Chapter 25 The Article (Doris Vale POV)
My laptop screen glows with spreadsheet formulas. I'm sitting at my usual corner table in Bean & Bone, halfway through the Boston client's quarterly projections. The café's quiet today—just me, an older man reading by the window, and two college kids sharing earbuds.
The bell chimes. Claire enters from the back room, newspaper tucked under her arm. She spots me and walks over, her expression tight.
"Morning, Dora."
"Hey." I glance up. "You okay?"
"Have you seen this?" She drops the newspaper on my table, tapping the front page.
The headline hits me like a fist: DETECTIVE'S CURSE: ERIC FAMILY DEATHS RAISE QUESTIONS
Below it, a photo of Donald leaving the precinct, his face drawn and exhausted. Smaller photos show Robert Eric's house, crime scene tape across the door, and Margaret Caldwell's modest home with a police cruiser parked outside.
By Vanessa Cross, Senior Crime Reporter
My hands freeze on the keyboard.
"Read it," Claire says, crossing her arms. "It's garbage."
I pull the paper closer, scanning the first paragraph:
When two members of a detective's family die under mysterious circumstances within days of each other, questions naturally arise. But when that detective is Donald Eric of the Millbrook Police Department, those questions become urgent. Sources close to the investigation suggest Eric may be withholding crucial information. Some wonder if the detective himself is somehow involved...
My stomach turns. I keep reading.
Robert Eric, 67, and Margaret Caldwell, 52, were both killed with what forensic experts describe as "surgical precision." No forced entry. No signs of struggle. The killer knew their victims, or the victims knew their killer. Detective Eric, who has been assigned to investigate his own family members' deaths, declined to comment for this story. Internal Affairs has opened a parallel investigation into whether Eric's personal connections compromise the case...
"This is disgusting," Claire says, her voice sharp. "Making it sound like Don had something to do with it."
I can't speak. My throat's too tight.
Eric's professional history includes one notable incident: the 2022 hostage situation that resulted in the death of social worker Sarah Vale. Though Eric was cleared of wrongdoing by Internal Affairs, Vale's family disputed the findings.
The words blur. I blink hard, forcing myself to focus.
"Don's a good man," Claire continues. "Anyone who knows him knows that. But this reporter..." She snatches the paper back. "Vanessa Cross. She's one of those vultures. Writes these hit pieces to get clicks."
"Yeah." My voice sounds distant, not mine.
"You okay? You look pale."
"Just tired." I close my laptop. "Think I'm going to head out."
"Sure you don't want another coffee first?"
"No, I'm good. Thanks, Claire."
I pack my things quickly—laptop, notebook, phone. My hands shake as I zip my bag. Claire's still talking, saying something about how the media always twists things, but I'm not listening. I just need to get out.
The bell chimes when I push through the door. Cold air hits my face. I walk fast, not sure where I'm going, just moving.
Three blocks later, I stop at a bench and sit, pulling out my phone. I search: Vanessa Cross journalist
Her profile appears first—headshot of a woman in her mid-thirties, sharp suit, sharper smile. Her bio reads: Award-winning crime reporter specializing in controversial investigations. Published in Tribune, Herald, National Enquirer.
I click on her articles. Headlines scroll past:
Corruption in Blue: How One Police Department Covered Up Officer Misconduct
The Detective Who Got Away With Murder
Justice Denied: When the System Protects Its Own
Each one more sensational. I click on the Eric family article again, reading the full piece this time.
Detective Eric's remaining family members—including his aunt, half-brother, and teenage niece—are now under police protection. But protection from whom? And why did the killings start now? Sources suggest someone may be targeting Eric's family as revenge. Others whisper darker possibilities...
I stop reading. My chest is tight, my breathing shallow.
My phone buzzes. Text from Donald: Can I come over tonight? Need to see you.
I type: Of course. Anytime.
His reply: 7?
I'll be here.
I pocket my phone and stand. The walk back to my apartment feels longer than it should. Every step heavy, like I'm wading through water.
By seven, I've cleaned the apartment twice. Dishes done, counters wiped, pillows fluffed. Anything to keep moving, to stop thinking about that article. About Sarah's name in print. About Donald's face in that photo.
The knock comes right on time. I open the door.
He looks worse than the photo. Hair uncombed, tie loose, dark circles so deep they look like bruises. He's holding a bottle of whiskey, the cheap kind from the gas station.
"Hey."
"Hey." I step aside. "Come in."
He walks past me, setting the bottle on the counter. Doesn't take off his jacket. Just stands there, staring at nothing.
"You saw it," he says.
"The article?"
"Yeah."
"Claire showed me this morning."
He laughs, bitter and sharp. "Of course she did. Whole town's probably seen it by now."
"Don..."
"Captain called me into his office. Said the article's making things worse. Media's circling the precinct like sharks. Reporters camped outside my apartment." He runs both hands through his hair. "IA's escalating their investigation. They're not just looking at the murders anymore. They're looking at me."
"They can't seriously think you..."
"They can think whatever they want." He finally looks at me. "You know what the worst part is? That reporter, Vanessa Cross, she's not wrong. I am withholding information. Not about the murders, but about Sarah."
My heart stops.
"Sarah Vale," he continues. "The woman who died in that hostage situation. I've never told anyone how much it still..." He stops, his jaw working. "And now it's front page news. Like my guilt's entertainment."
I move closer, my hand finding his. "You didn't do anything wrong."
"Didn't I?" He pulls away, pacing to the window. "I pushed too hard. Made the wrong call. She died because I was too arrogant to listen."
"It was an accident."
He turns to face me. "Or negligence? Because some days I can't tell the difference."
I want to tell him. Want to scream that it wasn't an accident, that someone's punishing him, that I'm the reason his family's dying. The words claw at my throat.
But I swallow them down.
"Come here," I say instead.
He crosses the room. I wrap my arms around him, and he sags against me, his forehead pressing into my shoulder. We stand like that for a long time, his breath shaky against my neck.
"I'm so tired," he whispers.
"I know."
"Can I just... stay here tonight? Not think about any of it?"
"Yeah. Of course."
He pulls back, his eyes searching mine. "You sure? I'm a mess right now."
"I don't care."
He kisses me. I kiss him back, trying to pour everything I can't say into the touch. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. This is all my fault.
When we break apart, he rests his forehead against mine. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"Being here. Not running."
The guilt is a physical weight, crushing my chest. But I smile, touching his face. "I'm not going anywhere."
Later, after he's fallen asleep on my couch, I sit at the kitchen table with my laptop. The article is still open, Vanessa Cross's byline staring at me.
I click through to her contact page. Email, phone number, social media handles. Everything public, accessible. Professional.
I google her name again, digging deeper this time. Her LinkedIn shows she's worked for the Tribune for five years. Before that, smaller papers in Chicago and Denver. Awards for investigative journalism. A TED talk about exposing corruption.
She's legitimate. Which makes this worse.
I scroll through her Twitter feed. Recent posts are all about the Eric case:
More developments in the Eric family murders. Stay tuned.
Sources say Detective Eric may be removed from the case entirely. Story developing.
Who's really behind the Eric killings? My latest investigation drops tomorrow.
Tomorrow. Another article coming.
I close the laptop and look at Donald on the couch. He's curled on his side, one arm dangling off the edge, mouth slightly open. Vulnerable. Broken.
Because of me.
I stand, moving to the sink. Pour myself water I don't drink. Stare out the window at the dark street below.
Vanessa Cross. Ambitious crime reporter. Known for controversial exposés.
She's digging. And if she digs deep enough, will she find me?