Chapter 26 Checking In (Donald Eric POV)
The flight to Seattle leaves at six AM. I book it last minute on my phone, sitting in my car outside the precinct at four-thirty in the morning. One-way ticket, coach, middle seat. Don't care.
I text Hayes: Taking personal day. Back tomorrow.
Her reply comes fifteen minutes later: Don't do anything stupid.
Too late for that.
The airport's quiet. TSA waves me through when I flash my badge. I grab coffee from a vending machine and find my gate. Forty-five minutes until boarding.
I pull out my phone, staring at Marcus's contact. We haven't spoken in six months. Maybe longer. Last time was Dad's funeral, and even then we barely exchanged words. Just stood on opposite sides of the grave, nodded once, and left.
Half-brothers. Same father, different mothers. He got the stable childhood, the good schools, the trust fund. I got the trailer park and weekend visits that stopped when I turned twelve.
I text him anyway: In Seattle today. Can I stop by?
No response. I pocket the phone.
Boarding starts. I shuffle onto the plane with everyone else, wedging myself between a businessman and a woman with a screaming toddler. The flight attendant goes through safety procedures. I close my eyes and don't open them until we land.
Seattle's gray and drizzling. I grab a rental car—compact, manual transmission—and punch Marcus's address into the GPS. Forty minutes north, suburb called Maple Valley.
The drive's monotonous. Highway, exit, residential streets lined with cookie-cutter houses. Soccer moms in SUVs. Kids on bikes. Picture-perfect.
Marcus's house is at the end of a cul-de-sac. Two-story colonial, white siding, manicured lawn. A patrol car sits across the street, officer visible through the windshield. He watches me pull into the driveway.
I kill the engine and sit for a moment, staring at the front door. A wreath hangs there—seasonal, probably his wife's doing. The curtains twitch. Someone's watching.
I get out, walk up the path. Ring the doorbell.
Footsteps inside. The door opens, and Marcus stands there in jeans and a Seahawks hoodie, arms crossed. He's put on weight since Dad's funeral, hair thinner at the crown. Same sharp jaw as our father.
"Don."
"Marcus."
He doesn't move. "What are you doing here?"
"Wanted to check on you. Make sure you're okay."
"I'm fine. You can leave now."
"Can I come in? Just for a minute."
He looks past me at the patrol car, then back. "Fine. One minute."
He steps aside. I enter, and he closes the door hard enough to make it rattle.
The house is clean, modern. Hardwood floors, family photos on the walls. Marcus and his wife Jessica, I think—smiling on a beach somewhere. Their two kids, boy and girl, gap-toothed grins.
"Nice place," I say.
"Don't." He walks into the living room, gesturing for me to follow. "Jessica took the kids to her sister's. Didn't want them here with..." He waves toward the window. "With all this."
"I'm sorry."
"Are you?" He turns, his face tight. "Because from where I'm standing, this is YOUR problem, Don. So why is my family paying for your mistakes?"
"It's not like that."
"Then what's it like? Explain it to me. Because I've got a cop parked outside my house twenty-four seven, my neighbors are asking questions, and my kids are scared to sleep in their own beds. All because someone wants to kill YOUR family."
"Someone's targeting anyone connected to me. That includes you."
"Because of what? Something you did? Someone you pissed off?" He steps closer, his voice rising. "You've always been the screw-up, Don. Always. First that hostage thing yeah, I read about it and now this. You drag everyone down with you."
"That's not fair."
"Fair?" He laughs, sharp and bitter. "You want to talk about fair? I didn't ask for this. My kids didn't ask for this. But we're stuck in it because you're my half-brother."
"I'm trying to fix it."
"How? By showing up here unannounced? By putting a target on my house?" He shakes his head. "You should've stayed away."
"Marcus..."
"No. You don't get to do this. You don't get to show up and play the concerned brother when you haven't called in months. When you didn't even show up for Ethan's birthday last year."
"I was working."
"You're always working. Or drinking. Or whatever it is you do to avoid actually being part of this family."
The words land like punches. I open my mouth, close it. Nothing I say will make this better.
"Just go," Marcus says, his voice quieter now. "Before Jessica gets back. She doesn't need to see you here."
"I came to apologize."
"I don't want your apology. I want you gone."
He walks to the door, opening it. Cold air rushes in, rain spattering the threshold.
I don't move. "Marcus, I'm trying..."
"Get out."
I walk past him, stopping on the porch. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry. About all of it."
He doesn't respond. Just closes the door, the lock clicking into place.
I stand there for a moment, rain soaking through my jacket. The patrol officer watches from across the street. I give him a nod and head back to the car.
I don't leave right away. Just sit in the rental, engine off, staring at Marcus's house. The curtains move again. Someone's still watching.
My phone buzzes. Text from Marcus: Sorry. That was harsh.
I stare at the message, waiting for more. Nothing comes.
I type: It's okay. You're scared. I get it.
Three dots appear, then disappear. Then appear again. Finally: Just fix this. Please.
I'm trying.
The dots disappear for good this time.
I pocket my phone and start the car. The patrol officer's still watching. I pull out of the driveway, heading back toward the highway.
My phone rings. Marcus. I answer, pulling over.
"Yeah?"
"Don." His voice is quieter, strained. "Wait."
"I'm here."
Silence. I hear muffled voices in the background—Marcus talking to someone. Jessica, probably.
"Look," he says finally. "Jessica says I was too harsh. Says you're still my brother."
"She's right."
"Maybe." He exhales, long and slow. "But Don, you need to understand. I've got a life here. A family. I can't... I can't lose them because of something you did."
"You won't."
"You don't know that."
"I'll find whoever's doing this. I'll stop them."
"And if you don't?"
I don't have an answer for that.
"That's what I thought." His voice hardens again. "Just stay away, okay? Let the cops do their job. Don't come back here."
"Marcus..."
"I mean it. Stay away."
The line goes dead.
I sit there, phone pressed to my ear, listening to nothing. Rain drums on the roof, the windshield wipers smearing water across the glass.
I pull back onto the road, heading toward the airport. The flight home isn't until tonight, but I don't want to stay here. Don't want to risk running into Marcus again.
At a stoplight, I check my phone. Text from Dora: How are you doing?
I type: Been better. Talk tonight?
Anytime.
The light turns green. I drive.