Chapter 33 Collision Course (Doris Vale POV)
The press conference is playing on my laptop, volume low. I'm at the kitchen table, coffee growing cold beside me, watching Donald stand at that podium. His jaw's tight, shoulders squared. Professional. Controlled. But I can see the tension in his hands, the way his knuckles go white gripping the edges.
A reporter asks about the FBI's involvement. Donald answers, voice steady. Another asks about suspects. He deflects smoothly.
Then she stands up.
Vanessa Cross. I recognize her from the photos I googled, sharp suit, sharper eyes, microphone extended like a weapon.
"Detective Eric, isn't it convenient that you're investigating murders of your own family? Doesn't that compromise the investigation?"
I lean closer to the screen, watching Donald's face. A muscle ticks in his jaw.
"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."
She doesn't sit. "Isn't it true that Internal Affairs is investigating you for potential misconduct?"
My chest tightens. She's going for blood.
"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?"
The room goes silent. Donald's expression hardens, and I see it—the flash of pain, quickly buried.
"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."
Sarah. My sister's name. In this woman's mouth, weaponized.
I close the laptop, my hands shaking. Anger floods through me, hot and righteous. How dare she? How dare she drag Sarah into this, use her death as ammunition?
But she's right. That's the worst part. She's right, and she doesn't even know it.
I stand, pacing the apartment. My phone buzzes on the counter. Donald's name flashes.
That went well. 🙄
I type: You did great. She's horrible.
Tell me about it. Talk later?
Anytime.
I pocket my phone and grab my jacket. I need to get out. Need air. Need to stop replaying Sarah's name in Vanessa Cross's voice.
Bean & Bone is busier than usual. I claim my corner table, pulling out my laptop. The Boston client needs final approval on the Q4 projections. I open the file, but the numbers won't stick. I keep seeing Donald's face on that screen, Vanessa's smirk as she ambushed him.
Claire appears with my latte, setting it down with a sympathetic look. "You okay, honey? You look stressed."
"Just work stuff."
"You sure? Because you've been staring at that screen for ten minutes without typing anything."
I force a smile. "I'm fine. Thanks for this."
She squeezes my shoulder before heading back to the counter. I take a sip—too hot, burns my tongue—and turn back to the spreadsheet.
Focus. Just focus.
The bell over the door chimes. I don't look up. Footsteps approach, heels clicking on the hardwood. Someone stops beside my table.
"Dora, right?"
I look up. A woman in her mid-thirties stands there, perfectly tailored blazer, leather bag over her shoulder. Her smile is friendly but doesn't reach her eyes.
"Yes?" I close my laptop slightly, instinct screaming warning.
"I'm Vanessa Cross. Mind if I sit?"
My stomach drops. I keep my face neutral. "I'm actually working."
"This'll only take a minute." She pulls out the chair across from me, sitting before I can protest. "You're Detective Eric's girlfriend, aren't you?"
Every alarm bell in my head is ringing now. "How do you know that?"
"Small town. People talk." She sets her bag on the table, pulling out a notebook and pen. "I'm working on a follow-up piece about the Eric family murders. Thought you might have some insight."
"I don't."
"Really? You're dating the detective whose family is being systematically murdered, and you have nothing to say?"
"It's his case. Not mine."
"But you must talk about it." She leans forward, pen poised. "When did you two meet?"
"That's private."
"Before or after the murders started?"
I meet her eyes. "I'm not answering your questions."
"Why not? Got something to hide?"
"No. But my relationship is none of your business."
She smiles, sharp and assessing. "Fair enough. Let me ask something easier—how long have you lived in Millbrook?"
"A few months."
"Where from?"
"London."
"London." She writes that down. "Long way from home. What brought you here?"
"Work."
"What kind of work?"
"Financial consulting."
"For which firm?"
I hesitate. She notices, her smile widening. "It's freelance. I work remotely."
"Convenient." She taps her pen against the notebook. "So you moved to a small American town from London, started dating a detective, and just happened to be here when his family members started dying. That's quite the coincidence."
My jaw tightens. "What are you implying?"
"I'm not implying anything. Just stating facts." She leans back, studying me. "You know what's interesting? I tried looking you up. No social media presence. No online footprint. It's like you didn't exist before you came here."
"Some people value privacy."
"Or anonymity." She closes the notebook, sliding a business card across the table. "If you think of anything—anything at all about Detective Eric, his past, his family—give me a call. I pay well for good information."
"I'm not interested."
"Not even to help him?" She stands, slinging her bag over her shoulder. "Because right now, public opinion is turning against him. And if you know something that could clear his name, wouldn't you want to share it?"
"He doesn't need clearing. He didn't do anything wrong."
"Then why is Internal Affairs investigating him?"
"That's standard procedure. You said so yourself in the press conference."
Her eyes narrow slightly. "You watched."
Shit. I shouldn't have said that.
"I was working. Had the news on in the background."
"Uh-huh." She picks up her card, holding it out. "Just in case you change your mind."
I don't take it. She sets it on the table anyway.
"One more thing." She pauses at my chair, voice dropping. "Sometimes the people closest to us are the biggest mysteries. Secrets have a way of coming out, Dora. Especially when people start asking questions."
She walks away, heels clicking. The bell chimes as she leaves.
I sit frozen, staring at the business card. Black text on white: Vanessa Cross - Senior Crime Reporter with a phone number and email below.
My hands are shaking. I grab my coffee, take a sip. It's gone cold.
Claire appears, wiping down the next table. "Friend of yours?"
"No."
"Good. She gave me weird vibes." She moves closer, lowering her voice. "She's that reporter who's been writing about Don, isn't she?"
"Yeah."
"What'd she want?"
"To ask questions I'm not answering."
Claire nods approvingly. "Smart. That woman's a vulture." She picks up my empty mug. "Want a refill?"
"No, thanks. I should go."
I pack up quickly—laptop, notebook, phone. The business card sits on the table. I should leave it. Should walk away and forget this happened.
Instead, I pocket it.
Back at my apartment, I lock the door and lean against it, breathing hard. Vanessa Cross knows who I am. Knows I'm with Donald. And she's digging.
No social media presence. No online footprint.
How deep has she looked? What has she found?
I pull out my phone, scrolling to Eddie's contact. Still no response from my last three calls. I try again anyway.
Voicemail.
I hang up and dial The Surgeon's disconnected number one more time. Same recording: The number you have dialed is no longer in service.
I'm trapped. No way to stop the killings. No way to reach the people who could help me disappear. And now a reporter's circling, asking questions I can't answer.
My phone buzzes. Text from Donald: At the safe house. Beth's pissed but safe. Home soon.
I type: Good. See you tonight?
Yeah. Need you.
The words hit harder than they should. He needs me. The woman who's destroying his life.
I move to the kitchen, pouring water I don't drink. Vanessa's business card sits on the counter, mocking me.
Sometimes the people closest to us are the biggest mysteries.
She doesn't know how right she is.
I grab the card, walking to the sink. I should burn it like I burned the confession letter. Destroy the evidence. But my hands won't move.
What if she finds out? What if she digs deep enough to connect me to Sarah, to the contract, to The Surgeon?
What if Donald reads about it in her next article before I can tell him myself?
I set the card down, pressing my palms against the counter. The apartment feels too small, walls closing in.
My laptop's still in my bag. I pull it out, opening it on the kitchen table. Google search: Vanessa Cross investigations.
Pages of results. Articles she's written, exposés she's published. She's good. Thorough. Relentless.
If she's investigating me, she won't stop until she finds something.
And there's plenty to find.
I close the laptop and sit there in the silence, Vanessa's card burning a hole in my vision.
Secrets have a way of coming out.
Yeah. They do.