Chapter 21 Hayes' Watch (Detective Hayes POV)
Donald's coffee sits cold on his desk. Third cup this morning, and he hasn't touched it. Just sits there, staring at crime scene photos like they'll suddenly start talking.
I lean back in my chair, watching him over my own mug. His tie's loose, top button undone. Hair sticking up where he's been running his hands through it. Notes scattered across his desk in no particular order—witness statements, forensic reports, security footage timestamps. The man's drowning.
"Don."
He doesn't respond. His eyes are fixed on Margaret Caldwell's kitchen floor, the photo grainy but clear enough. Blood pooled around her head, that clean surgical cut across her throat.
"Don." Louder this time.
He blinks, looking up. "What?"
"Your coffee's cold."
He glances at it like he's surprised it exists. "Yeah. I'll get more."
"You said that an hour ago."
"Did I?" He rubs his face, and I catch the tremor in his hands before he drops them to the desk. "What time is it?"
"Almost three."
"Shit." He stands, grabbing his jacket from the chair. "I'm supposed to meet Rivera at two-thirty."
"You missed it."
"What?"
"She came by. You were staring at that same photo. Didn't even notice her standing there." I set my mug down. "She left pissed."
He sinks back into his chair. "Great. That's just great."
Murphy's voice crackles over someone's radio at the next desk—domestic disturbance on Oak Street, third one this week. An officer grabs his keys and heads out. The bullpen's busy today. Phones ringing, printers jamming, someone arguing with dispatch about patrol routes.
I stand, walking over to Donald's desk. Up close, he looks worse. Dark circles under his eyes, stubble turning into an actual beard, that slight twitch at his jaw he gets when he's barely holding it together.
"You need to go home. Go home. Sleep. Shower. Come back tomorrow."
"Can't. I've got one week, Hayes. One week before they pull me off this case."
"And you think you'll solve it running on fumes?"
He looks up at me, and there's something desperate in his eyes. Something I haven't seen before. "I have to."
"Why?"
"Because they're my family."
"Robert barely spoke to you. Margaret you saw once a year at Christmas, maybe."
"Doesn't matter. They're still..." He stops, his jaw working. "They're still mine."
I pull out the chair across from him, sitting. "What aren't you telling me?"
"Nothing."
"Bullshit." I lean forward, lowering my voice. "Don, I've worked with you for six years. I know when you're lying. So does Rivera, which is why she's breathing down both our necks."
"There's nothing to tell."
"Then why do you look like you're about to fall apart?"
He doesn't answer. Just turns back to the photos, his fingers tapping the edge of his desk. Tap tap tap. That nervous habit he has when he's stuck.
My phone buzzes. Text from Rivera: My office. Now.
"Shit," I mutter, standing. "I'll be back."
Donald doesn't look up.
Rivera's office is on the third floor, tucked away from the bullpen's chaos. I knock twice, and she calls me in without looking up from her computer.
"Shut the door."
I do. The chair across from her desk is hard plastic, deliberately uncomfortable. I sit anyway.
She finishes typing, then swivels to face me. "How is he?"
"Tired. Overworked. Same as anyone running a double homicide."
"Don't play dumb, Hayes. You know what I'm asking."
I cross my arms. "He's fine."
"He's not fine. He missed our meeting today. Second time this week."
"He's buried under case files. It happens."
"Does it?" She pulls out a folder, flipping it open. "Eric's record is spotless. Twenty years on the job, never missed a meeting, never filed a report late. And now, suddenly, he's falling apart." She looks up. "Why?"
"His family's being murdered. That'll mess anyone up."
"Or he knows something he's not sharing." She taps the folder. "I need you to watch him. Closely."
"I already am."
"I mean really watch him. Who he's talking to, where he goes after hours, what he's doing when he thinks no one's looking."
My stomach tightens. "You want me to spy on my partner."
"I want you to do your job. If Eric's compromised, if he's hiding something that affects this investigation, I need to know." She leans forward. "If he cracks, Hayes, it's on you. You understand that?"
I hold her gaze. "He's not compromised."
"Then prove it."
She hands me the folder. I open it... copies of Donald's phone records, bank statements, credit card transactions. Everything laid out, ready for me to dig through.
"Is this legal?"
"It's necessary." She closes her laptop. "Bring me something by Friday. Anything that explains his behavior."
"And if I don't find anything?"
"Then I'll assume you're covering for him."
The threat hangs in the air. I stand, tucking the folder under my arm. "Understood."
"Hayes." Her voice stops me at the door. "I know he's your partner. But don't let that cloud your judgment."
I leave without responding.
Back at my desk, I toss the folder into my drawer and lock it. Donald's still at his desk, head down now, eyes closed. His chest rises and falls slowly. Finally sleeping.
The bullpen's quieter now. Evening shift's rolling in, day shift heading out. Jenkins waves as he passes, coffee cup in hand. I wave back.
Donald's phone sits on his desk, screen dark. I glance around. Murphy's at the front desk, focused on his crossword. Jenkins is in the break room. No one's paying attention.
I reach across, picking up Donald's phone. It's unlocked, idiot never sets a passcode.
His messages app opens. The most recent thread is someone named "Dora." I tap it.
You make things feel normal.
Sent this morning. Her reply: You make me feel normal too.
I scroll up. Weeks of messages. Nothing suspicious. Just casual conversation—dinner plans, coffee meetups, mundane stuff. But there's something in the tone. Something softer than Donald usually is.
I keep scrolling. A message from three weeks ago: Same time tomorrow? Her reply: Same time.
Another from a month ago: You look familiar. Have we met?
I stop. They met a month ago. Right before the murders started.
I tap on her contact. No photo, no last name. Just "Dora" and a phone number.
I pull out my own phone, snapping a photo of the number. Then I close the thread and set Donald's phone back where it was.
He stirs, lifting his head. "What time is it?"
"Almost six."
He blinks, disoriented. "I fell asleep."
"Yeah."
He looks at his phone, checking for messages. Nothing new. He sets it down, rubbing his eyes.
"Go home, Don."
"Yeah. Okay." He stands, swaying slightly. I reach out to steady him, but he waves me off. "I'm good."
"You're not. But go anyway."
He grabs his jacket, patting his pockets for keys. Finds them. "See you tomorrow."
"Tomorrow."
He walks out, his gait unsteady. I watch until he's through the door, then pull out my phone, staring at the number I photographed.
Dora. No last name. No history I can see.
But she showed up right when this started. And Donald's more attached to her than I've ever seen him with anyone.
Could be nothing. Probably is nothing.