I delete it.
I'm the one killing your family.
Delete.
I loved you and I shouldn't have.
Delete.
My hands are shaking so hard I can barely type. Finally, I manage: Just tired.
The message sends, and I drop the phone like it's burned me.
He texts back almost immediately: Get some rest. I'll call you tomorrow.
I don't respond.
I sit there on the couch, staring at nothing. Minutes pass. Maybe hours. The light outside fades, the room growing darker, but I don't turn on the lamps.
Every piece clicks into place now. His absences. The way he pulled away after Robert died. The darkness in his eyes when he talked about work. He's hunting a killer who's targeting his family, and he has no idea it's because of me.
Another sob tears free, and I double over, pressing my face into my hands. The guilt is a physical thing, crushing my chest, making it impossible to breathe.
I killed them. Margaret Caldwell, Robert Eric, I killed them as surely as if I'd pulled the trigger myself.
And there will be more. The Surgeon won't stop. He told me that. He's enjoying this too much.
I stand on shaking legs and move to the bedroom. Sarah's photo is still on the dresser, her eyes staring at me, accusing.
I pick it up, holding it against my chest.
"I loved him," I whisper, my voice breaking. "I loved the man who killed you."
The words taste like ash.
"And now his family is dying because of me."
I sink onto the bed, clutching the photo. Tears stream down my face, hot and relentless. I rock back and forth, Sarah's face pressed against my heart.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't know. I didn't..."
But I did know. I knew I was hiring someone to destroy a family. I just didn't care whose family it was. I wanted revenge, wanted someone to hurt the way I hurt.
And now I have it.
Robert Eric, dead in his bed. Margaret Caldwell, dead in her home. Both connected to Donald. Both killed because I was too broken, too angry to think about what I was doing.
I set the photo down and lie on my side, curling into a ball. The sheets smell like him—cologne and soap and something distinctly Donald. It makes me sick.
My phone buzzes again from the living room, but I don't get up. I can't. I just lie there, staring at the wall, Sarah's photo beside me.
The sobs come in waves now, each one leaving me more hollow than the last. I press my face into the pillow, trying to muffle the sound, but it's useless.
I loved him.
I hate him.
I destroyed him.
The thoughts circle endlessly, each one sharper than the last.
Eventually, I slide off the bed, my legs barely holding me. I move to the living room, my steps unsteady. The apartment is dark now, the only light coming from the streetlamp outside.
I sink to the floor beside the couch, my back against the cushions. My knees pull to my chest, my arms wrapped tight around them.
This is what I wanted, isn't it? Donald Eric suffering. His world falling apart. Payment for what he took from me.
But I didn't want this. Not like this. Not when I know his laugh, his touch, the way he looks at me like I'm the only clean thing in his life.
Not when I'm falling in love with him.
"What have I done?" I whisper to the empty room.
The silence doesn't answer.
I sit there on the floor, rocking slightly, my breath coming in shallow gasps. The weight of it all presses down—Sarah's death, Donald's guilt, the contract I can't cancel, the bodies piling up because of my rage.
I did this.
I curl tighter, my forehead pressing against my knees. The tears have stopped, but the hollow ache remains, spreading through my chest like rot.
I stay there on the floor as the night deepens, as the streetlight casts long shadows across the walls. Alone. Broken. Drowning in the consequences of a choice I can't undo.