Chapter 28 Unexpected Guest (Donald Eric POV)
The flight back feels longer than the one out. I'm stuck in the same middle seat, same screaming toddler one row back. I don't sleep. Just stare at the seatback in front of me, replaying Marcus's words.
You've always been the screw-up. You drag everyone down with you.
The plane lands with a jolt. I grab my bag from the overhead bin and shuffle off with everyone else, following the crowd through the terminal. My phone buzzes as soon as I turn it on, texts from Hayes, one from Dora, a missed call from the precinct.
I ignore all of them.
The parking garage is cold, my breath fogging in the air. I find my car on level three, pop the trunk to toss my bag inside. The lock clicks shut, and I'm reaching for the driver's door when I hear my name.
"Donald?"
I freeze. That voice. I know that voice.
I turn slowly.
Rachel stands ten feet away, hands shoved in the pockets of a long gray coat. Her hair's shorter than I remember, barely touching her shoulders. Same green eyes, same way of standing with her weight on one hip.
"Rachel." My voice sounds flat, distant. "What are you doing here?"
"I heard about the murders. Saw that article." She takes a step closer. "I had to make sure you're okay."
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine."
I turn back to my car, unlocking it. "You didn't need to come all the way out here."
"Don, wait." She closes the distance between us, stopping a few feet away. "Can we just talk? Please?"
"There's nothing to talk about."
"Bullshit." Her voice hardens. "Your family's being murdered, there's a reporter dragging your name through the mud. So yeah, there's plenty to talk about."
I lean against the car, crossing my arms. "What do you want, Rachel?"
"I want to know if you're okay."
"I already told you..."
"You're lying." She steps closer, her eyes searching my face. "I was married to you for four years, Don. I know when you're lying."
"We've been divorced for three. You don't know me anymore."
The words land harder than I mean them to. She flinches, pulling her coat tighter.
"Maybe not," she says quietly. "But I still care. And I couldn't just sit at home knowing you're going through this alone."
"I'm not alone."
"Really? Because Hayes told me you've been shutting everyone out."
My jaw tightens. "You talked to Hayes?"
"She called me yesterday. Said she was worried about you." Rachel crosses her arms, mirroring my stance. "Said you're barely sleeping, barely eating. That you're obsessed with this case."
"Of course I'm obsessed. It's my family."
"I know." Her voice softens. "And I'm sorry. I really am. But shutting people out isn't going to help."
"I'm not shutting anyone out."
"Aren't you?" She tilts her head.
I don't answer. My phone buzzes again in my pocket. I ignore it.
"Let me buy you coffee," Rachel says. "Just coffee. We can talk, or we can sit in silence. Whatever you need."
"Rachel..."
"Please." There's something desperate in her voice now. "I drove three hours to get here. Just give me thirty minutes."
I look at her. Dark circles under her eyes, lines around her mouth that weren't there before. She's tired. Worried. And despite everything, despite the divorce and the years of silence, she's here.
"Fine," I say finally.
Her shoulders sag with relief. "Thank you."
"But not here. And not anywhere near town."
"Okay. Where?"
"There's a diner off Highway 9. Twenty minutes south."
"I'll follow you."
I get in my car, and she walks to hers, a newer model sedan, silver, parked two rows over. I pull out, checking the rearview mirror. Her headlights follow.
The diner's called Rusty's. Faded red booths, checkered floor, a jukebox in the corner that probably hasn't worked since the eighties. The lunch rush is over, just a few truckers scattered at the counter.
A waitress with a name tag that says "Brenda" greets us at the door. "Sit anywhere, hon."
We take a booth in the back, away from the windows. Rachel slides in across from me, pulling off her coat. She's wearing a simple sweater, jeans. No jewelry except for a watch.
Brenda appears with menus and a pot of coffee. "What can I get you?"
"Just coffee for me," Rachel says.
"Same."
Brenda pours two cups, sets down creamer and sugar, and disappears.
Rachel wraps her hands around her mug, not drinking. Just holding it like she needs something to do with her hands.
"So," she says. "How bad is it?"
"You read the article. You know how bad it is."
"I know what that reporter wrote. I'm asking you."
I take a sip of coffee. It's better than the airport sludge but not by much. "Two family members dead. Three more under police protection. No leads, no suspects. And everyone thinks I'm either involved or hiding something."
"Are you?"
I look up sharply. "Hiding something?"
"Yeah."
"No."
She studies me for a long moment, then nods. "Okay."
"That's it? Just okay?"
"I believe you." She takes a sip of her coffee, grimacing at the taste. "Though I wouldn't blame you if you were. After Sarah..." She stops. "After everything that happened, I know how it affected you."
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't bring up Sarah."
"Why not? She's part of this, isn't she? That reporter mentioned her. Said there might be a connection."
"There's no connection."
"How do you know?"
"Because I've checked. It's not about Sarah." I drain my coffee, waving at Brenda for a refill. "This is something else."
"Like what?"
"I don't know yet. But I'll find out."
Brenda refills both our cups and leaves again. The jukebox kicks on, some old country song I don't recognize.
"You shut me out," Rachel says suddenly. "After Sarah died. Completely."
"Rachel..."
"I'm not blaming you. I'm just stating a fact." She leans forward, her hands still wrapped around her mug. "You came home that night, didn't say a word. Just poured yourself a drink and sat in the dark. And when I tried to talk to you, when I tried to help, you pushed me away."
"I didn't want to talk about it."
"I know. But I was your wife, Don. I wanted to be there for you. And you wouldn't let me."
"Because there was nothing to say. A woman died because I made the wrong call. What was I supposed to tell you? That I was fine? That it didn't matter?"
"You were supposed to tell me the truth. That you were hurting. That you needed help." Her voice cracks. "Instead, you just shut down. Stopped talking, stopped sleeping. Started drinking more. And when I couldn't watch you destroy yourself anymore, I left."
The words hang between us, heavy and sharp.
"I know," I say finally. "I know I pushed you away. And I'm sorry."
"I'm not asking for an apology. I'm asking you not to do it again." She reaches across the table, her hand hovering near mine. "Whatever you're going through now, don't shut people out. Let someone help you."
"I'm trying."
"Hayes said you've been distant. That you're not returning calls, not showing up for meetings."
"Hayes talks too much."