Chapter 44 Crumbling (Doris Vale POV)
I'm still shaking when I reach my building. Eddie's words loop in my head, relentless and damning: If they come for me, I can't promise I'll stay quiet.
My hands fumble with the building entrance, keys slipping through trembling fingers. I finally get it open, pushing inside. The stairwell is empty, silent except for my ragged breathing.
I'm halfway up when I hear footsteps descending fast. Heavy, urgent.
I freeze, pressing against the wall. Someone's coming down. Police? FBI? The Surgeon himself?
A figure rounds the corner above me, and my heart stops.
Donald.
He's moving fast, face set in grim determination, phone in his hand. He doesn't see me at first, too focused on whatever's pulling him away.
"Don?" My voice comes out strangled.
He stops, looking up. His expression shifts from surprise, then something that might be relief.
"Dora. I was just..." He descends the remaining stairs, reaching me. "I need to go. Emergency at the precinct."
Guilt slams into me like a physical blow. He found something. He knows. Hayes told him, or Vanessa, or Eddie flipped already, and he's here to confront me before...
"Hayes called," he continues, already moving past me. "Wouldn't say what over the phone, but it sounded urgent."
Not about me. Not yet.
"Okay." The word barely makes it out. "Be careful."
He pauses at the landing, turning back. Kisses my forehead quickly, perfunctorily. "I'll call you later."
Then he's gone, footsteps echoing down the stairwell, the building door slamming shut.
I stand there, paralyzed, listening to his car start outside. The engine revs, tires squealing as he pulls away.
Slowly, I continue up the stairs. Each step feels monumental, my legs weak and uncooperative. At my door, I fumble with the key again. It takes three tries to get it in the lock.
Inside, I lean against the closed door, breathing hard. The apartment's exactly as I left it, laptop bag by the couch, dishes in the sink, Sarah's photo watching from the bedroom dresser.
Normal. Everything looks normal.
But nothing is.
I drop my bag and sink onto the couch, mind racing through scenarios, each one more catastrophic than the last.
Return to the UK. Pack tonight, catch the first flight tomorrow. Disappear into London's sprawl, change my name again, start over.
But that raises suspicions. Woman dates detective, detective's family gets murdered, woman flees to England? Hayes would notice. Vanessa would write about it. The FBI would extradite me within weeks.
Take Eddie's offer. New identity, new city, new life. Become someone else entirely.
But that means leaving Donald. Abandoning him to deal with the aftermath alone. Letting him think I just vanished, like I never cared.
I can't do that. I can't.
Stay and confess. Tell him everything. Watch his face crumble when he realizes who I am, what I've done.
Watch him arrest me.
My phone buzzes. I grab it, heart pounding.
Text from Eddie: Burn this number. Don't contact me again. Ever.
I stare at the message until it blurs. Then I delete the thread, delete everything connecting us.
I press my palms against my eyes, breathing through the panic. Think. I need to think.
Options:
Run. Raise suspicions, probably get caught anyway.
Stay. Wait for the walls to close in completely.
Confess. Lose Donald, go to prison.
Fix it somehow. But how? The Surgeon's unreachable. Eddie's gone. I'm trapped.
The apartment feels smaller with each breath. Walls pressing in, ceiling lowering, air thinning.
I stand, pacing. Back and forth across the small living room. Past the kitchen, past the couch, past the window overlooking the street.
Think. Think. There has to be a way out.
But every path leads to the same place. Destruction. Prison. Loss.
Unless...
Unless I can find The Surgeon myself. Stop him before he kills again. Turn myself in, but with proof I tried to stop it. Maybe that counts for something. Maybe...
Who am I kidding? I hired him. Paid him to murder innocent people. There's no redemption from that.
I sink back onto the couch, pulling my knees to my chest. The silence presses down, oppressive and accusatory.
Minutes pass. Maybe hours. I lose track, lost in spiraling thoughts that go nowhere.
Then I hear it. A car pulling into the lot outside. Engine cutting off. Car door slamming.
I tense, every muscle coiled. Police? FBI?
Footsteps on the stairs. Heavy, slow.
I stand, moving to the door. Press my ear against it, listening.
The footsteps stop outside my apartment. A pause. Then a knock.
"Dora?"
Donald's voice, but wrong. Rough, broken.
I unlock the door, pulling it open.
He's standing there, face ravaged with grief. Eyes red-rimmed, cheeks wet. He looks at me, and something in his expression shatters completely.
"Linda." The name comes out strangled. "She's dead."
The words hit like bullets. Linda. Warm, maternal Linda who flew out just to check on him. Linda who cooked dinner and asked about his love life and told him his mother would want him happy.
Dead.
Because of me.
"Oh God. Oh, Don..."
He steps inside, and I close the door automatically. Then he's collapsing, legs giving out, and I catch him before he hits the floor.
We sink down together, my back against the door, his weight heavy in my arms. He's sobbing, harsh, raw sounds that tear through the silence.
I hold him, one hand in his hair, the other rubbing circles on his back. My own tears start, hot and unstoppable.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I'm so sorry."
The words pour out, a litany I can't control. "I'm so, so sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
He doesn't ask what I'm apologizing for. Doesn't question the intensity of it. Just clings to me, face pressed against my shoulder, body wracked with grief.
I did this. I killed Linda. Not directly, not with my own hands, but I might as well have. I hired The Surgeon. I gave him the contract. I set this nightmare in motion.
And now Donald's breaking in my arms, destroyed by my choices.
"I'm sorry," I whisper again. "I'm so sorry."
He pulls back slightly, looking at me through tears. "It's not, you don't have to..."
"I know. I know." I cup his face, wiping tears with my thumbs. "I just wish I could fix this. Make it stop."
"You can't." His voice breaks. "Nobody can."
If only you knew, I think. If only you knew how easily I could end this. One confession. One truth.
But I'm too much of a coward.
So I just hold him instead. Let him cry into my shoulder while I mouth meaningless apologies into his hair.
We stay like that for a long time. His sobs gradually subsiding into shaky breaths. My own tears drying on my cheeks, leaving salt tracks.
Finally, he pulls away, sitting back against the door beside me. We're both on the floor, backs against wood, the apartment silent around us.
"She was good," he says quietly. "The only family who never blamed me for anything."
"I know."
"And now she's gone." He wipes his face with his sleeve. "Because someone wants to hurt me."