Chapter 22 Late Shift (Donald POV)
I'm three blocks from Dora's apartment when my phone lights up the dashboard. Hayes. I consider letting it ring—God knows I've earned one night off—but instinct wins. It always does.
"Eric."
"Don." Her voice is tight, clipped. "You need to come back. Now."
I pull over, hazards blinking against the dark storefronts. "What happened?"
"A note. Left on the station steps about twenty minutes ago. Murphy found it when he stepped out for a smoke."
My hands grip the steering wheel hard enough to hurt. "What does it say?"
There's a pause, long enough that I know I'm not going to like it. "Just... get here. Please."
The line goes dead.
I sit there for a moment, engine idling, staring at Dora's contact on my phone. I'd texted her an hour ago saying I was coming over. She'd responded with a simple "Door's unlocked. I'll leave the light on."
Now I type: "Work emergency. Rain check?"
Her reply comes fast: "Of course. Be safe."
I throw the car into drive and make a U-turn, the tires squealing slightly on the wet pavement. The streets are empty this time of night—just me and the occasional streetlight casting orange pools on the asphalt.
The precinct parking lot is lit up like Christmas. Three patrol cars, Hayes's sedan, and Rivera's unmarked vehicle all clustered near the entrance. I kill the engine and jog toward the doors, my breath misting in the cold night air.
Murphy's standing just inside, looking pale. He's pushing sixty, been on the force since before I graduated the academy, and I've never seen him rattled. Tonight, his hands shake as he holds his cigarette.
"Detective." He nods toward the stairs. "It's in the captain's office. They're waiting for you."
I take the steps two at a time. The bullpen is mostly dark, just the emergency lighting casting long shadows across empty desks. Hayes is standing outside the captain's door, arms crossed, face unreadable.
"How bad?" I ask.
She doesn't answer, just opens the door.
Captain Hendricks is behind his desk, Rivera standing beside him like a dark-suited vulture. On the desk between them, sealed in a clear evidence bag, is a single sheet of white paper. Even from the doorway, I can see the block letters written in thick black marker.
"Close the door, Eric," Hendricks says.
I do. Step closer. Read the note.
THE REST OF YOUR BLOODLINE WILL PAY. YOU LAST.
The room tilts slightly. I brace myself against the desk.
"When?" My voice sounds distant, like it's coming from underwater.
"Murphy found it at 11:43," Rivera says, checking her notebook. "He'd stepped outside for his break. Says the steps were clear when he went out at 11:30."
"Thirteen minutes." I look up. "Someone was here thirteen minutes ago."
"We've got units canvassing the area," Hendricks says. "But you know how it is this time of night. No foot traffic, most businesses closed. We're pulling footage from the traffic cameras at the intersection, but..."
"But they know where the cameras are," I finish. "They've been watching the station. Probably for days."
Hayes shifts her weight. "Don, we need to talk about protective detail."
"No."
"This isn't a request," Rivera cuts in. "This note is a direct threat against your life. We have protocols..."
"I said no." I straighten up, meeting her eyes. "I'm not hiding behind a detail while whoever this is keeps killing my family."
"You won't have any family left to protect if you're dead," Hayes says quietly.
I turn to her. "How many more are there? How many more people with my blood are out there for this psycho to target?"
The silence that follows answers the question better than words could.
"My aunt Linda in Phoenix, my half-brother Marcus in Seattle, and my niece Bethany who just turned sixteen last month. That's it. That's all that's left of the Eric bloodline."
"We've already contacted them," Hendricks says. "Phoenix PD is putting a patrol on your aunt's house, and Seattle's doing the same for your brother. Bethany and her mother are being moved to a safe house."
"Good." I look back at the note, those hateful words seared into my brain. "So what are we doing standing here? We should be..."
"You should be going home," Rivera interrupts. "Or better yet, into protective custody yourself. You're too close to this, Eric. You're compromised."
"I'm the only one who can solve it." I keep my voice level, professional, even though I want to put my fist through the wall. "Every victim has been connected to me. Every crime scene has been staged for my benefit. This isn't just about killing my family... it's about making me watch. Making me suffer. Whoever's behind this knows me, knows how I think."
"All the more reason to pull you off," Rivera says.
"Rivera's right," Hendricks adds, though he doesn't sound happy about it. "This has gotten too personal. I'm benching you for forty-eight hours minimum. Hayes will take lead..."
"Captain... "
"That's final, Eric." He stands, straightening his uniform jacket. "Go home. Get some sleep. Let us do our jobs."
I want to argue. Want to rage against the injustice of being sidelined while someone systematically murders everyone I'm connected to. But I can see it in their faces... the decision's already been made. Probably before they even called me in.
"Fine." I turn toward the door. "Forty-eight hours."
"Don." Hayes catches my arm as I reach for the handle. "I mean it. Go home. Lock your doors. Don't do anything stupid."
I almost laugh. "When have I ever done anything stupid?"
She doesn't smile. "Three years ago. Hostage situation. Ring any bells?"
The words hit like a punch to the gut. Sarah Vale's face flashes in my mind—young, terrified, bleeding out on that warehouse floor while I stood frozen, my gun still smoking.
"Yeah," I manage. "I remember."
I don't go home.
Instead, I drive. Windows down despite the cold, radio off, just me and the sound of tires on wet pavement. I pass Dora's building twice before I finally pull into a spot across the street.
Her light's still on. Third floor, corner apartment, exactly where she said it would be. I can see her shadow moving behind the curtains—probably still awake, probably wondering if I'm okay.
I should go up. Should knock on that door and let her wrap her arms around me and tell me everything's going to be fine, even though we both know it's a lie.
But I can't. Can't drag her into this nightmare. Can't risk whoever's hunting my family deciding she's close enough to me to count as collateral damage.
So I sit in my car and watch her window and try to remember the last time I felt anything other than guilt and fear.
Vegas. That's when. That night in the hotel with the woman whose name I never learned, who made me feel human again for a few precious hours. Before I came back to reality. Before the murders started.
Before Dora.
God, what are the odds? Meeting someone in Vegas, having one perfect night, and then running into her again in my hometown? It's the kind of coincidence that makes you believe in fate.
Or curses.
My phone buzzes. Text from Hayes: "Go. Home. Now."
I type back: "I am home."
Her response is immediate: "Liar. I can see your car from the captain's window. What are you doing?"
I start the engine. "Fine. I'm going."
"Good. And Don?"
"Yeah?"
"Whoever this is... we'll catch them. I promise."
I don't respond. Just pull away from the curb and head toward my empty apartment, where the only things waiting for me are case files and bourbon.
My place is a mess. Dishes in the sink from three days ago. Laundry piled on the couch. Files and photos spread across the coffee table—Robert's crime scene, Margaret's autopsy report, the threatening notes that came before tonight's.
I pour two fingers of Jack Daniel's and stand at the window, staring out at the city lights. Somewhere out there, someone is planning their next move. Deciding which member of my family dies next. Crafting another taunting message designed to twist the knife a little deeper.
And I'm supposed to just sit here. Wait. Do nothing.
I down the whiskey in one burning gulp.
My phone sits on the counter, screen dark. I pick it up, unlock it, pull up Doris's contact. My thumb hovers over the call button.
What would I even say?