Chapter 13 Just Work (Donald Eric POV)
The smell hits me first—bleach, sharp and chemical, trying to cover something underneath. Blood, probably. Or worse. I stand in the doorway of Robert's house, blue booties on my feet, latex gloves tight around my wrists. The living room is a mess of overturned furniture and shattered glass.
"Detective Eric?" A uniform calls from the hallway. "We're ready for you."
I nod, stepping inside. My jaw is locked so tight my teeth ache.
Robert Eric. My uncle. Estranged for years, but blood nonetheless.
The body's in the bedroom. I force myself to walk slowly, professionally, even though my hands want to shake. Hayes is already there, standing by the door, her arms crossed. She looks up when I enter, her eyes sharp.
"You okay, Don?"
"Fine."
"You sure? Because if you need to step back..."
"I said I'm fine." The words come out harder than I mean them to. I clear my throat. "What do we have?"
She studies me for another second, then nods toward the bed. "Single gunshot wound to the chest. Close range. No sign of forced entry, no struggle. Whoever did this, he let them in."
I move closer, forcing myself to look. Robert's lying on his back, eyes open, mouth slack. Blood has soaked through his shirt, pooling on the sheets beneath him. There's a note pinned to his chest—handwritten, neat block letters.
PAYMENT DUE.
"What the hell does that mean?" Hayes mutters.
I don't answer. My eyes are locked on the note, my mind racing. Payment due. For what?
"Don?"
I snap back, shaking my head. "I don't know. Bag it. We'll analyze it."
A crime scene tech moves in, carefully photographing the note before removing it with tweezers. I step back, my stomach churning.
"Any witnesses?" I ask.
"Neighbor across the street saw a dark sedan leaving around three PM. Couldn't get a plate. That's it."
"Security cameras?"
"None on the house. We're checking nearby businesses."
I nod, my mind trying to stay clinical, detached. But it's Robert. My father's brother. The man who taught me how to fish when I was eight, before the family fell apart over money and grudges I never fully understood.
"Detective?" Another uniform appears in the doorway. "Internal Affairs is here. They want to speak with you."
My stomach drops. "Now?"
"Yes, sir."
Hayes shoots me a look—concerned, suspicious, I can't tell which. I pull off my gloves, tossing them in a bin, and head downstairs.
Detective Rivera from IA is waiting in the kitchen, a slim woman in her forties with gray streaks in her hair and a clipboard in her hands. She doesn't smile.
"Detective Eric."
"Rivera."
"I need to ask you some questions. Standard procedure, given your relation to the victim."
"Go ahead."
"When was the last time you spoke to Robert Eric?"
I think back, my mind foggy. "Two years ago. We weren't close."
"Why not?"
"Family issues. Money, inheritance disputes. The usual."
She writes something down. "And where were you today between noon and four PM?"
My jaw tightens. "At the precinct until two. Then I grabbed lunch at Nonna's. Got the call about the body around three-thirty."
"Can anyone verify that?"
"Claire Capello at Nonna's. Check the receipt. I paid with my card."
She nods, still writing. "And you had no contact with Robert Eric in the weeks leading up to his death?"
"None."
"No arguments? No disputes?"
"No."
Her eyes flick up, meeting mine. "You understand this looks… complicated. A family member dies under suspicious circumstances, and you're the lead detective."
"I understand." I cross my arms. "But I didn't kill my uncle, if that's what you're asking."
"I'm not asking. I'm stating facts." She closes the clipboard. "We'll be monitoring this investigation closely. Any irregularities, and you're off the case. Clear?"
"Crystal."
She nods, brushing past me. I stand there, hands clenched into fists, breathing through my nose.
Back upstairs, Hayes is directing the crime scene techs, her voice calm and methodical. She glances at me when I return.
"IA giving you hell?"
"Just doing their job."
"Which is making your life harder." She sighs, pulling off her gloves. "Look, Don, if you need to step back..."
"I don't." I cut her off, my voice sharper than intended. "I'm fine. Let's just process the scene and get out of here."
She doesn't look convinced, but she nods.
We work for another hour—photographing, bagging evidence, interviewing what few neighbors there are. By the time we're done, the sun has set, and my hands are finally starting to shake.
In the car, I sit in the driver's seat, staring at my reflection in the rearview mirror. My face looks older than it did this morning—lines deeper, eyes darker.
"Why now?" I whisper to my reflection.
Robert and I haven't spoken in years. We weren't enemies, but we weren't friends either. Just two people who shared blood and not much else. And now he's dead, with a cryptic note pinned to his chest.
PAYMENT DUE.
I grip the steering wheel, my knuckles white. This doesn't feel random. It feels deliberate. Personal.
But who would want Robert dead? And why leave a note like that?
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out—a text from Dora.
Saw you on TV. Be safe.
I stare at the message, something loosening in my chest. Dora. The one thing in my life that doesn't feel contaminated by this job, by the weight of everything I'm carrying.
I type back: 👍
Not much, but it's all I can manage right now. My mind is too fractured, too scattered to say anything real.
I start the car, pulling away from Robert's house. The crime scene tape flutters in the breeze, yellow and stark against the darkening sky.
At the precinct, I file my preliminary report, the words mechanical and empty. Hayes watches me from her desk, her expression unreadable.
"Go home, Don," she says finally. "You look like hell."
"I'm fine."
"You keep saying that. Doesn't make it true."
I don't argue. I just grab my jacket and leave.
At home, the apartment is dark and cold. I drop my keys on the counter, pour myself two fingers of whiskey, and sit on the couch. The glass is cold in my hand, the amber liquid catching the light from the streetlamp outside.
Robert's face flashes in my mind—not the body on the bed, but the man I remember. Younger, smiling, holding up a fish we caught together. Before everything went to hell.
I drain the glass, the burn settling in my chest.
My phone is still in my pocket. I pull it out, scrolling to Dora's name. Her message is still there: Saw you on TV. Be safe.
I think about calling her. Hearing her voice. Telling her about Robert, about the note, about the weight pressing down on my chest.
But I don't. I can't drag her into this. She's the only clean thing I have left.
I set the phone on the coffee table and lean back, closing my eyes. The whiskey hums in my veins, dulling the edges but not erasing them.
PAYMENT DUE.
The words echo in my head, relentless.
I don't know what they mean. But I know this isn't over.