Chapter 5 The Town Without Color (Doris Vale POV)
The sign reads "Welcome to Millbrook" in faded green letters, the paint peeling at the edges. Population 12,487. I drive past it without slowing, my eyes scanning the main street, a hardware store, a diner with checkered curtains, a post office with an American flag hanging limp in the still air. It's the kind of town that time forgot, where nothing ever happens and everyone knows everyone. Perfect.
I pull into the parking lot of a real estate office, a squat brick building with a hand-painted sign: "Morton Realty." The door chimes when I push it open, and a woman looks up from her desk, her smile bright and practiced.
"Good afternoon! Welcome to Morton Realty. I'm Cheryl. How can I help you today?"
"I need an apartment," I say, setting my purse on the counter. "Something small. Furnished if possible. I'm looking to move in right away."
Cheryl's smile widens. "Oh, wonderful! We have a few options. Are you new to Millbrook?"
"Yes." I don't elaborate, and she doesn't push.
She pulls out a binder, flipping through pages of listings. "Let's see… we have a lovely one-bedroom on Maple Street. Fully furnished, utilities included. It's quiet, close to downtown. The tenant just moved out last week, so it's available immediately."
"I'll take it," I say.
Cheryl blinks. "Don't you want to see it first?"
"Is it clean?"
"Well, yes, but..."
"Then I'll take it."
She hesitates, her pen hovering over a rental agreement. "Okay, then. I'll need a deposit and first month's rent. We also run a background check, just standard procedure..."
"I can pay six months upfront," I say, pulling out my checkbook. "Cash equivalent. Will that work?"
Her eyes widen slightly, but she recovers quickly. "That… yes, that works. Let me just get the paperwork."
Twenty minutes later, I'm walking out with keys in my hand and the address scribbled on a Post-it note: 214 Maple Street, Apartment 2B. I drive there slowly, taking in the town. It's quiet, almost eerily so. A few people walk along the sidewalk—a woman pushing a stroller, an elderly man with a cane. No one pays attention to me. Good.
The apartment building is a two-story structure, pale yellow with white trim. The paint is faded, but it's clean, well-kept. I park in the small lot behind the building and grab my suitcase from the trunk. The stairs creak under my weight as I climb to the second floor, the key cold in my hand.
The door to 2B sticks slightly before it opens. I step inside, the smell of lemon cleaner hitting me first. The apartment is small, living room, kitchenette, a short hallway leading to a bedroom and bathroom. The furniture is basic: a beige couch, a coffee table, a small dining set by the window. Everything is neutral, sterile, like a hotel room. Perfect.
I drop my suitcase by the door and walk through the space, my footsteps echoing on the hardwood floor. The kitchen has white cabinets and a two-burner stove. The fridge hums when I open it, empty except for a box of baking soda. The bedroom is just big enough for a double bed and a dresser. The window looks out onto the street, where a few cars pass by slowly.
I set my suitcase on the bed and unzip it, pulling out clothes and toiletries. My hands move mechanically, folding shirts, hanging dresses in the narrow closet. At the bottom of the suitcase, wrapped in a silk scarf, is Sarah's photo. I hold it for a moment, my thumb brushing over the glass. She's smiling, her hair caught mid-laugh, her eyes bright. It was taken at a family picnic, years ago, before everything fell apart.
I place the photo on the dresser, angling it so I can see it from the bed. "We're here," I whisper to her. "Fresh start, like you always wanted for me."
Her smile doesn't change, frozen in time.
I finish unpacking, then move to the living room. There's a small desk by the window, and I set up my laptop, plugging it in and waiting for it to boot up. The screen glows to life, and I log into my work email. Forty-three unread messages. I skim through them—client reports, budget reviews, meeting requests. My boss, Martin, has sent three emails asking when I'll be available for a call.
I reply: Back online. Available tomorrow for calls. Will catch up on reports tonight.
His response comes within minutes: Good to have you back, Doris. Take your time settling in. Let me know if you need anything.
I close the laptop and lean back in the chair, staring out the window. The street is quiet, a couple walking their dog, a teenager on a skateboard. Normal.
My stomach growls, pulling me out of my thoughts. I haven't eaten since yesterday, and the fridge is empty. I grab my purse and keys, heading back out. The grocery store is a few blocks away, a small independent place called "Miller's Market." I push through the glass doors, grabbing a cart and navigating the narrow aisles.
The store is quiet, a few shoppers browsing the produce section. I grab the basics; bread, eggs, milk, coffee, a rotisserie chicken, some apples. At the checkout, the cashier is a teenage boy with braces and a name tag that reads "Kyle."
"Find everything okay?" he asks, scanning my items.
"Yes, thank you."
He bags my groceries, his movements practiced. "You new in town?"
I glance up, meeting his eyes briefly. "Just moved in."
"Cool. Welcome to Millbrook." He hands me the receipt. "Have a good day."
"You too."
I carry the bags back to my car, the sun dipping lower in the sky. By the time I get back to the apartment, the light is fading, casting long shadows across the room. I unpack the groceries, stocking the fridge and cabinets. The rotisserie chicken sits on the counter, still warm. I tear off a piece, eating it standing up, my mind blank.
After eating, I wash my hands and move back to the living room. The TV is mounted on the wall, and I find the remote on the coffee table. I turn it on, flipping through channels. Local news, a game show, a cooking program. I settle on the news, the anchor's voice filling the silence.
"…and in local news, Millbrook's annual Fall Festival is set to begin next week. Organizers say they're expecting record attendance this year…"
I half-listen, my eyes drifting to the window. The streetlights flicker on, casting pools of yellow light on the pavement. A car drives by slowly, its headlights sweeping across the room. I pull my legs up onto the couch, wrapping my arms around my knees.
The anchor continues: "…Police are still investigating the recent string of burglaries on the east side of town. Residents are urged to lock their doors and report any suspicious activity…"
I change the channel, landing on a nature documentary. Wolves hunting in the snow. I watch for a few minutes, then turn it off. The silence rushes back, heavier now.
I take a shower, the water hot enough to sting. I scrub my skin, trying to wash away the lingering feeling of his hands, his voice, the weight of that night. But it clings to me, stubborn as a stain. I towel off, pulling on an old T-shirt and sweatpants, and climb into bed.
The sheets are cold, stiff with newness. I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling. The room is too quiet, the kind of quiet that makes your ears ring. I roll onto my side, facing Sarah's photo on the dresser. Her smile is barely visible in the dim light from the street.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I'm so sorry."
Sleep doesn't come easily. I toss and turn, the mattress creaking beneath me. Every time I close my eyes, I see her—Sarah, laughing at that picnic, her hair catching the light. Then the image shifts, and she's in the body cam footage, her eyes wide with fear, blood blooming across her blouse. I hear the gunshot, her scream, the chaos of voices.
I sit up, gasping, my heart pounding. The room is dark, the streetlight outside casting faint shadows on the walls. I press my palms against my eyes, trying to push the images away, but they won't leave.
I get up, padding to the kitchen in bare feet. I pour myself a glass of water, drinking it slowly, the cold liquid grounding me. I lean against the counter, staring at nothing.
"It's done," I say to the empty apartment. "You can't change it. Just… move forward."
But moving forward feels impossible when the past is clawing at your heels.
I go back to bed, pulling the blankets up to my chin. This time, I leave the bathroom light on, the door cracked slightly. The faint glow is just enough to keep the darkness at bay.
I close my eyes, and eventually, exhaustion drags me under. But the dreams come anyway—Sarah laughing, then gunfire, then silence. I wake up gasping, the sheets tangled around my legs, my T-shirt damp with sweat. The clock on the nightstand reads 3:47 AM.
I lie there, staring at the ceiling, waiting for morning.