Chapter 40 Makeshift Peace (Doris Vale POV)
The knock comes at six-thirty, three soft raps I recognize instantly. I open the door, and Donald stands there holding flowers; sunflowers, bright yellow and incongruous against the gray evening behind him.
"Hey."
"Hey." I stare at the flowers, then at him. "What's this?"
"An apology." He holds them out, sheepish. "I know I was defensive yesterday. You had every right to be upset."
I take the flowers, their petals soft under my fingers. "You didn't have to..."
"I did. Can I come in?"
I step aside. He enters, and I close the door behind him. The apartment feels smaller with him here, the air charged with everything we didn't say yesterday.
I find a vase under the sink, fill it with water. The sunflowers fan out when I arrange them, their cheerful brightness at odds with the knot in my stomach.
"They're beautiful," I say, setting them on the kitchen table.
"I didn't know what you liked. The florist said sunflowers mean loyalty." He shoves his hands in his pockets. "Seemed appropriate."
Loyalty. The word twists like a knife.
"Don..."
"Let me say this first. Please." He steps closer, his expression earnest and pained. "I should've told you about Rachel. Not as some casual detail, but properly. Sat you down, explained everything."
"You don't owe me your entire history."
"Maybe not. But I owe you honesty." He runs a hand through his hair, that nervous habit. "I was ashamed, okay? Of failing at marriage. Of shutting Rachel out after Sarah died. Of being so fucked up that I pushed away the person trying to help me."
"Don..."
"I didn't want you to see that part of me. The part that breaks things. That ruins relationships." His voice drops. "But you asked what I'm hiding, and the truth is, I'm hiding how terrified I am that I'll do the same thing to you."
The words land heavy, stripping away my anger and replacing it with something worse. Understanding. Empathy. The realization that we're both hiding for the same reason.
"You won't," I say quietly.
"You don't know that."
"Neither do you."
We stand there, three feet apart, the sunflowers between us like a fragile truce.
"I'm sorry," he says again. "For not telling you. For being evasive. For making you feel like I don't trust you."
"I'm sorry too. For pushing. For demanding explanations when..." I stop, swallowing the rest. When I'm lying about everything. "When you were already dealing with so much."
He crosses the distance, pulling me into a hug. I press my face against his shoulder, breathing in his cologne and the faint smell of precinct coffee. His arms tighten around me, and I want to stay here, suspended in this moment before everything inevitably falls apart.
"We okay?" he murmurs into my hair.
"Yeah. We're okay."
He pulls back, studying my face. "You sure?"
"I'm sure."
It's a lie, but a merciful one. For both of us.
We decide to cook dinner, his suggestion, my kitchen. He's surprisingly competent, chopping vegetables with practiced efficiency while I handle the pasta.
"Where'd you learn to cook?" I ask, watching him dice an onion without crying.
"Rachel. She insisted I learn at least five meals that didn't come from a box." He scrapes the onion into a pan, adding olive oil. "Only managed four before the divorce, but it's something."
"What are the four?"
"Pasta with marinara, stir-fry, scrambled eggs, and grilled cheese."
"Grilled cheese counts as cooking?"
"According to Rachel, anything that requires a stove, counts." He grins, and for a moment he looks younger, unburdened. "What about you? You cook much in London?"
"Not really. Lots of takeaway and microwaved meals."
"Sounds depressing."
"It was efficient."
"Efficiency isn't living."
We work in companionable silence, the kitchen filling with the smell of garlic and tomatoes.
I tell him about my work call with Martin, the new client in Boston who wants aggressive growth strategies.
Normal conversation. Safe topics. The kind of quotidian domesticity that makes me ache with how much I want this to be real.
The pasta finishes. We plate it, sitting across from each other at my small table. The sunflowers watch from their vase, their yellow faces turned toward us like witnesses.
"This is good," Donald says, twirling spaghetti on his fork.
"It's just pasta."
"Yeah, but it's good pasta." He takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully. "You know what I realized today?"
"What?"
"I haven't had a home-cooked meal that wasn't takeout or a diner in months. Maybe longer." He gestures at the table. "This feels... normal. Like I'm not drowning."
The guilt crashes over me, I set down my fork.
"You okay?" he asks.
"Yeah. Just..." I grab my water, taking a sip to buy time. "Just glad you're here."
His phone buzzes on the table. He glances at it, and his expression softens into something tender.
"Bethany," he says, showing me the screen.
The text reads: Safe house movie night = lame. Miss u Uncle D ❤️
"Your niece?" I ask.
"Yeah. She's sixteen, stuck in protective custody, hates every second of it." He types back quickly: Miss you too, kiddo. Hang in there.
"She seems sweet."
"She's a good kid. Pain in the ass sometimes, but good." He sets down the phone, his smile fading slightly. "She doesn't understand why this is happening. Thinks I'm overreacting."
"You're protecting her."
"I'm failing her." His voice hardens. "Two family members dead, and I'm no closer to catching whoever's doing this. She's stuck in a safe house because I can't do my job."
"That's not true."
"Isn't it?" He pushes pasta around his plate. "Robert's dead. Margaret's dead. And I'm sitting here eating dinner while someone's out there planning their next move."
"You're allowed to eat dinner, Don. You're allowed to have a life."
"It feels selfish. Like I'm stealing moments of normalcy while my family pays the price."
I reach across the table, covering his hand with mine. "You can't work twenty-four seven. You'll burn out."
"Maybe I should." He turns his hand over, lacing our fingers together. "But then I look at you, and I think—maybe there's something worth not burning out for."
The words should make me happy. Instead, they make me want to scream.
Because I'm not worth it. I'm the reason his family's dying. The architect of his nightmare. And he's sitting here, holding my hand, talking about me like I'm his salvation.
"Don..." My voice cracks. I clear my throat, try again. "I need to tell you something."