Chapter 19 The Quiet Between Calls (Donald Eric POV)
Dawn light creeps through the blinds, gray and cold. I'm already awake, staring at the ceiling. Dora's breath is soft against my shoulder, her arm draped across my chest. I don't want to move. Don't want to break whatever fragile peace we found in the dark.
But my phone buzzes on the nightstand. Once, twice, three times.
I reach for it carefully, trying not to wake her. Hayes: Got something. Come in when you can.
Then another from the captain: Eric. My office. 8 AM.
Then Rivera from IA: Need to talk. Today.
I set the phone down and slide out from under Dora's arm. She stirs, mumbling something I don't catch, then settles back into sleep. I grab my clothes from the floor, jeans, shirt, socks—and dress in the dim light.
In the bathroom, I splash water on my face, staring at my reflection. The lines around my eyes are deeper. My jaw's covered in stubble I don't have time to shave. I look like hell.
When I come back out, Dora's sitting up, the sheet pulled around her shoulders.
"You leaving already?"
"Got called in."
"It's barely six."
"Yeah." I pull on my jacket, checking for my badge and gun. Both there. "Sorry. Work's… you know."
She stands, wrapping the sheet tighter. "You hungry? I can make something fast."
"You don't have to..."
"Sit." She points to the kitchen table. "Five minutes."
I sit. She moves to the kitchen, pulling eggs and bread from the fridge. The stove clicks on, butter sizzling in the pan. She cracks eggs with one hand, whisking them with a fork. Toast pops up, and she slathers it with butter, sliding the plate in front of me with scrambled eggs piled high.
"Eat."
"Thanks."
She sits across from me with a cup of coffee, watching me over the rim. I shovel eggs into my mouth, barely tasting them. My mind's already at the precinct, running through what Hayes might have found.
"You okay?" she asks.
"Yeah. Just tired."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it's true." I finish the toast, washing it down with water. "This is good. Thank you."
"Anytime."
I stand, grabbing my keys from the counter. She walks me to the door, the sheet trailing behind her like a cape.
"Don?"
"Yeah?"
She hesitates, her fingers twisting the fabric. "Be careful today."
"Always am."
I kiss her, soft and quick, then step into the hallway. The door clicks shut behind me, and I stand there for a second, staring at the peeling paint on the wall.
Then I head down the stairs, out into the cold morning air.
The precinct smells like burnt coffee and industrial cleaner. I push through the front doors at seven-forty, badge clipped to my belt. The desk sergeant—Murphy—glances up from his crossword.
"Morning, Detective."
"Murphy."
"Captain's looking for you. Hayes too."
"Yeah, I know."
The bullpen is half-empty. A few night-shift officers mill around, finishing reports. Someone's reheating pizza in the break room microwave—the smell mixing with old coffee and sweat. Hayes is at her desk, head down on her folded arms, snoring softly. Files are stacked around her like fortress walls.
I drop my jacket on my chair and nudge her shoulder. "Hayes."
She jerks awake, blinking. "What? I'm up."
"You sleep here?"
"Went home for two hours. Came back." She rubs her face, smearing yesterday's eyeliner. "Coffee?"
"Already had some."
"Liar." She stands, stretching, her back popping. "Come on. I'll get us both some."
We head to the break room. The coffee pot is half-full, the liquid thick and black. Hayes pours two cups, handing me one. I take a sip.
"So what'd you find?" I ask.
"Security footage from the gas station near Margaret's place. Time-stamped two hours before her estimated TOD."
"And?"
"Dark sedan. No plates visible, but the make matches the one from Robert's neighborhood."
"Same car?"
"Could be. I'm running it through traffic cams now, see if we can trace the route."
"Good work."
She leans against the counter, studying me. "You look worse than usual."
"Thanks."
"I'm serious. When's the last time you slept more than four hours?"
"Don't remember."
"Don." Her voice drops. "You're running yourself into the ground."
"I'm fine."
"Bullshit." She sets her cup down. "Rivera's sniffing around. She thinks you're hiding something."
"I'm not."
"Then why's she asking about your personal life? Who you're seeing, where you've been after hours?"
My jaw tightens. "She say that?"
"Not to me. But I heard her talking to the captain yesterday." Hayes crosses her arms. "What's going on, Don? For real."
"Nothing. I'm doing my job."
"And?"
"And nothing. There's no 'and.'"
She watches me for a long moment, then shakes her head. "Fine. Keep your secrets. But if Rivera finds something you're not telling me, I can't help you."
"There's nothing to find."
She doesn't look convinced, but she lets it drop. "Captain wants you at eight. Don't be late."
The captain's office smells like cigars. He's behind his desk, reading glasses perched on his nose, a file open in front of him. Rivera sits in the chair opposite, her expression neutral.
"Eric. Sit."
I sit in the chair beside Rivera. She doesn't look at me.
"We need to talk about the case," the captain says, closing the file. "Two family members dead. No suspects, no leads. IA's getting nervous."
"I'm working every angle," I say. "Hayes and I are..."
"I know what you're doing." He leans back, folding his hands. "And I know it's personal. But Rivera here thinks there's a conflict of interest."
Rivera speaks up, her voice calm. "Two victims, both related to Detective Eric. Both killed with surgical precision. No forced entry, no witnesses. It's targeted, and he's the connection."
"I didn't kill them."
"No one's saying you did." She turns to face me. "But someone close to you might have motive. An ex, a disgruntled perp you put away, someone with a grudge."
"I've run every name. Nothing connects."
"Then dig deeper." The captain taps the file. "Because if you don't find something soon, I'm pulling you off this case and handing it to someone else."
"Sir..."
"That's final, Eric. You've got one week. After that, Rivera takes over."
I stand, my hands clenched into fists. "Understood."
"Good. Now get back to work."
I leave, slamming the door harder than I mean to. Hayes is waiting by my desk, two fresh cups of coffee in her hands.
"That bad?"
"One week. Then I'm off the case."
"Shit." She hands me a cup. "Then we'd better find something."
We spend the next four hours buried in files. Crime scene photos spread across my desk—Robert's bedroom, Margaret's kitchen. Both clean. Both precise. I study the wounds again, the angles, the depth. Professional work. No hesitation.
Hayes pulls up traffic cam footage on her computer, scrolling frame by frame. The dark sedan appears at 14:32, heading west on Parker Street. Then again at 14:47 on Elm. Then it disappears.
"Lost it near the industrial district," she says. "No cameras past Fifth Avenue."
"Run the industrial zone. See if any businesses have private security footage."
"Already on it."
I lean back, rubbing my eyes. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, making my headache worse. Someone's radio crackles—dispatch calling in a domestic disturbance on Maple Street. An officer responds, his voice bored.
My phone rings. Unknown number. I answer. "Eric."
Heavy breathing. Then a click. Line goes dead.
"Wrong number?" Hayes asks.
"Maybe."
But it doesn't feel like a wrong number.
I pull up the security footage from Margaret's scene again, watching it on repeat. 14:23, the front door opens. Margaret enters, grocery bags in hand. 14:24, she moves to the kitchen. 14:26—a shadow crosses the frame. Then static.
I pause it, zooming in on the shadow. Too blurry to make out details, but the height and build suggest male. Average. Could be anyone.
"Anything?" Hayes asks.
"Shadow. Might be the perp. Can't tell."
"Send it to tech. See if they can clean it up."
I forward the file, then stand, stretching. My back cracks. "I need air."
"Take ten. I'll keep working."
Outside, the air is cold. I lean against the brick wall, pulling out my phone. Dora's name stares back at me from the contact list.
I think about calling her. Hearing her voice. But what would I say?
Hey, my family's being murdered.
Yeah. That'd go over well.
I type instead: You make things feel normal.
I hit send before I can overthink it.
The phone buzzes almost immediately. Her reply: You okay?
I stare at the screen. No. I'm not okay. Nothing's okay.
But I type: Yeah. Just a long day. Talk later?
Anytime.
I pocket the phone and light a cigarette I bummed off Murphy earlier. The smoke burns my lungs, but it helps. Grounds me.
A cruiser pulls into the lot, siren off. Two uniforms step out, escorting a guy in cuffs. He's shouting about his rights, voice shrill. They drag him inside, and the door swings shut.
Normal day at the precinct.
I finish the cigarette, stubbing it out under my boot. Then I head back inside.
Hayes looks up when I enter. "Tech came back. Shadow's too degraded. Can't clean it up."
"Of course it is."