Chapter 18 Hollow Days (Doris Vale POV)
Three days since I learned the truth. Three days of moving through my apartment like a ghost, going through the motions of being alive without actually feeling it.
I wake at seven, shower, dress. The routine is automatic, jeans, sweater, hair pulled back. I make coffee, the machine sputtering and hissing, and sit at the kitchen table with my laptop.
The Boston client file needs revisions. Martin sent notes yesterday... adjustments to the risk assessment, updated projections for Q3. I open the spreadsheet, staring at the numbers until they blur together.
My phone buzzes. A text from Alisha: Morning! How's small-town life treating you?
I type back: Quiet. Same as always.
Boring, you mean.
Yeah. That too.
She sends a laughing emoji, then: Call me later? Haven't heard your voice in forever.
Will do.
I set the phone down and force myself to focus. The numbers, the formulas, the cells that need filling. I work for two hours straight, barely blinking, until my eyes burn and my neck aches.
At nine-thirty, my phone rings. Martin's name flashes on the screen.
"Doris, good morning."
"Morning."
"Got your revisions. Looks good. The client's happy, they want to move forward with the full contract."
"Great."
"You sound thrilled." There's a pause. "You okay? You've been… quiet lately."
"I'm fine. Just focused."
"Well, take a break once in a while. You're not a machine." He chuckles. "Anyway, I'll send over the contract details. Let me know if you have questions."
"Will do."
The call ends. I close the laptop and stand, stretching. My back pops, the sound loud in the silent apartment.
I should eat. I haven't eaten anything since yesterday's toast. I open the fridge, leftover chicken, some wilted lettuce, a carton of milk that's probably expired. I close it again.
My phone buzzes again. This time, it's Donald.
Dinner tonight? My treat.
My stomach drops. I stare at the message, my thumb hovering over the keyboard.
Say no. Tell him you're busy. Tell him anything.
But I type: Sure. What time?
Seven? I'll pick you up.
Okay.
I set the phone down and press my palms against the counter, breathing slow and steady. My heart is pounding, my chest tight.
Dinner. With Donald. The man whose family I'm murdering.
I move to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face. My reflection stares back, pale, hollow-eyed, a stranger. I grip the edge of the sink, my knuckles white.
He doesn't know. He can't know.
But what if he does? What if he's seen through me? He's a detective. He's trained to read people, to spot lies, to catch inconsistencies.
What if he's pieced it together?
I shake my head, forcing the thought away. It's impossible. There's no way he could connect me to this. I used Eddie's contact, kept everything anonymous. The Surgeon doesn't even know my face.
But still. The fear gnaws at me.
I need to talk to someone. Anyone. But who? Alisha? James? What would I even say?
Hey, I hired a contract killer to murder a detective's family, and now I'm in love with him. Any advice?
I laugh, sharp and bitter, the sound echoing off the tiles.
I go back to the living room and grab my phone, scrolling to the group chat. Alisha, James, Priya, Tom. Normal people with normal problems.
I type: Hypothetically, if you did something terrible and couldn't undo it, would you tell the person it affected?
The responses come quickly.
Alisha: Depends. How terrible?
James: Hypothetically or actually terrible?
Priya: This sounds ominous.
Tom: Just tell us what you did, Doris.
I hesitate, then type: Just… made a mistake. A big one. And now someone I care about is suffering because of it.
Alisha: Oh no. Did you cheat?
James: Tell them. Honesty is always better.
Priya: Not always. Sometimes ignorance is bliss.
Tom: Context matters. What's the mistake?
I stare at the screen, my fingers hovering. Then I type: Can't say. Just needed to think out loud.
Alisha: We're here if you need us. Seriously.
James: Don't spiral alone. Talk to us.
I lock the phone and toss it onto the couch. Their advice is useless. They don't understand. They can't.
The rest of the day drags. I try to work, but the numbers won't cooperate. I try to read, but the words slide off the page. I try to clean, but halfway through wiping down the kitchen counter, I just stop, staring at nothing.
By six, I'm standing in front of my closet, paralyzed. What do you wear to dinner with the man you're destroying?
I pull out a navy dress, simple and clean. Then I put it back and grab jeans and a black sweater instead. Casual. Normal. Like this is just another date.
I put on makeup, covering the dark circles under my eyes, adding color to my pale cheeks. My hands shake as I apply mascara, the wand trembling.
At seven sharp, there's a knock. I open the door, and Donald is standing there in dark jeans and a button-up, a jacket slung over his arm. He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes.
"Hey."
"Hey."
"You look great."
"Thanks. You too."
We drive to a steakhouse on the edge of town, the kind of place with dim lighting and leather booths. He orders a whiskey, I order wine. We sit across from each other, the silence stretching.
"How've you been?" he asks finally.
"Busy. Work stuff. You?"
"Same." He takes a sip of his whiskey. "Long days."
"I bet."
The waiter appears, and we order; steak for him, salmon for me. When the waiter leaves, Donald leans back, his fingers drumming on the table.
"I'm glad we're doing this," he says. "Feels like I haven't seen you in forever."
"It's only been a few days."
"Feels longer." He reaches across the table, his hand covering mine. "I missed you."
The words hit like a knife. I force a smile. "Missed you too."
Our food arrives, and we eat in relative silence. He cuts his steak methodically, but I notice the faint tremor in his hand, the way the knife shakes slightly.
"You okay?" I ask.
"Yeah. Just tired." He takes a bite, chewing slowly. "Work's been… intense."
I wait, but he doesn't elaborate. He doesn't mention the case, the murders, the family members dying one by one. He just eats, his jaw tight, his eyes distant.
I want to ask. I want to scream. But I stay silent, pushing salmon around my plate.
"You're not eating much," he says.
"Not that hungry."
"You feeling okay?"
"Just tired. Like you said."
He nods, and we fall back into silence.
The check comes. He pays without looking at it. We walk to the car in silence, my heels clicking on the pavement.
He opens the passenger door for me. I slide in, and he closes it gently before walking around. The engine starts, and his hand finds my thigh, warm through my jeans. I don't pull away.
The drive is quiet except for the hum of the road. His thumb traces small circles on my leg. I watch the streetlights blur past, each one a countdown.
At my building, he kills the engine. We sit for a moment, neither of us moving.
"You want me to come up?" he asks, his voice low.
I nod. "Yeah."
Inside, the door barely closes before his hands are on my waist, pulling me against him. His mouth finds mine, and I kiss him back, my fingers gripping his jacket. He tastes like whiskey and something darker.
"Dora," he murmurs against my lips.
That name. Not mine. The lie sits between us, but I don't correct him. I just kiss him harder, trying to drown out the guilt.
We stumble toward the bedroom, his jacket hitting the floor, then my sweater. His hands are everywhere; my back, my hair, my face.
The bed creaks when we fall onto it. He pauses, his forehead against mine, breathing hard.
"You okay?" I whisper.
"Yeah. You?"
"Yeah."
He kisses me again, slower this time. His hands shake slightly as they move down my sides. I feel it—the tremor, the weight he's carrying. I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him closer.
His arms lock around me, his face buried in my hair. His breathing is uneven, too fast.
"Don?"
"I'm here." His voice is rough. "Just… stay still for a second."
I do. His grip tightens, almost painful, like I'm the only solid thing in his world. His heart pounds against my back, each beat too loud in the silence.
Minutes pass. Maybe longer. His breathing finally slows, but his arms don't loosen.
"You're holding me pretty tight," I say softly.
"Sorry." He loosens his grip slightly but doesn't let go. "Just don't want to move yet."
"Okay."
I stare at the ceiling. The streetlight outside casts shadows that shift and crawl across the walls. His heartbeat is steady now, constant against my spine.
He doesn't know.
The thought loops in my head, relentless. He has no idea who I am. What I've done. Why his family is dying.
I'm lying in his arms, and he thinks I'm safe. Clean. Separate from the nightmare consuming his life.
My throat tightens. I blink hard, willing the tears back.
"Dora?" His voice is quiet, almost hesitant.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"Being here. Just… being here."
I close my eyes, the guilt crushing my chest. "Anytime."
His arms tighten again, just a fraction. We lie there in the dark, him holding on like I'm all he has left, me staring at nothing, drowning in everything I can't say.