Chapter 12 News at Noon (Doris Vale POV)
The apartment smells like garlic and olive oil. I've got chicken breasts sizzling in the pan, rice steaming on the back burner, vegetables chopped and waiting on the cutting board. Cooking helps—keeps my hands busy, my mind from wandering too far into dangerous territory.
The TV murmurs in the background, some talking heads debating something I'm not really listening to. I flip the chicken, watching the golden crust form, then add the vegetables to the pan. The sizzle fills the kitchen, drowning out the TV.
I'm reaching for the salt when the tone of the broadcast changes. The casual banter cuts off, replaced by something sharper, more urgent.
"We interrupt this program for breaking news."
I glance over my shoulder. The screen shows a reporter standing outside a house—yellow tape strung across the driveway, police cars parked at angles, their lights flashing red and blue against the darkening sky.
"We're here in the Meadowbrook neighborhood where police are investigating what they're calling a suspicious death. Robert Eric, a local businessman, was found dead in his home earlier this afternoon. Details are still emerging, but sources tell us foul play is suspected."
I turn back to the stove, lowering the heat. Robert Eric. The name doesn't mean anything to me. Just another tragedy in a town that probably doesn't see many.
"Police have not yet released an official statement, but we're told Detective Donald Eric is leading the investigation. Let's go to footage from the scene."
My hand freezes mid-reach for the spatula.
The camera cuts to the house, zooming in on the front steps where a cluster of officers stand. And there, in the center, is Donald. He's wearing his work clothes—dark slacks, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his badge clipped to his belt. His expression is tight, focused, the easy warmth I've seen in him completely gone. He's talking to another officer, gesturing toward the house, his jaw set.
I stand there, spatula in hand, staring at the screen.
That's him. That's Donald.
Pride flickers first—a strange, unexpected thing. He looks competent, authoritative, like someone who knows exactly what he's doing. I knew he was a detective, but seeing him like this, in his element, makes it real in a way his words never did.
Then the unease creeps in.
He hadn't mentioned this. When he called earlier, he said he had a "crazy day," but nothing about a murder. Nothing about leading an investigation.
The reporter's voice cuts back in: "Police are urging anyone with information to come forward. Again, Robert Eric was found dead in his Meadowbrook home this afternoon. We'll continue to follow this story as it develops."
The screen cuts back to the studio, and the anchors pick up where they left off, their voices calm and measured, like they're discussing the weather.
I turn off the stove, my appetite gone. The chicken sits in the pan, steam rising. I plate it mechanically, moving on autopilot—chicken, rice, vegetables. I carry the plate to the table and sit, fork in hand, staring at the food.
Robert Eric. Suspicious death. Foul play.
I take a bite. It tastes like nothing.
The TV drones on, some sitcom now, canned laughter filling the silence. I eat half the plate, then give up, scraping the rest into the trash. I wash the dishes, the water too hot, scalding my hands. I don't adjust the temperature.
By the time I finish, it's nearly eight. I dry my hands on a towel and move to the couch, grabbing my phone from the coffee table. No new messages.
I sit there, scrolling aimlessly through social media. Alisha posted a photo of her coffee. James shared an article about stock market trends. Priya's dog is wearing a new sweater.
Normal things. Safe things.
But my mind keeps circling back to the news. To Donald standing on those steps, his expression hard and distant. To the name—Robert Eric—and the way the reporter said "suspicious death."
I set my phone down and lean back, staring at the ceiling. The apartment feels too quiet, the hum of the refrigerator the only sound.
Why didn't he tell me? Not that he owes me an explanation, but still. "Crazy day" feels like an understatement for a murder investigation.
My phone buzzes on the table, and I grab it.
A text from Donald: Sorry I disappeared. Crazy day.
I stare at the message, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. Crazy day. That's all he's going to say.
I type: Saw you on TV. Be safe.
The message sends, the little checkmark appearing beside it. I wait, watching the screen, but nothing happens. No typing indicator, no immediate response. Just silence.
I set the phone down, pulling my knees to my chest. Minutes tick by. Five. Ten. Fifteen.
Then it buzzes.
A single emoji: 👍
That's it. No words, no explanation. Just a thumbs-up.
I stare at it, something cold settling in my chest. He's busy. Of course he's busy. A man is dead. Donald is leading the investigation. He doesn't have time to chat.
But still. A thumbs-up.
I lock my phone and toss it onto the couch beside me. The TV is still on, some crime drama now, detectives chasing suspects through rain-soaked streets. I grab the remote and turn it off. The silence rushes back, heavier than before.
I sit there for a long time, my mind spinning. Robert Eric. Suspicious death. Donald's face on the screen, tight and focused. The thumbs-up emoji.
I stand, pacing the small living room. My eyes land on the bedroom door, and I think about Sarah's photo on the dresser. About the note tucked in the nightstand drawer. About the warmth I felt this morning when I read it.
And I think about The Surgeon. About the contract I can't cancel. About the blood money that's already been paid.
My stomach twists, bile rising in my throat. I press a hand to my mouth, breathing through my nose, trying to steady myself.
This isn't connected. It can't be. Robert Eric is just… some businessman. A random tragedy. Nothing to do with me.
But the unease won't leave.
I go to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water, drinking it in slow sips. The clock on the wall reads 9:47 PM. Too early to sleep, too late to do anything productive.
I sit at the kitchen table, my phone in front of me, willing it to buzz again. Willing Donald to say something more, to reassure me that everything's fine.
But it stays silent.
I pick it up, scrolling back to his message. Sorry I disappeared. Crazy day.
And my response: Saw you on TV. Be safe.
And his: 👍
I lock the phone again, setting it face-down on the table. My hands are shaking.
"It's nothing," I whisper to the empty kitchen. "It's just a coincidence."
But the words feel hollow.
I stand, turning off the kitchen light, and move to the bedroom. Sarah's photo is where I left it, her smile unchanged. I don't pick it up this time. I can't.
Instead, I climb into bed, pulling the blankets up to my chin. The sheets still smell faintly like him—cologne and soap and something distinctly Donald. I close my eyes, trying to find comfort in it, but all I feel is the weight of everything I'm carrying.
The note in the drawer. The emoji on my phone. The man on the news, dead in his home.
And Donald, standing on those steps, his face hard and distant, a stranger in a detective's uniform.
I lie there, staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep that won't come.