Chapter 4 After Vegas (Doris Vale POV)
I'm out the door before the elevator even opens, my heels clicking against the marble floor like gunshots. The lobby is emptier now, the dawn crowd just beginning to trickle in—bleary-eyed gamblers clutching plastic cups, couples shuffling toward breakfast buffets. I weave through them, my head down, purse clutched against my ribs. My dress feels too tight, my skin too hot. I need air. I need out.
The glass doors slide open, and the desert morning hits me—dry heat already building despite the early hour. I suck in a breath, my lungs burning. My car is where I left it, parked crooked in the lot like I was drunk when I arrived. Maybe I was. I fumble with my keys, dropping them twice before I manage to unlock the door. My hands won't stop shaking.
I slide into the driver's seat and slam the door shut, sealing myself in. The silence is immediate, suffocating. I grip the steering wheel, staring at my reflection in the rearview mirror. My lipstick is smudged, a dark streak across my cheek like war paint. My hair is a mess, tangled and wild. I look like someone I don't recognize. Someone who just spent the night with a stranger. Someone who paid for blood.
"What the hell did you just do?" I whisper to my reflection.
My reflection doesn't answer. She just stares back, hollow-eyed and pale.
I grab a tissue from the console and scrub at my face, the lipstick smearing further before it finally comes off. My hands are still trembling. I can't start the car yet. I can't even think about driving. So I sit there, gripping the wheel, breathing in the stale air of the car. The envelope in my purse feels like it's burning a hole through the leather, through my lap, straight into my bones.
Five hundred thousand dollars. A deposit for death.
And I just spent the night with a stranger, trying to forget it.
The sun creeps higher, turning the sky from gray to pink to harsh, unforgiving blue. I watch it through the windshield, my vision blurring with tears I won't let fall. Sarah's face flashes in my mind—her smile, the way she'd tilt her head when she laughed. Then the body cam footage: her blood, her scream. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block it out, but it's burned into me.
"I did this for you," I whisper into the empty car. "For you, Sarah."
But Sarah's not here. She's gone. And I'm the one left behind, drowning in choices I can't take back.
My phone buzzes in my purse, sharp and intrusive. I dig it out, my hands still shaking. A text from Eddie: Transfer cleared. You're locked in.
I stare at the words, my stomach dropping like a stone. Locked in. The money's gone. The job's started. There's no stopping it now. I scroll up to the number The Surgeon gave me, my thumb hovering over the call button. Maybe I can try again. Maybe if I beg, if I offer more money...
No. He made it clear. No take backs.
I drop the phone into the passenger seat and press my palms against my eyes, hard enough to see stars. My breath comes in shallow gasps, my chest tight. I can't undo this. I can't call it off. The wheels are already in motion, and somewhere out there, people are going to die because I was too angry, too broken to think straight.
But last night, last night with him I wasn't thinking about Sarah. I wasn't thinking about Donald Eric or the blood I'd paid for. I was just… there. Alive. Human.
And now the guilt is crushing me.
I finally start the car, the engine rumbling to life. The gas gauge is half full, enough to get me somewhere, anywhere but here. I pull out of the lot, the hotel shrinking in the rearview mirror. The Strip is waking up now, neon lights dimming in the daylight, the city shedding its nighttime magic like a cheap costume. I drive aimlessly at first, just following the flow of traffic, letting the road carry me.
Hours pass. I don't know how many. The highway stretches out, endless and empty, the desert on either side shimmering with heat. My mind drifts, replaying the night in fragments: his hands on my hips, his voice rough and low, the way he looked at me like he understood. Like he carried the same weight I did.
"Just a guy who's tired of running," he'd said.
I laugh, sharp and bitter, the sound startling in the quiet car. "Yeah, well, so am I."
But I'm not tired enough to stop. Not yet.
The road signs blur past—Barstow, Baker, Primm. I don't care where I'm going. I just need distance, need to put miles between me and that hotel room, that stranger, that night. My stomach growls, but I ignore it. My bladder protests, but I push it down. I'll stop when I have to. Not before.
Finally, a rest stop looms ahead, a cluster of buildings shimmering in the heat. I pull off the highway, the tires crunching on gravel as I park near the edge of the lot. The place is nearly deserted—a couple of semi-trucks idling in the back, a family unloading from a minivan. I kill the engine and sit there, staring at the dashboard. The clock reads 11:47 AM. I've been driving for hours.
My legs are stiff when I finally step out, my heels sinking into the gravel. I grab my purse and head for the restroom, avoiding eye contact with anyone I pass. Inside, the fluorescent lights are harsh, buzzing overhead like angry bees. I lock myself in a stall and sit on the closed toilet lid, my head in my hands.
The envelope is still in my purse. I pull it out, staring at the blank check inside. Five hundred thousand dollars. Blood money. I should rip it up, burn it, throw it away. But it's already gone, already cleared. The damage is done.
I shove the envelope back into my purse and stand, my legs shaky. At the sink, I splash cold water on my face, scrubbing at the remnants of last night. My reflection stares back, cleaner now but no less haunted. I dry my hands on a paper towel, the rough texture grounding me for a moment.
Back in the car, I sit in the driver's seat and stare out at the desert. The silence is deafening, heavier than the guilt pressing down on my chest. I pull out my phone again, scrolling through my contacts. Eddie's name stares back at me. I could call him, tell him to stop the transfer, to pull the plug somehow. But the text already said it cleared. It's done.
I scroll further, landing on the number The Surgeon gave me. My thumb hovers over it, my heart pounding. Maybe if I try one more time, if I offer double, triple...
I hit call before I can talk myself out of it. It rings once, twice, three times. Then his voice, smooth and cold: "Yes?"
"It's me," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "Doris Vale. I need to talk."
A pause. "I told you, Ms. Vale. No take backs."
"I know," I say quickly, my words tumbling over each other. "But I can pay more. Double, triple...whatever you want. Just stop. Please."
He chuckles, low and dark. "You think this is about money? It stopped being about money the moment you gave me the green light. This is art now. And I don't leave masterpieces unfinished."
My breath catches, my chest tightening. "They're innocent. They didn't do anything."
"Neither did your sister," he says, his tone sharp. "But she's dead anyway. Funny how the world works, isn't it?"
"Please," I beg, my voice cracking. "I made a mistake. I wasn't thinking..."
"You were thinking plenty," he interrupts. "You wanted revenge. You got it. Now live with it."
The line goes dead.
I sit there, the phone pressed to my ear, listening to the empty silence. My hands are shaking so hard I drop it into my lap. I press my palms against my eyes, trying to hold back the tears, but they come anyway, hot and unstoppable. I sob into the steering wheel, my chest heaving, the weight of it all crushing me.
I don't know how long I sit there. Minutes, maybe hours. The sun climbs higher, the heat inside the car becoming unbearable. I finally wipe my face, my hands rough and clumsy, and start the engine again. The air conditioning kicks in, blasting cold air that does nothing to ease the suffocating weight in my chest.
I pull out my phone one more time, staring at Eddie's contact. My thumb hovers over the call button, but I don't press it. What's the point? The transfer cleared. The job's started. There's nothing he can do now. Nothing anyone can do.
I drop the phone into the passenger seat and lean back, staring at the ceiling of the car. The stranger's voice echoes in my head: "You don't have to be anyone tonight. Just… be here."
But I wasn't just there. I was running. And I'm still running.
I whisper to the empty car, my voice hoarse and broken: "It's done. I'll never see him again."
The words hang in the air, a promise I don't know if I can keep. But I have to believe it. I have to believe that last night was just a night, a moment of escape that means nothing in the grand scheme of things. Because if it means more, if it matters, then I'm even more fucked than I already am.
I put the car in drive and pull out of the rest stop, merging back onto the highway. The road stretches ahead, endless and unforgiving. I don't know where I'm going, but I know I can't stay here. Can't stay anywhere. So I drive, the desert blurring past, the weight of the envelope in my purse and the memory of his touch pressing down on me like lead.
I grip the steering wheel tighter, my jaw set. "I'll bury it," I say to no one, to the desert, to myself. "I'll bury the grief. I'll bury the memory. I'll bury it all."
But even as I say it, I know it's a lie. Some things don't stay buried. Some things claw their way back up, no matter how deep you dig.
I drive on, the sun burning overhead, the road pulling me forward into a future I can't escape.