Chapter 17 Paper Faces (Donald Eric POV)
The office smells like burnt coffee and stale air. I'm on my third cup, the bitter taste coating my tongue, doing nothing to wake me up. Files spread across my desk—crime scene photos, witness statements, forensic reports. All of them connected to one thing.
My family.
I pick up the photo from Margaret's scene. She's lying on her kitchen floor, arms at her sides, eyes open. The wound is clean, precise—a single cut across her throat, deep enough to kill but not messy. No hesitation marks. No rage. Just cold, surgical efficiency.
I set it down, rubbing my eyes. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, making my headache worse.
"Detective?"
I look up. Hayes stands in the doorway, two folders tucked under her arm. She looks as tired as I feel.
"Yeah?"
"Got the forensics back on Margaret Caldwell." She crosses the room, dropping the folders on my desk. "And the updated report on Robert."
I flip open the top folder, scanning the pages. Time of death, cause of death, tox screen—all clean. No drugs, no alcohol. Just a quick, professional kill.
"Same M.O. as Robert," Hayes says, leaning against my desk. "Precision cuts, minimal blood loss, no forced entry. Whoever this is, they know what they're doing."
"Yeah. I got that."
She crosses her arms. "Two members of your family, Don. Both killed within a week. That's not coincidence."
I don't answer. I just flip to the next page, pretending to read even though the words blur together.
"Don."
"I'm working on it."
"Are you?" Her voice hardens. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're avoiding the obvious."
I look up. "Which is?"
"Someone's targeting you. Specifically you." She taps the folder. "Robert was your uncle. Margaret was your cousin. Both estranged, both on the outskirts of your life, but still connected. This isn't random."
"I know."
"So what are you doing about it?"
"My job." I close the folder, stacking it with the others. "I'm following leads, running down witnesses, checking security footage. What else do you want from me?"
"The truth." She leans forward, her eyes locked on mine. "You think this is revenge, don't you?"
The word hits like a punch. I keep my face neutral, my voice steady. "I think it's a possibility."
"For what?"
"I don't know."
"Bullshit." She straightens, crossing her arms again. "You've been a cop for twenty years, Don. You've made enemies. We all have. But this..." She gestures to the files. "This is personal. Surgical. Calculated. Someone's sending you a message."
I pick up my coffee, taking a sip even though it's gone cold. "Then I need to figure out what the message is."
She watches me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she sighs. "Rivera's asking questions. IA wants to know why two of your family members are dead and you're still leading the investigation."
My jaw tightens. "I haven't done anything wrong."
"I know that. But it doesn't look good." She picks up one of the folders, flipping through it. "They're talking about pulling you off the case. Putting someone else in charge."
"Like hell they are."
"Don..."
"This is my case, Hayes. My family. I'm not stepping back."
"Even if it compromises the investigation?"
"It won't."
She studies me, then nods slowly. "Fine. But if you're staying on, you need to be honest with me. All of it. No more deflecting, no more 'I don't know.' Because if this goes sideways, we both go down."
I meet her eyes. "I'll tell you what I know when I know it."
"That's not good enough."
"It's all I've got."
She holds my gaze for another beat, then shakes her head. "You're impossible."
"So I've been told."
She heads for the door, pausing at the threshold. "Go home, Don. You look like hell."
"I'm fine."
The door closes behind her, and I'm alone again. I lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling. The fluorescent lights flicker, casting shadows across the tiles.
Revenge. The word echoes in my head, louder than the buzzing lights.
I think about Sarah Vale. I always think about Sarah Vale. Three years, and her face is still burned into my memory—wide eyes, pale skin, blood blooming across her blouse. The gunshot that ended her life.
My fault. My arrogance, my need to prove I was in control. I pushed too hard, too fast, and she paid the price.
My phone sits on the desk, screen dark. I pick it up, scrolling to Dora's name. Her last message stares back at me: Just tired.
I should call her. Check in, make sure she's okay. She looked so shaken at the precinct, so pale and unsteady. I wanted to follow her, but the case pulled me back. It always pulls me back.
I start typing: Hey. You feeling better?
Delete.
Thinking about you. Hope you're okay.
Delete.
Can I see you tonight?
Delete.
I set the phone down, staring at it. Dora is the one clean thing in my life right now. The one person who doesn't know about Sarah, about the guilt, about the bodies piling up. She's separate from all this, untouched by the blood on my hands.
And I want to keep it that way.
If I drag her into this, if I let her see how broken I really am, I'll lose her. And I can't. Not now. Not when she's the only thing keeping me sane.
I lock the phone and shove it into my pocket.
The files sit on my desk, waiting. I pick up Margaret's folder again, flipping through the photos. Precision cuts. No hesitation. Professional.
Whoever this is, they're not done. Two family members dead, and I know there will be more. The pattern is clear. Someone is systematically dismantling my family, piece by piece.
And I have no idea how to stop them.
I close the folder, standing. My legs are stiff from sitting too long, my back aching. I grab my jacket from the chair and head for the door.
At home, the apartment is dark and cold. I drop my keys on the counter, pouring myself two fingers of whiskey. The glass is cold in my hand, the liquid burning as it goes down.
I sit on the couch, my phone in my other hand. Dora's name glows on the screen.
I almost call. My thumb hovers over her contact.
Then I set the phone on the coffee table, face down.
She's my one clean thing. I won't drag her into this.