Chapter 45 The Funeral (Doris Vale POV)
The funeral home is small, austere in its simplicity. Beige walls, generic landscape paintings, chairs arranged in neat rows facing a closed casket. Linda's casket. Dark wood, brass handles, a spray of white lilies across the top.
I shouldn't be here.
Donald's hand finds mine as we enter, his grip tight enough to hurt. He's wearing a black suit I've never seen before, tie slightly crooked. I fixed it in the car, my hands shaking.
"You don't have to come," he'd said this morning, staring at himself in my bathroom mirror.
"I want to."
A lie. I don't want to be here. Don't want to see the family I destroyed. But refusing would raise questions I can't answer.
The room is sparsely populated. Maybe twenty people scattered across the chairs. I recognize none of them except the ones Donald pointed out on the drive over.
Marcus is in the front row, his wife beside him. Jessica, Donald said her name was. She's pretty, blonde, wearing a simple black dress. Marcus sits rigid, staring at the casket with an expression that's equal parts grief and fury.
A few rows back, I spot Bethany with a woman who must be her mother—Donald's sister. Diane. Bethany's in all black, mascara already smudged beneath her eyes. Two officers in plainclothes sit at the ends of their row. Protection detail, even here.
And then I see her.
Rachel.
She's sitting alone near the middle, dark hair pinned back, green eyes scanning the room. When they land on Donald, something flickers across her face. Sadness. Sympathy. Something deeper I don't want to name.
Donald's hand tightens on mine. "Come on."
We walk down the aisle between chairs. Eyes turn toward us—curious, assessing. I feel like an impostor in my black dress and borrowed grief.
Marcus looks up as we approach. His eyes move from Donald to me, then away. Dismissive. Like I'm not worth acknowledging.
"Marcus." Donald's voice is low. "Jessica."
"Don." Marcus stands, and they embrace awkwardly. Brief, stilted. Jessica hugs Donald next, whispering something I can't hear.
Donald gestures to me. "This is Dora."
Jessica offers a sad smile. "It's nice to meet you. I wish it were under better circumstances."
"Me too."
Marcus doesn't say anything. Just nods once and sits back down.
We move to the second row, and I feel Rachel's eyes on us. Donald notices too, his posture stiffening.
"I should…" he starts.
"Go ahead," I say.
He crosses to where Rachel sits. She stands, and they hug. Longer than the one with Marcus. Her hand rests on his back, and they speak quietly. I can't hear the words, but I see her expression—genuine concern, affection that hasn't dimmed despite the divorce.
I look away, focusing on the casket. Linda's inside that box. Cold, lifeless. Because of me.
Donald returns, Rachel following. She's taller than I expected, poised in a way that makes me feel clumsy and inadequate.
"Dora, this is Rachel," Donald says. "Rachel, Dora."
"So you're Dora." Rachel extends her hand. Her grip is firm, her smile polite but appraising. "Donald mentioned you."
"He mentioned you too." The words come out before I can stop them.
Rachel's smile doesn't falter, but something shifts in her eyes. "I'm sure he did."
An awkward silence stretches. Donald shifts between us, clearly uncomfortable.
"I'm glad Don has you," Rachel says finally. "He needs someone right now."
The words feel pointed, deliberate. Like she's marking territory or issuing a challenge. Or maybe I'm paranoid, guilt making me see threats everywhere.
"I'm trying to be there for him," I say.
"Good. That's good." She glances at the casket, her expression softening. "Linda was wonderful. This is—it's senseless."
"It is."
She looks back at me, and for a moment her carefully maintained composure cracks. "Take care of him, okay? He's terrible at taking care of himself."
"I will."
She nods, then moves away to speak with someone else. A colleague of Linda's, based on their conversation.
Donald sits beside me, exhaling slowly. "That was…"
"Fine," I finish. "It was fine."
"She's just…"
"Don, it's okay." I squeeze his hand. "Really."
The service starts before he can respond. A pastor Donald doesn't know delivers generic condolences about a woman he's never met. Talks about Linda's kindness, her dedication to family, her warmth. All true, based on the brief time I knew her.
All my fault she's dead.
The pastor invites people to share memories. Marcus stands first, his voice tight and controlled as he talks about Linda visiting when his kids were born. How she'd flown out to Seattle just to meet them. How she sent birthday cards every year without fail.
Jessica cries quietly beside him.
Bethany goes next, her voice breaking as she describes Linda's visits. How she always brought presents and made the best chocolate chip cookies. How she called every week just to check in.
"She was the best," Bethany says, tears streaming down her face. "And she didn't deserve this."
No. She didn't.
Donald stands, walking to the front. He grips the podium like it's the only thing holding him upright.
"Linda was…" His voice breaks. He clears his throat, tries again. "She was more than an aunt. After my mom died, Linda stepped in. Flew out from Phoenix every few months. Made sure I knew I wasn't alone."
I watch him struggle through the words, each one an ordeal. The room is silent except for muffled crying.
"She called me Donnie. Hated when I worked too much. Always told me I needed to find someone, settle down, be happy." He glances at me briefly. "She met someone I care about recently. Told me my mom would've approved."
My chest tightens, guilt crushing the air from my lungs.
"I'm going to find who did this," Donald continues, voice hardening. "I promise. Whoever took her from us—they'll answer for it."
He returns to his seat, and I reach for his hand. It's trembling.
The service continues. More memories, more tears. I sit frozen, barely breathing, watching the family I destroyed mourn together.
Finally, it ends. People stand, moving toward the exit or lingering to speak with Marcus and Diane. Donald stays seated, staring at the casket.
"You okay?" I whisper.
"No. But I will be." He stands, pulling me up with him. "Come on. I should talk to Bethany."
We approach where Bethany stands with her mother. Up close, Diane looks exhausted, her eyes puffy and red. She's holding Bethany's hand like it's a lifeline.
"Uncle Don." Bethany's voice cracks. She throws herself at him, wrapping her arms around his waist. He holds her while she sobs into his shirt.
"I know, kiddo. I know."
"It's not fair. None of this is fair."
"I know."
Diane watches them, then looks at me. "You must be Dora."
"Yes. I'm so sorry for your loss."
"Thank you." Her voice is flat, emotionless. Shell-shocked. "It's kind of you to come."
"Of course."
Bethany pulls away from Donald, wiping her eyes. She looks at me, really looks, and something crosses her face. Recognition? Suspicion? I can't tell.
"You're the one Uncle Don's been seeing?" she asks.
"Yes."
"Are you good to him?"
The question catches me off guard. "I try to be."
"Good. He deserves someone good." She wipes her nose with a tissue. "Sorry. I'm a mess."
"You're allowed to be."
Donald talks quietly with Diane while Bethany and I stand in awkward silence. The protection officers hover nearby, watchful and tense.
"I have to go back to the safe house after this," Bethany says. "It sucks."
"I'm sure it does."
"But Uncle Don says it's necessary. That whoever's doing this won't stop until he catches them." She looks up at me. "Do you think he will? Catch them?"
The question is a knife to the gut. "I think he'll try everything he can."
"Yeah." She sniffs. "He's stubborn like that."
Donald finishes with Diane, and we make our way toward the exit. Rachel intercepts us near the door.
"Don, I'm headed out. Just wanted to say—" She glances at me, then back to him. "Call if you need anything. Okay?"
"I will. Thanks for coming."
"Of course." She hesitates, then hugs him again. Quick, but intimate in a way that makes my stomach twist.
Then she's gone, and we're walking to the car. The cold air feels like absolution, washing away the suffocating atmosphere of grief and lilies.
I make it to the car before the nausea hits. "Don, I need—"
"The bathroom?"
"Yes."
"There's one inside. Go. I'll wait here."
I practically run back inside, past the lingering mourners, into the small bathroom down the hall. Lock the door and collapse in front of the toilet.
Everything comes up. Coffee from this morning, the toast I forced down. I retch until there's nothing left, then keep going, dry heaves that hurt my ribs.
I did this. I killed Linda. I destroyed these people.
Marcus's cold dismissal. Jessica's sad smile. Bethany's tears. Diane's shell-shocked grief. Donald's broken promise to find the killer.
And Rachel. Beautiful, caring Rachel who clearly still loves him in some way.
I flush, rinsing my mouth at the sink. My reflection looks haggard, pale, guilt-stricken.
You monster, I think. You absolute monster.
There's a knock on the door. "Dora? You okay?"
Donald's voice. Concerned, caring.
"Yeah. Just give me a second."
I splash water on my face, trying to pull myself together. But my hands won't stop shaking.
Another knock. "Dora?"
I open the door. He's standing there, worried, reaching for me.
"Sorry. I just, the service was intense."
"I know. Come here."
He pulls me into a hug, and I let him. Let him comfort me when I should be the one comforting him. When I'm the reason he needs comfort at all.
Over his shoulder, I see the funeral home's hallway. The door to the service room where Linda's casket still sits.
I close my eyes, breathing in Donald's cologne and the faint smell of the lilies that will forever mean death to me now.
I did this.