Chapter 49 Unexpected Visitor (Doris Vale POV)
I've been staring at my laptop for three hours, and I've accomplished nothing. The Henderson account file is open, numbers swimming across the screen, but I can't focus. Can't think.
Instead, I close it and open a private browser window. My fingers type before my brain catches up: how to disappear without a trace
The results populate—articles about witness protection, guides to going off-grid, Reddit threads from people who've successfully vanished. I click through them mechanically, absorbing nothing.
I close that tab. Open another: statute of limitations contract killing
More results. Legal forums, criminal law sites. I scan them, looking for loopholes that don't exist.
Close. New search: how to get away with murder
YouTube videos appear. True crime channels analyzing famous cases, discussing what went wrong, what the killers should have done differently. I click on one, volume low, watching a perky host dissect the mistakes that led to someone's arrest.
"The biggest error? Maintaining contact with the victim's family. Physical evidence can be explained away, but emotional connections raise red flags..."
I close the laptop, pressing my palms against my eyes. What am I doing? Researching escape routes like some kind of criminal mastermind when I'm just—
What? A grieving sister who made catastrophic choices? A woman who hired a killer and fell in love with the target's family?
A monster?
My phone sits on the coffee table, silent and accusing. No texts from Donald—he's giving me space after yesterday's funeral. No messages from Eddie—he's burned that bridge completely. No threats from unknown numbers—maybe they've moved on to more efficacious methods of torment.
I stand, pacing the apartment. Back and forth, back and forth. The walls feel closer each day, the air thinner.
I should run. Pack a bag, drain my accounts, disappear before Hayes or Vanessa or whoever sent those texts closes in completely.
But leaving means abandoning Donald. And despite everything—despite the lies and the guilt and the blood—I can't do that.
A knock at the door makes me jump.
I freeze mid-step, staring at the door like it might explode. Another knock, harder this time.
"Dora? It's Detective Hayes. Need to talk to you."
My heart stops. Restarts. Pounds so hard I can hear it in my ears.
Hayes. Donald's partner. The one who's been investigating me, running my phone, checking my background.
Has she found something? Does she know?
"Just a second!" My voice comes out higher than normal.
I close my laptop, shove it under the couch cushion. Check my appearance in the hallway mirror—pale, guilty-looking, but that could be chalked up to stress about Donald.
Maintain composure. Act normal. You're just his girlfriend. Nothing more.
I open the door.
Hayes stands in the hallway, wearing jeans and a leather jacket, badge clipped to her belt, gun visible at her hip. Her expression is unreadable—professional, assessing.
"Detective Hayes. Is everything okay? Is Donald..."
"He's fine. This isn't about him." She glances past me into the apartment. "Can I come in?"
Every instinct screams to say no. But refusing looks suspicious.
"Of course." I step aside.
She enters, scanning the room with cop eyes—noting the closed laptop, the unwashed dishes in the sink, Sarah's photo on the bedroom dresser visible through the open door.
"Nice place," she says, though her tone suggests it's anything but a compliment.
"Thanks. Can I get you coffee? Water?"
"No." She turns to face me. "We need to talk about who you really are."
The words hit like bullets. I force my face to stay neutral, confused. "I don't understand."
"I think you do." She pulls a folder from her jacket, setting it on my coffee table. "I've been looking into your background. And it doesn't add up."
"Looking into—why would you..."
"Because you're dating my partner, and his family's being murdered. That makes you relevant to the investigation."
"I haven't done anything wrong."
"Haven't you?" She opens the folder, pulling out documents. "No immigration records showing entry from London. No employment history. Prepaid phone purchased with cash. Rental agreement listing a fake employer."
Each word is a nail in my coffin. I sit on the couch, needing the support. "I value my privacy."
"Privacy is one thing. This is deception." She spreads the documents across the table. "These are the actions of someone hiding their identity. So I'll ask again—who are you really, and what do you want with Donald Eric?"
My mind races, cataloging options. Deny everything? She has proof. Confess completely? I go to prison. Run? She's blocking the door.
Half-truth. Give her enough to explain the anomalies without revealing everything.
"My real name is Doris Vale," I say quietly. "Not Dora."
Her expression doesn't change. "Keep going."
"I am from London. I was in finance. But I'm, I'm running from someone. An abusive ex. He has connections, money. I had to disappear completely to get away from him."
"Name?"
"James. James Morrison." I pull the name from thin air, hoping she doesn't call the bluff immediately.
"And this ex, he's in London?"
"Yes. Or he was. I don't know if he's followed me here."
Hayes studies me, her cop instincts clearly screaming that I'm lying. "If you're in danger from an ex, why not go to the police? Get a restraining order?"
"Because he's connected. Knows people in law enforcement in the UK. I couldn't trust anyone there."
"So you came here, created a new identity, and happened to start dating a detective whose family is being systematically murdered." She leans forward. "You see how that looks, right?"
"I didn't know about the murders when I met Donald. It just, it happened."
"Convenient timing."
"I know how it looks. But I'm not, I didn't have anything to do with what's happening to his family."
"Prove it."
The command is sharp, uncompromising. I open my mouth, close it. Because I can't. I can't prove I'm innocent without revealing I'm guilty of something else entirely.
"I can't," I admit. "I know that makes me look suspicious, but..."
"It makes you look like a liar." Hayes stands, gathering the documents. "And here's what I think. I think you're hiding something. Something big. And until I figure out what, you're a threat to my partner."
"I would never hurt Donald."
"Maybe not physically. But you're lying to him. Using a fake name, hiding your past. That hurts him whether you intend it or not."
She heads toward the door, and I follow. "Are you going to tell him?"
She pauses, hand on the doorknob. Turns to look at me. "I should. I should tell him everything I found and let him decide what to do with it."
"But?"
"But he's been through enough. Losing his family, barely holding himself together." Her eyes harden.
"Detective..."
"And stay away from him until you do. No calls, no visits. If you care about him at all, you'll give him space while you figure out how to tell the truth." She opens the door. "Twenty-four hours, Doris. After that, if you're still lying to him, I'll arrest you for obstruction of justice."
"On what grounds?"
"I'll find grounds." Her smile is cold. "I'm very good at my job."
She leaves, the door closing with a soft click that sounds deafening in the silence.
I stand there, legs shaking, breathing hard. My hands find the door frame, gripping it for support.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table. I crawl over to it, picking it up with trembling hands.
Text from Donald: Feeling better. Can I come over tonight? Miss you.
I stare at the message, vision blurring. Twenty-four hours. Hayes said stay away for twenty-four hours.
But if these are my last hours with him before everything implodes—
I type: Miss you too. But I'm not feeling well. Tomorrow?
You sure? I can bring soup.
God, he's so good. So caring. And I'm destroying him.
I'm sure. Just need rest. Love you.
Love you too. Feel better.
I set the phone down and curl onto my side, pulling my knees to my chest.