Chapter 46 Rachel's Concern (Donald Eric POV)
Dora's still pale when we emerge from the hallway, her hand cold in mine. I can feel the tremor running through her fingers.
"You sure you're okay?" I ask.
"Yeah. Just, funerals are hard."
"Tell me about it."
We're almost to the exit when I see Rachel standing near the door, clearly waiting. Her expression is purposeful, resolute in a way I recognize from our marriage. She has something to say.
"Don. Can I talk to you for a second?"
I glance at Dora. "I'll just be a minute."
"Take your time." She slips her hand from mine. "I'll wait by the car."
Rachel watches her go, then gestures toward a small alcove off the main hallway. Away from the dispersing mourners, away from prying eyes.
I follow, already bracing myself.
"What's up?" I ask, leaning against the wall.
Rachel crosses her arms, studying me with that clinical assessment she used to do when she thought I was spiraling. "How are you holding up?"
"I just buried my aunt. How do you think?"
"Don..."
"What do you want, Rachel?"
She flinches at my tone but doesn't back down. "I'm worried about you."
"Join the club. Hayes is worried. The captain's worried. Everyone's fucking worried."
"Because you look like you're about to break." Her voice softens. "You're clinging to that woman like she's the only thing keeping you upright."
"Because she is."
"And that's what worries me." Rachel steps closer. "Don, I know what you're going through. I was there when Sarah Vale died, remember? I watched you self-destruct."
"This is different."
"Is it? Because from where I'm standing, it looks exactly the same. You're drowning, and instead of dealing with it, you're attaching yourself to the first person who shows you kindness."
My jaw tightens. "Don't."
"Don, you barely know her. How long have you been together? Two months? Three?"
"That's none of your business."
"It is when I care about you." Her eyes are earnest, imploring. "She seems nice. I'm sure she is. But are you sure about this? Really sure?"
"Yes."
"Because you're thinking clearly? Or because you're desperate for something solid to hold onto?"
The question hits harder than it should. "What's your point, Rachel?"
"My point is that you're vulnerable right now. Grief-stricken, traumatized, probably not sleeping. You're not in a position to make good decisions about relationships."
"So what? You want me to break up with her? Push away the one person who makes me feel human?"
"I want you to be careful. To think about what you're doing." She reaches out, touching my arm. "I don't want to see you get hurt again."
I pull away. "You don't get to do this."
"Do what?"
"Act like you have any say in my life. You left, remember? After Sarah died, when I needed you most, you walked away."
"Because you shut me out!" Her voice rises, and she lowers it quickly. "I tried, Don. For months I tried. But you wouldn't let me in. Wouldn't talk, wouldn't grieve, just drowned yourself in work and whiskey."
"And instead of staying, you gave up."
"I had to save myself. Watching you destroy yourself was destroying me too."
We stare at each other, years of unresolved pain crackling between us like static.
"This is different," I say finally, quieter. "Dora's different. She doesn't push. Doesn't demand. Just... is there. And right now, that's what I need."
"Or it's what you think you need." Rachel's expression softens. "Don, I'm not saying she's wrong for you. I'm saying the timing is. You're in crisis. And people in crisis make bad decisions."
"She's not a bad decision."
"Maybe not. But how would you know? You can barely think straight."
"I can think fine."
"Can you?" She tilts her head. "When's the last time you slept more than three hours? Ate a full meal? Went a day without thinking about the murders?"
I don't answer. Can't.
"That's what I thought." Rachel sighs. "Look, I'm not trying to attack you or her. I just—I worry. You have a pattern of self-destructive behavior when you're hurting. And I don't want you dragging someone else down with you."
"I'm not dragging her anywhere. She chose to be with me."
"Did she? Or did you latch onto her because she was there at the right moment?"
The words sting because part of me wonders the same thing. Did I fall for Dora because she's genuinely right for me? Or because I was drowning and she threw me a rope?
"I don't know what you want from me," I say.
"I want you to be honest with yourself. About what you're doing and why." Rachel moves toward the door, then pauses. "And I want you to talk to someone. A therapist, a counselor, someone who isn't emotionally involved."
"I don't need a therapist."
"Yes, you do. You've needed one since Sarah died. Maybe before." She looks back at me. "Please, Don. For yourself if not for anyone else."
She doesn't wait for a response. Just walks out, leaving me standing in the alcove alone.
I lean against the wall, closing my eyes. The conversation loops in my head, each question a barb.
Are you sure about this?
You barely know her.
People in crisis make bad decisions.
Fuck her. She doesn't get to judge my choices. Doesn't get to act concerned after abandoning me three years ago.
But the doubts she planted take root anyway, insidious and persistent.
I push off the wall and head outside. Dora's waiting by the car, arms wrapped around herself against the cold. She looks fragile, vulnerable in a way that makes me want to protect her.
Or is that my savior complex talking? My need to fix things, to be needed?
Stop it, I tell myself. Rachel's in your head. Don't let her ruin this.
"Everything okay?" Dora asks when I reach her.
"Yeah. Fine. Rachel just wanted to check in."
"That's nice of her."
Is it? Or is it intrusive?
I unlock the car, and we get in. The funeral home grows smaller in the rearview mirror as I pull out of the lot.
We're halfway back to town when I see Rachel's car behind us. She follows for a few blocks, then passes, her blinker signaling as she takes a different exit.
But not before I see her pull over just ahead.
"What's she doing?" Dora asks.
"I don't know."
Rachel gets out of her car as we approach. She's standing on the sidewalk, clearly waiting.
I slow down, pulling over. "Stay here."
"Don—"
"Just give me a second."
I get out, walking toward Rachel. "What now?"
She doesn't answer me. Instead, she walks past me to Dora's window, tapping on the glass.
Dora rolls it down, expression wary.
"Sorry," Rachel says. "I just wanted to say—keep an eye on him, okay? He's not thinking straight right now. And he needs someone who is."
Dora blinks. "I—okay."
"I mean it. He's stubborn and self-destructive. If he starts spiraling, don't let him take you down with him."
"Rachel," I say sharply. "Enough."
She ignores me. "Take care of yourself too. Don't lose yourself trying to save him."
"Okay," Dora says quietly.
Rachel straightens, finally looking at me. "I'm done. But think about what I said."
She walks back to her car, gets in, and drives away.
I stand there on the sidewalk, watching her taillights disappear. When I get back in the car, Dora's staring straight ahead.
"Sorry about that," I say.
"It's fine."
"She's just—she means well. In her own interfering way."
"She cares about you."
"Yeah. In a way that feels more like judgment than care."
Dora doesn't respond. Just keeps staring ahead, her expression unreadable.
I start the car and pull back onto the road. The silence between us feels heavier than before, weighted with Rachel's warnings and my own spiraling doubts.
You barely know her.
People in crisis make bad decisions.
Don't let him take you down with him.
I reach over, finding Dora's hand. She lets me take it but doesn't squeeze back.
"You okay?" I ask.
"Yeah. Just tired."
"Me too."
But I'm not sure either of us is telling the truth.