Chapter 20 Kindness (Doris Vale POV)
My phone buzzes on the kitchen counter. I'm washing dishes from breakfast, hands deep in soapy water. I dry them on a towel and pick it up.
Donald's message glows on the screen: You make things feel normal.
The sob comes before I can stop it. Raw and jagged, tearing out of my throat. I press my hand over my mouth, but it doesn't help. The tears come fast, hot, blurring my vision.
I sink to the floor, my back against the cabinet, phone clutched in my hand. The words blur and sharpen, blur and sharpen.
You make things feel normal.
"God," I whisper. "God, no."
I type back with shaking fingers: You make me feel normal too.
Hit send. Drop the phone. Curl forward, arms wrapped around my knees.
He doesn't deserve this. Doesn't deserve any of it. And I...I'm the reason he's drowning.
The crying doesn't stop for ten minutes. Maybe longer. When it finally does, I'm hollow, emptied out. I pick myself up, splash cold water on my face at the sink. My reflection in the window shows red eyes, blotchy cheeks. A mess.
I need to fix this. I need to stop it.
I grab my phone and scroll through old messages. The Surgeon's number, I saved it under a fake name. "John Smith." Generic. Forgettable.
I dial. It rings once, then a recorded voice: The number you have dialed is no longer in service.
"No." I hang up, dial again. Same message.
I try Eddie next. His number still works.
"Doris?" His voice is groggy. "What time is it?"
"I need that contact again. The one you gave me."
A pause. "That contact?"
"Yes. I need to reach him."
"Why?"
"Just...please, Eddie."
He sighs. "Listen, love. That bridge is burned. I told you...don't mention me. You called that number, you're on your own."
"Eddie..."
"I can't help you. Don't call me about this again."
The line goes dead.
I stand there, phone pressed to my ear, listening to nothing. Then I pull up the email Eddie sent months ago. The one with the P.O. box information. I tap it.
Message failed to send. Email address does not exist.
"No, no, no." I refresh. Try again. Same result.
I throw the phone onto the couch and press my palms against my eyes. He's gone. The Surgeon's disappeared, and I have no way to reach him.
The walls press in. I need air. Need to get out.
Bean & Bone is busy when I push through the door. The bell chimes, and Claire looks up from the espresso machine, her face brightening.
"Dora! Haven't seen you in a couple days. Thought you'd abandoned us."
"Never." I force a smile. "Just busy."
"The usual?"
"Yeah. Thanks."
I find a corner table by the window, dropping my bag beside me. My laptop's inside, but I don't pull it out yet. I just sit, staring at the street.
Claire brings my latte over, setting it down with a wink. "On the house. You look like you need it."
"That bad?"
"You've looked better." She pulls out the chair across from me, sitting. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah. Just… long week."
"Work?"
"Work. Life. All of it."
She nods, her expression softening. "You and Don doing okay?"
My stomach twists. "Why do you ask?"
"No reason. Just... he was in here yesterday morning. Looked rough. Asked if I'd seen you."
"He did?"
"Yeah. Ordered his coffee, stared at his phone for ten minutes, then left without drinking it." She leans forward, her voice dropping. "That man's got it bad for you, Dora. The way he looks at you? Like you're the only thing keeping him sane."
The words hit like a fist. I grip my mug tighter, the heat burning my palms.
"He's just… stressed. Work stuff."
"Maybe. But I've known Don since. Never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you." She stands, patting my shoulder. "Whatever's going on, don't let him slip away. Good ones are hard to find."
She walks back to the counter, and I sit there, frozen. The mug shakes in my hands. I set it down before I spill it.
The way he looks at you.
I press my fingers against my eyes, breathing slow. In, out. In, out.
"Excuse me?"
I look up. A guy in his late twenties stands beside my table, coffee cup in hand, smile easy and confident. Dark hair, nice jawline, wearing a fitted henley that shows he works out.
"Yeah?"
"Sorry to bother you. I'm Jake." He gestures to the empty chair. "Mind if I sit? Place is packed."
I glance around. The café's busy, but there are at least three empty tables.
"Sure."
He sits, setting his cup down. "Thanks. You come here often? Sorry... that sounded like a terrible pickup line."
"It did."
He laughs. "Let me try again. I just moved to town last week. Still figuring out where everything is. This place any good?"
"Best coffee in town."
"But it's the only one I've seen in town."
"Exactly."
He grins. "You're quick. I like that." He takes a sip, leaning back. "So what do people do for fun around here? Because so far, I've found a hardware store, a diner, and this café. That's it."
"That's pretty much it."
"Damn. I was hoping for something more exciting. A secret underground club or something."
"In Millbrook? You're dreaming."
"Can't blame a guy for hoping." He studies me, his smile softening. "You look like you've had a rough day."
"Is it that obvious?"
"Little bit. Want to talk about it?"
"Not really."
"Fair. Want me to distract you instead?"
I raise an eyebrow. "With what?"
"My sparkling personality and devastating good looks."
I snort, shaking my head. "You're ridiculous."
"But I made you smile. That counts for something."
He's not wrong. The corner of my mouth tugs up despite everything.
He leans forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Okay, real talk. What's one thing about this town that doesn't suck?"
"The quiet."
"Boring."
"The people are nice."
"Better. But still boring." He taps his chin, pretending to think. "What about the mysterious, beautiful woman sitting at this café, refusing to tell me her life story?"
"I'm not mysterious."
"You're definitely mysterious. You've barely told me anything."
"Maybe I like it that way."
"See? Mysterious." He grins, taking another sip. "You seeing anyone?"
The question lands like a punch. My smile fades.
"Yeah. I am."
"Lucky guy." He doesn't push, just nods. "Well, if you ever need a friend in this boring town, I'm around. Jake. I work at the new tech startup on Fifth Street."
"Dora."
"Nice to meet you, Dora." He stands, grabbing his cup. "Hope your day gets better."
"Thanks."
He walks away, and I watch him go. Nice guy. Charming, funny, trying too hard but in a harmless way. Under different circumstances, maybe I'd have given him my number. Maybe I'd have let him distract me.
But I can't. Because when I think about someone's eyes, someone's smile, someone's hands, it's Donald. Only Donald.
And that's the problem.
I pull out my laptop, opening it. The screen glows to life, and I navigate to my messages app. The thread with "John Smith" sits at the top, the last message from months ago: Pleasure doing business.
I scroll through the conversation. My first message: I want the family of the person responsible for my sister's death.
His reply: That's a tall order. Expensive, too.
My hands hover over the keyboard. Then I select the entire thread and hit delete.
A prompt appears: Are you sure you want to delete this conversation?
My finger trembles over the trackpad. This is the only evidence. The only connection between me and him.
I click Delete.
The thread disappears. Gone. Like it never existed.
But the murders are still happening. And Donald's family is still dying.
I close the laptop, my hands shaking. Claire's wiping down tables across the room, humming something under her breath. A couple at the next table laughs over something on their phone. The espresso machine hisses and gurgles.
Normal. Everything's normal.
Except nothing is.