Chapter 23 Almost Confession (Doris POV)
I'm halfway through responding to Martin's email about the Boston client when someone knocks on my door. Three sharp raps, urgent but controlled.
My heart stops.
It's after nine. Nobody knocks after nine unless something's wrong.
I close my laptop and move to the door, peering through the peephole. Donald stands in the hallway, still in his work clothes—rumpled shirt, loosened tie, detective's badge clipped to his belt. His jaw is tight, his eyes shadowed.
I unlock the door. "Don? What..."
"Can I come in?" His voice is rough, like he's been shouting. Or not speaking at all.
"Of course." I step aside, watching as he enters and immediately moves to the window, staring out at the street below like he's checking for something. Someone.
"Are you okay?" I ask, though the answer is obvious.
He doesn't respond right away. Just stands there, one hand braced against the window frame, the other hanging loose at his side. I can see his shoulders rise and fall with each breath, too fast, too shallow.
"Don."
"They sent a letter." The words come out flat, emotionless. "Left it on the station steps last night. Murphy found it during his smoke break."
I move closer, careful, like approaching a wounded animal. "What did it say?"
He turns to face me, and the look in his eyes makes my stomach drop. It's not fear exactly, it's something worse. Inevitability.
"'The rest of your bloodline will pay. You last.'" He recites like he's read it a thousand times. "They're not done. They won't be done until everyone connected to me is dead."
My mouth goes dry. I force myself to ask, "How many people..."
"Three." He holds up three fingers. "My aunt Linda, my half-brother Marcus, and my niece Bethany. She just turned sixteen." His hand drops. "They're in protective custody now. Phoenix PD, Seattle PD, safe houses. All because someone hates me enough to kill children."
The guilt hits me like a physical blow. I actually sway on my feet.
"Don." I reach for him but he steps back.
"I shouldn't be here." He runs both hands through his hair, making it stand up in messy spikes. "Hayes told me to stay away from anyone I care about. Rivera wants me in protective custody. The captain benched me for forty-eight hours."
"Benched you?"
"Pulled me off the case." A bitter laugh. "Too compromised, they said. Too close to it. Like I'm going to crack and start shooting suspects."
I move to the couch, my legs suddenly unsteady. "Sit down. Please."
He hesitates, then follows. Sits on the opposite end, maintaining distance. His knee bounces rapidly, nervous energy with nowhere to go.
"I'm sorry," I say, because what else can I say? "This is... I can't imagine what you're going through."
"My uncle Robert." He stares at his hands. "We weren't close. He was a drunk, always borrowing money he'd never pay back. But he was family. And Margaret, I hadn't spoken to her in two years because of some stupid argument about our grandmother's will. Two years." His voice cracks. "And now she's dead and I'll never get to apologize."
I slide closer, close enough to touch his arm. He doesn't pull away this time.
"You're not alone in this," I say softly, hating myself with every word. "Whatever happens, you don't have to face it alone."
He looks at me and I see something break behind his eyes.
"That's the problem, Dora." He takes my hand, brings it to his lips, kisses my knuckles with a gentleness that makes me want to scream. "You're the only thing keeping me sane right now. The only good thing in my life that isn't covered in blood and guilt and..." He stops, swallows hard. "But being with you puts you at risk. If whoever's doing this decides you matter to me..."
"Don..."
"They'll kill you too." He's still holding my hand, his thumb tracing circles on my skin. "They'll kill you just to watch me break."
I pull my hand free and cup his face, forcing him to look at me. "So what are you saying? That we should..."
"Stay apart." The words sound like they're physically painful. "Until I figure out who's after me. Until this is over."
"No." The word comes out sharper than I intended. "No, you don't get to make that decision for both of us."
"I'm trying to protect you."
"I don't need protecting." I stand up, pacing now, my mind racing. "Don, listen to yourself. You're isolating yourself, pushing away anyone who might actually help..."
"Help with what?" He's on his feet too, voice rising. "What are you going to do, Dora? Track down a professional killer? Run ballistics? Interview witnesses? This is my job. My mess. My family."
"And what about you?" I'm shouting now too, and I don't even know why except that I can't let him leave. Can't let him walk away thinking he's protecting me when really he's just making it easier for me to destroy him. "What happens when you're alone in your apartment at three a.m. and the walls start closing in? Who's going to be there then?"
"I've been alone before."
"Yeah, and look where that got you." The words are out before I can stop them.
He goes very still. "What's that supposed to mean?"
I close my eyes, cursing myself. "Nothing. I just... I mean you don't have to do everything by yourself. You're allowed to lean on people."
"Lean on you." It's not a question.
"Yes. Lean on me."
He crosses the distance between us in two strides, taking my face in both hands. "Do you understand what you're saying? If something happens to you because of me..."
"Nothing's going to happen to me."
"You don't know that."
"Neither do you." I grab his wrists, holding on. "You can't live your life afraid of hypotheticals, Don. At some point you have to just..."
He kisses me. I kiss him back just as fiercely, my hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer.
When we break apart, we're both breathing hard.
"I can't lose you," he whispers against my forehead. "Not you too."
The confession nearly tears out of my throat. I'm the one you should be afraid of. I'm the one who hired the killer. I'm Sarah's sister. I'm the reason your family is dying.
The words are right there, pushing against my teeth, demanding to be spoken.
"Don." My voice shakes. "There's something I need to..."
He presses his forehead to mine, eyes closed. "Don't leave." The words are barely audible. "Please. Whatever you were going to say, just...don't leave. Not tonight."
The confession dies in my throat.
"I won't," I hear myself say. "I'm not going anywhere."
We stand like that for a long moment, foreheads touching, breathing each other's air. His hands slide from my face to my shoulders, then down to my waist, pulling me against him.
"I should go," he says, making no move to leave.
"You should stay," I counter.
"It's not safe."
"I don't care."
He pulls back just enough to look at me. "Why do you put up with this? With me? You could be with someone whose life isn't a crime scene."
Because I'm the one who made it a crime scene.
"Because I want to be here," I say instead. "Because you're not as broken."
"I'm pretty broken, Dora."
"Then maybe we can be broken together."
He laughs. "That might be the most depressing romantic thing anyone's ever said to me."
"I'm stayed in Britain. We don't do romance well."
"You do it fine." He kisses my forehead. "Better than fine."
We move to the couch eventually, my head on his chest, his arm around my shoulders. He talks about his family—the good memories this time. His aunt Linda teaching him to bake when he was eight. His half-brother Marcus sneaking him into R-rated movies when they were teenagers. His niece Bethany sending him terrible jokes via text every Sunday morning.
I listen and nod and make appropriate sounds, all while thinking about The Surgeon. About Linda and Marcus and Bethany, whose names are probably on his list. About how I could stop this if I just told Donald the truth.
But every time I open my mouth, he says something else—some small, tender detail about his life—and I can't do it. Can't take this moment away from him. Can't be the one to put that final nail in the coffin of his trust in humanity.
"Stay tonight," I say eventually. "Please."
He does.
I wake at three a.m. to find the bed empty. For a moment, panic seizes me—he left, he knows, he figured it out—but then I hear water running in the bathroom.
I slip out of bed and pad to my desk, pulling out a sheet of paper and a pen. My hand shakes as I write.
Donald,
By the time you read this, you'll know everything. You'll know who I really am, not Dora, but Doris Vale. Sarah's sister. The woman whose family you destroyed three years ago.
You'll know that I hired The Surgeon. That I paid him $500,000 to kill everyone connected to you. That Robert and Margaret died because of me. That Linda and Marcus and Bethany are targets because I was too angry and too broken to think straight.
You'll know that Vegas wasn't fate or coincidence or destiny. It was just terrible luck. We were two damaged people who found comfort in each other for one night, and then the universe decided to make us pay for it.
But here's what you won't know: that I tried to stop it. That I called The Surgeon the next morning and begged him to cancel the contract. That I've been trying to reach him for weeks, trying to call it off, trying to undo what I did in a moment of grief and rage.
You won't know that falling for you was never part of the plan. That every moment we've spent together has been real, even if everything around it is a lie. That I love you, even though I have no right to. That I would take it all back if I could, every death, every tear, every moment of your pain.
I know you'll never forgive me. I don't expect you to. I don't even forgive myself.
I just need you to know that I'm sorry. For Sarah. For your family. For us.
I'm so, so sorry.
—Doris
I read it over twice, tears blurring the words. It's the truth. All of it. The confession he deserves, the explanation that might help him understand, even if it can't make things right.
The bathroom door opens. I hear his footsteps in the hallway.
I look at the letter one more time.
Then I carry it to the kitchen sink, pull out my lighter, and set it on fire.
The paper catches quickly, edges curling and blackening, words disappearing into ash. I watch it burn, watch my confession reduce to nothing, watch the last chance at honesty turn to smoke.
Donald appears in the doorway, hair mussed from sleep. "What are you doing?"
"Couldn't sleep." I turn on the faucet, washing the ashes down the drain. "Just burning some old receipts."
He yawns, stretches. "Come back to bed."
"In a minute."
He disappears back into the bedroom. I stand at the sink, watching the last bits of ash circle the drain, taking my confession with them.
Then I dry my hands and follow him back to bed, climbing in beside the man I'm destroying, the man I love, the man who will never know the truth.
Not tonight.
Maybe not ever.