Chapter 37 Confrontation (Doris Vale POV)
I don't sleep. Just lie there staring at the ceiling, Donald's wedding photos burned into my mind. Rachel Brennan. Beautiful, smiling, loved.
By six AM, I give up. I Sit at the kitchen table with my phone, staring at his last text: Goodnight, Dora.
I should leave it alone. Should pretend I never saw those photos. But the question sits in my chest like a stone, getting heavier with every breath.
At eight, my phone buzzes. Donald: Morning. Can I come over? Need to see you.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard. I type: Yeah. Come now if you want.
Be there in 20.
I don't change out of yesterday's clothes. Don't fix my hair or put on makeup. Just sit on the couch, hands wrapped around cold coffee, waiting.
The knock comes exactly twenty minutes later. I open the door.
He looks worse than yesterday, same clothes, hair uncombed, stubble turning into a beard. "Hey."
"Hey."
He steps inside, and I close the door. We stand there in the entryway, two feet apart, the air between us thick with everything unsaid.
"You okay?" he asks.
"Were you married?"
The words come out before I can stop them. Flat. Direct. No preamble.
He freezes. His expression shifts—surprise, then something like panic, quickly buried. "What?"
"Were you married?" I repeat. "To someone named Rachel?"
His jaw works. He doesn't answer, just stares at me like I've slapped him.
"How did you..."
"I googled you." My voice is steadier than I feel. "Found wedding photos. From seven years ago. You and Rachel Brennan. She's beautiful, by the way."
He runs a hand through his hair, turning away. Walks to the window, staring out. "Yeah. I was married."
"And divorced?"
"Three years ago."
"Right after Sarah Vale died."
He flinches at her name. "Yeah. Right after."
I wait, but he doesn't elaborate. Just stands there, shoulders tense, hands shoved in his pockets.
"Why didn't you tell me?" I ask.
"Because it didn't seem relevant."
"Didn't seem..." I stop, breathe. "Donald, you were married. That's not a small detail."
"It was a long time ago."
"Three years isn't that long."
"Feels like a lifetime." He turns to face me, his expression guarded. "Why does it matter? It's over. Has been for years."
"It matters because you didn't tell me. Because I had to find out from a fucking wedding announcement."
"I didn't think..."
"What? That I'd care? That I'd want to know about this person who was important enough to marry?"
"She's not part of my life anymore."
"Isn't she?" I cross my arms. "You had dinner with her. Yesterday. That's who the 'old friend' was, right?"
His expression shifts again. Caught. "How did you know that?"
"I didn't. Until just now. It's starting to make sense." My voice hardens. "But you're still seeing her. Still talking to her. And you didn't think that was worth mentioning?"
"It's not like that."
"Then what's it like?"
"She's checking in. Making sure I'm okay. That's it."
"Why?"
"Because she cares. We were married for four years. That doesn't just disappear."
The words land like punches. "So you're still close."
"We're friends."
"Friends who have dinner."
"Yes."
"And you didn't think I'd want to know about this friend who used to be your wife?"
He steps closer, his voice rising. "What do you want me to say, Dora? That I should've told you? Fine. I should've told you. I'm sorry. Is that what you need to hear?"
"I need to understand why you didn't."
"Because it's painful, okay?" His voice cracks. "Because I failed at it. Because she left after Sarah died, and I don't blame her, but it still..." He stops, jaw clenching. "Because I didn't want you to see that part of me."
"What part?"
"The part that couldn't keep his marriage together. The part that pushed her away because I was too fucked up to let her help." He looks at me, eyes dark. "The part that ruins everything he touches."
"Don..."
"You asked why I didn't tell you. That's why. Because I didn't want you to see the mess I was before I met you. I wanted to be someone better. Someone worth being with."
The words hit deeper than they should. I open my mouth, close it. Because I understand. God, I understand too well.
"But I've told you everything," I say, the lie bitter on my tongue.
His expression softens. "I know. And I should've done the same. I'm sorry."
The hypocrisy nearly chokes me. I've told him nothing. Not my real name, not about Sarah, not about the contract. Nothing real. Nothing true.
And I'm standing here demanding honesty like I have any right.
"Dora?" He steps closer, reaching for my hand. "Talk to me. What's going on?"
I pull away. "I just... I need to think."
"About what?"
"About us. About whether we're just..." I stop, searching for words. "Whether we're lying to each other."
"I'm not lying to you."
"You're not telling me the truth either. There's a difference."
His jaw tightens. "That's not fair."
"Isn't it? You kept your ex-wife a secret. What else are you keeping from me?"
"Nothing."
"Really? Because it feels like there's a lot you're not saying."
"Like what?"
"Like whether you still have feelings for her."
He stares at me. "You think I'm still in love with Rachel?"
"I don't know. Are you?"
"No." The word comes fast, hard. "I'm not. She's my past. You're my..." He stops, running a hand over his face. "You're what I need right now. What I want."
"Right now." I latch onto the words. "What about tomorrow? Next week? When this case is over and your life goes back to normal?"
"What are you asking?"
"I'm asking if I'm just a distraction. Something to help you get through this."
"No. God, no." He closes the distance between us, hands on my shoulders. "Dora, you're not a distraction. You're the only real thing I have left."
The words should comfort me. Instead, they make it worse. Because I'm not real. Nothing about me is real.
"Don, I..." My voice breaks. "I can't do this right now."
His hands drop. "Can't do what?"
"This. Us. I just... I need space."
"Space?" His voice rises. "For what? To punish me for not mentioning my ex-wife?"
"No. To figure out if this is even worth it."
"Worth it?" He steps back like I've hit him. "What the hell does that mean?"
"It means we're both hiding things. Both keeping secrets. And maybe that's not sustainable."
"I'm not hiding anything."
"You hid Rachel."
"I didn't hide her. I just didn't bring her up."
"That's the same thing."
"It's not." His voice hardens. "I didn't tell you because it wasn't relevant. Because she's my past and you're my present. But if that's not good enough for you..."
"It's not about good enough. It's about trust."
"Trust?" He laughs, bitter and sharp. "You want to talk about trust? Fine. Let's talk about it. What are you hiding, Dora?"
My blood goes cold. "What?"
"You heard me. You moved here out of nowhere, no social media, no online presence, paying rent in cash. Who does that?"
"Someone who values privacy."
"Or someone running from something." His eyes narrow. "So what is it? What are you not telling me?"
The air leaves my lungs. I can't breathe, can't think. He's too close to the truth.
"Nothing," I whisper. "I'm not hiding anything."
"Really? Because it feels like you are."
We stare at each other across three feet that might as well be miles. Both of us holding secrets, both too scared to speak them.
"I think you should leave," I say finally.
"Dora..."
"Please. Just go."
He doesn't move. Just stands there, jaw working, hands clenched into fists. Then he grabs his jacket from the couch and walks to the door.
"For what it's worth," he says, not looking at me, "I'm sorry. About Rachel. About not telling you. About all of it."
"I know."
"But I'm not sorry about us." He turns, meeting my eyes. "Whatever this is, whatever we're doing, I'm not sorry."
Then he's gone, the door closing with a soft click.
I stand there in the silence, staring at nothing. My chest is tight, my hands shaking. I sink onto the couch, head in my hands.
He asked what I'm hiding. And I lied. Again.
I lied while demanding he be honest. Lied while accusing him of keeping secrets. Lied while acting hurt and betrayed.
We're both drowning in secrets. And I don't know how much longer we can keep our heads above water.