Chapter 31 Press Conference (Donald Eric POV)
I wake to the smell of coffee and bacon. Dora's in the kitchen, hair pulled back, wearing one of my old shirts I left at her place. She's humming something under her breath, flipping bacon in a pan.
"Morning," I say, my voice rough with sleep.
She turns, smiling. "Morning. Hungry?"
"Starving."
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I grab it, squinting at the screen. Captain Hendricks. I answer.
"Eric."
"Captain."
"Press conference. Today. Ten AM." His voice is clipped, no room for argument.
"What?"
"Vanessa Cross's article has the brass breathing down my neck. The mayor's office is calling. We need damage control. You're doing a press conference."
"Sir, I don't think..."
"That wasn't a request, Detective. Ten AM. Be here. Wear a tie."
The line goes dead.
I sit on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, staring at nothing.
"Don?" Dora appears in the doorway, spatula in hand. "Everything okay?"
"Press conference. This morning."
"Oh." She leans against the doorframe. "That's good, right? Clear your name?"
"Maybe." I stand, running a hand through my hair. "Or make everything worse."
"You'll be fine. Just tell the truth."
I nod, not trusting my voice.
She disappears back into the kitchen. I hear plates clinking, the sizzle of bacon. I pull on jeans and a shirt, splashing water on my face in the bathroom. The mirror shows someone I barely recognize, tired eyes, three days of stubble, jaw tight with tension.
In the kitchen, Dora's set the table. Eggs, bacon, toast, orange juice. She sits across from me, watching while I eat.
"You didn't sleep much," she says.
"No."
"Want to talk about it?"
"Not really."
She nods, sipping her coffee. The silence stretches, comfortable but heavy.
My phone buzzes again. I glance at it. Bethany.
Uncle D: this is day 4 in prison. i mean the safe house. same thing
I type back: Hang in there. Won't be much longer.
when can i go home? my friends are having a party this weekend and mom says i cant go
You can't. Sorry.
ugh. ur the worst
I pocket my phone, finishing my eggs. Dora's still watching me, her expression unreadable.
"I have to go," I say, standing.
"Now?"
"Yeah. Need to get to the precinct early. Prep for this thing."
She stands too, following me to the door. I grab my jacket, checking for my badge and gun. Both there.
"Don." Her hand finds mine. "You'll be great. Just breathe."
I pull her close, kissing her forehead. "Thanks."
"Call me after?"
"I will."
I head out, the door clicking shut behind me. The morning air is cold, biting through my jacket. I get in my car, starting the engine. It coughs once before catching.
My phone buzzes again. More texts from Bethany.
also the food here is gross. mom tried to make spaghetti and it tastes like threads
and officer miller is nice but he keeps asking me about school like im 12
when r u coming to visit? im bored
I scroll through them, typing: Soon. Be good for your mom.
Her reply: no promises 😜
I toss the phone into the passenger seat and pull out of the lot.
The precinct's swarming when I arrive. News vans parked along the curb, reporters clustered near the entrance. I spot Vanessa Cross right away—sharp suit, camera crew behind her, microphone in hand. She's talking to someone, gesturing toward the building.
I park in the back lot, entering through the side door. Murphy's at the desk, phone pressed to his ear. He waves when he sees me.
"Eric. Captain's looking for you."
"Yeah, I know."
I head upstairs, past the bullpen. Hayes is at her desk, two coffee cups in front of her. She looks up when I pass.
"Ready for the circus?"
"No."
"Good. Neither is anyone else." She stands, grabbing one of the cups. "Here. You'll need this."
I take it, the heat seeping into my palms. "Thanks."
"Captain wants you in the conference room. Five minutes."
I nod and keep walking.
The conference room smells like stale air and nerves. Captain Hendricks stands by the window, arms crossed. Agent Johnson's there too, laptop open on the table. Rivera sits in the corner, watching.
"Eric." Hendricks turns. "You ready?"
"As I'll ever be."
"Good. Here's how this goes. You'll make a brief statement, written by PR, don't deviate. Then you'll take questions. Keep your answers short. Don't speculate. Don't get defensive."
"Got it."
"And for God's sake, don't lose your temper." He hands me a sheet of paper. "Read this. Memorize it. You've got four minutes."
I scan the statement. Generic platitudes about ongoing investigations, public safety, cooperation with federal authorities. Nothing real. Nothing honest.
"This is bullshit," I mutter.
"It's necessary." Hendricks checks his watch. "Let's go."
The press room is packed. Cameras line the back wall, reporters filling every seat. Lights glare, hot and blinding. I stand at the podium, Hendricks on my left, Johnson on my right. Rivera lingers by the door.
I clear my throat, gripping the edges of the podium. The statement's in front of me, words swimming.
"Good morning. I'm Detective Donald Eric with the Millbrook Police Department. As many of you know, two members of my family; Robert Eric and Margaret Caldwell, were recently murdered. These deaths are under active investigation, and we are pursuing all leads with the full support of the FBI."
I pause, the room silent except for the click of cameras.
"I understand there are questions about my involvement in the investigation. Let me be clear: I have been fully cooperative with Internal Affairs and federal authorities. I have nothing to hide. My only goal is to find the person responsible and bring them to justice."
A reporter raises her hand, but I keep reading.
"We ask for the public's patience and cooperation during this difficult time. If anyone has information related to these cases, please contact the Millbrook Police Department or the FBI tip line. Thank you."
I step back, but Hendricks gestures for me to stay. "Detective Eric will now take a few questions."
Hands shoot up. Hendricks points to a reporter in the second row.
"Detective, how can you claim objectivity when the victims are your own family?"
"The FBI is overseeing the investigation to ensure impartiality. I'm assisting, but I'm not the lead."
Another reporter: "Do you have any suspects?"
"We're pursuing multiple leads. I can't comment on specifics."
Vanessa Cross stands, microphone in hand. Of course. Hendricks nods at her.
"Detective Eric, isn't it convenient that you're investigating murders of your own family? Doesn't that compromise the investigation?"
I grip the podium tighter. "As I just stated, the FBI is leading the investigation. I'm cooperating fully."
"But you were initially assigned as the lead detective. Why?"
"That was the captain's decision based on my familiarity with the family dynamics."
"Isn't it true that Internal Affairs is investigating you for potential misconduct?"
"IA conducts routine reviews in cases like this. It's standard protocol."
"And isn't it also true that you were involved in a controversial hostage situation three years ago that resulted in a civilian's death?"
My jaw tightens. The room goes silent, everyone waiting.
"That case was reviewed and closed. It has no bearing on the current investigation."
"Are you sure? Because some people are wondering if these murders might be revenge for Sarah Vale's death."
"That's speculation. Next question."
But she doesn't sit. "Detective, if you're innocent, why not step aside and let someone without a personal connection handle this case?"
"Because I want to find the person who killed my family." My voice rises, and I force it down. "Next question."
Hendricks steps forward. "That's all the time we have. Thank you."
The room erupts, reporters shouting questions, cameras flashing. Hendricks guides me off the stage, through a side door. We're barely in the hallway when I slam my hand against the wall.
"That was a disaster."
"You held it together. That's what matters."
"She ambushed me."
"She's a reporter. That's her job." Hendricks crosses his arms. "Go home, Eric. Take the rest of the day. Cool off."
I don't answer. Just push past him, heading for the exit.
Vanessa Cross is waiting by the back door, camera crew gone. Just her, leaning against the wall, arms crossed.
"Detective."
I stop. "What do you want?"
"A moment of your time."
"I've got nothing to say to you."
"Then listen." She pushes off the wall, stepping closer. "I'm not your enemy. I'm just doing my job."
"Your job is destroying people's lives?"
"My job is asking questions the public deserves answers to." She tilts her head. "If you're innocent, prove it. Give me something. An exclusive. Your side of the story."
"So you can twist my words and sell more papers?"
"So I can tell the truth." Her expression softens, just slightly. "I know what it's like to be on the wrong side of public opinion. I'm offering you a chance to change the narrative."
"I don't need your help."
"Maybe not. But your family does." She hands me a business card. "Think about it."
I take the card, crumpling it in my fist. "Stay away from me. Stay away from my family."
"Or what?"
"Or I'll make sure your next story is about harassment charges."
She smirks. "Noted."
Footsteps echo behind me. Hayes appears, her hand on my arm. "Don. Let's go."
I let her pull me away, through the door, into the parking lot. The cold air hits like a slap.
"What the hell were you thinking?" Hayes hisses.
"She ambushed me."
"She's a reporter. That's what they do." She unlocks her car, opening the passenger door. "Get in."
"I'm fine."
"You're not. Get in the damn car."
I get in.
She drives in silence, hands tight on the wheel. We're three blocks from the precinct when she finally speaks.
"You almost blew up back there."
"I know."
"If I hadn't pulled you away..."
"I know."
She glances at me. "What did she say?"
"Offered me an exclusive. Said she wants to tell my side."
"And you said?"
"I told her to back off."
Hayes nods, turning onto my street. She pulls up outside my apartment, killing the engine.
"Go inside. Rest. Don't talk to reporters. Don't punch any walls. Just… rest."
"Yeah. Okay."
I get out, slamming the door harder than I mean to. She drives off, and I stand there, staring at my apartment building.
My phone buzzes. Bethany again.