Chapter 34 Family Dinner (Rachel Brennan POV)
The restaurant Don picks is Italian, not Nonna's this time, somewhere newer, with exposed brick and Edison bulbs hanging from the ceiling. I arrive first, claiming a booth in the back. The hostess brings water, and I check my phone. A text from Don: Running 5 min late. Sorry.
I set the phone face-down and look around. Couples scattered throughout, low murmur of conversation, jazz playing softly from hidden speakers. Normal people having normal dinners. I envy them.
The door opens, and Don walks in. He spots me immediately, raising a hand. I wave back. He looks better than he did at the diner last week—shaved, wearing a clean shirt, hair combed. Still tired, but functioning.
"Hey." He slides into the booth across from me, shrugging off his jacket. "Thanks for meeting me."
"Of course. You doing okay?"
"Better than last time." He picks up the menu, scanning it. "Figured I owed you an actual meal instead of bad diner coffee."
"The coffee wasn't that bad."
"It was terrible." He smiles, faint but real. "How was the drive?"
"Long. But worth it if you're actually eating this time."
A waiter appears—young guy, maybe twenty, overly enthusiastic. "Welcome! Can I start you folks off with drinks?"
"Red wine," I say. "Whatever you recommend."
"Same," Don adds.
The waiter lists options I don't pay attention to. Don picks one at random, and the waiter disappears.
"So." I lean back, studying him. "You called me. That's progress."
"Hayes said I should check in more. Said I've been shutting people out."
"Hayes is smart."
"Yeah." He sets down the menu. "Look, about last time, at the diner. I was harsh. I'm sorry."
"You were stressed. It's fine."
"It's not fine. You flew hours, and I was an ass."
"Don." I reach across the table, touching his hand briefly. "It's fine. Really."
He nods, but his jaw's still tight. The waiter returns with wine, pouring two glasses. We order, pasta for me, chicken marsala for him. When the waiter leaves, Don takes a long sip of wine.
"How's Bethany?" I ask.
"Angry. Scared. Blames me for everything."
"She's sixteen. She blames you for everything anyway."
"This is different." He rotates his glass, watching the wine swirl. "She's stuck in a safe house, no phone, no laptop. Thinks I'm punishing her."
"You're protecting her."
"Tell her that." He drinks again. "Diane says she cries at night. Won't admit it, but Diane hears her."
My chest tightens. "God, Don. I'm so sorry."
"Not your fault."
"Still. This whole thing—it's a nightmare."
"Yeah." He sets down his glass, looking at me properly for the first time. "How are you? Really?"
"Me? I'm fine."
"Rachel."
"I am. Work's busy, house is good, life's… normal." I take a sip of wine. "Which feels weird saying when your ex-husband's family is being murdered."
"You're allowed to have a normal life."
"Are you?"
He doesn't answer. The waiter brings bread, olive oil for dipping. We eat in silence for a moment, the comfortable kind we used to have before everything fell apart.
"Have you thought about taking leave?" I ask finally. "Just stepping back, going somewhere safe?"
"Can't. It's my case."
"It's not, though. The FBI's leading now."
"Doesn't matter. It's my family."
"Exactly. Which is why you shouldn't be anywhere near it." I lean forward. "Don, you don't have to be the hero. Let someone else handle this. Go somewhere they can't find you."
"And hide while my family's in danger?"
"While they protect your family. There's a difference."
He shakes his head. "I can't walk away."
"Even if it kills you?"
"Won't come to that."
"You don't know that." I set down my wine, frustration building. "You're running yourself into the ground. I can see it. Hayes can see it. Everyone can see it except you."
"I'm fine."
"Stop saying that." My voice rises slightly, and I lower it. "You're not fine. You look like you haven't slept in a week. You're barely eating. And you're so focused on this case that you're not seeing what it's doing to you."
"I have to focus. If I stop..."
"If you stop, someone else picks up the slack. That's how it works."
"Not with this."
We stare at each other across the table. His jaw's set, that stubborn look I know too well. I've lost this argument before. I'm losing it again.
"Fine," I say quietly. "But promise me you're at least talking to someone. A therapist, a friend, anyone."
"I talk to Hayes."
"Besides Hayes."
He hesitates, and something shifts in his expression. Softer. Almost vulnerable.
"I'm seeing someone," he says.
I pick up my wine, taking a sip to cover the surprise. "Oh. That's… good."
"Yeah." He doesn't elaborate, just looks down at his bread.
"How long?"
"A couple months."
"Serious?"
"Getting there." He glances up. "She's good. Makes things feel… normal. Like there's something outside all this."
I force a smile. "I'm glad you found someone. You deserve happiness."
"Do I?"
"Of course you do. Why wouldn't you?"
He doesn't answer, just tears off a piece of bread, dipping it in oil. I watch him, trying to sort through what I'm feeling. Surprise, yes. A little hurt, though I have no right to be. Relief that he's not completely alone. And underneath it all, worry.
"Does she know?" I ask. "About the case? About Sarah?"
"Some of it."
"Not all?"
"Enough." He eats the bread, washing it down with wine. "I'm keeping her separate from this. She doesn't need to be dragged into it."
"Don." I lean forward again. "You can't protect her from everything. If this gets worse..."
"It won't."
"But if it does, she deserves to know what she's walking into."
"She knows enough."
I hold his gaze. "No offense, but you have a tendency to drag people down with you when you're drowning. Not on purpose. But it happens."
His face hardens. "That's not fair."
"It's true." My voice softens. "I lived it, remember? You shut me out after Sarah died. Pushed me away because you thought you were protecting me. And all it did was make things worse."
"This is different."
"Is it? Because it sounds exactly the same."
He doesn't respond. Just refills his wine glass, jaw working.
The waiter returns with our food. We eat in silence for a while, forks scraping plates, the jazz filling the gaps. I want to push harder, make him see what he's doing. But I know Don. Pushing only makes him dig in deeper.
"I'm sorry," I say finally. "I'm not trying to attack you. I just worry."
"I know." He sets down his fork. "And I appreciate it. I do. But I'm handling this."
"By keeping her in the dark?"
"By keeping her safe."
I take a bite of pasta, chewing slowly. "Have you told her about me?"
He hesitates. "Not yet."
"Why not?"
"Hasn't come up."
"Or you're avoiding it."
"Maybe." He runs a hand through his hair. "I don't know how to explain us. That we were married, that you left, that we're still..." He stops. "Whatever we are now."
"Friends," I say. "We're friends, Don. Divorced friends who care about each other. That's not complicated."
"Feels complicated."
"Only because you're making it complicated." I finish my wine, setting the glass down. "Just tell her. Before she finds out some other way."
"Yeah. I will."
He doesn't sound convinced.
We finish eating, the conversation drifting to safer topics—my work, his captain, Bethany's last birthday before all this started. The waiter brings the check, and Don grabs it before I can.
"My treat," he insists.
"You sure?"
"Yeah. You drove three hours. Least I can do."
He pays, and we head outside. The night's cold, my breath fogging. My car's parked two spots down from his. We stop between them, facing each other.
"Thanks for dinner," I say. "And for actually showing up this time."
"Thanks for not giving up on me."
"Never." I pull him into a hug, quick and tight. "Call me if you need anything. I mean it."
"I will."
I pull back, searching his face. "Take care of yourself. And talk to her. Don't shut her out like you did with me."
"I won't."
"Promise?"
"Promise."