Chapter 36 Unraveling (Doris Vale POV)
We're driving back to my place in silence, Linda's train disappearing into the distance behind us. Donald's hands grip the wheel tighter than necessary, his jaw working. I want to reach over, touch his arm, say something comforting. But I don't know what.
"Your aunt's wonderful," I say finally.
"Yeah. She is." His voice is distant, somewhere else.
"She really cares about you."
"I know."
The conversation dies. I look out the window, watching streetlights blur past. The silence stretches, heavy and uncomfortable.
"So," I say, trying again. "You had dinner earlier?"
His shoulders tense. Just slightly, but I notice. "Yeah."
"Friend from work?"
"Something like that."
"Old friend?"
"Yeah. Old friend." He signals, turning onto my street. "Nothing important."
The words land wrong. Dismissive. Evasive. Like he's closing a door I didn't know was open.
"Okay," I say quietly.
He pulls into my building's parking lot, killing the engine. We sit there for a moment, neither of us moving.
"You want to come up?" I ask.
"I should get home. Early shift tomorrow."
"Right. Of course."
I reach for the door handle, but his hand finds mine. "Hey."
I look at him. His eyes are tired, shadows underneath deep enough to drown in.
"Thanks for tonight," he says. "For being there. For meeting Linda."
"I liked her."
"She liked you too." He squeezes my hand. "I'll call you tomorrow?"
"Yeah. Okay."
I get out, closing the door softly. He waits until I'm inside the building before driving away. I watch his taillights disappear, something heavy settling in my chest.
Inside my apartment, I drop my keys on the counter and stand there, staring at nothing. "Just an old friend." "Nothing important."
The way he said it—quick, clipped, moving past it before I could ask more.
I pull out my phone, typing before I can stop myself: Are you okay?
Three dots appear. Then: Yeah. Just tired. Sleep well.
You too.
I set the phone down and move to the kitchen, pouring water I don't drink. My laptop sits on the table where I left it this morning. I open it, the screen glowing to life.
Don't do this. Just leave it alone.
But my fingers are already typing: Donald Eric Millbrook
Pages of results. The press conference, Vanessa Cross's articles, police department directory. I scroll past those, looking for something else. Something older.
Three pages down, I find it. A wedding announcement from seven years ago.
Donald Eric and Rachel Brennan to Wed
My stomach drops.
I click the link. It opens to a local newspaper's archive, wedding photos filling the screen. Donald in a black tux, younger, smiling. And beside him—Rachel. Beautiful. Dark hair, green eyes, radiant in a white dress. They're standing under an arch, his arm around her waist, her hand on his chest. Happy. So obviously, painfully happy.
I scroll down. More photos. Cutting the cake. First dance. Her laughing at something he said, his face soft and open in a way I've never seen.
The caption reads: Detective Donald Eric and Rachel Brennan were married Saturday at St. Mary's Church. The bride is a graphic designer; the groom is a detective with Millbrook PD.
Married. He was married.
My hands shake as I keep scrolling. Another article, three years later: Eric and Brennan File for Divorce.
Divorced. Three years ago.
Right after Sarah died.
I close the laptop, pressing my palms against my eyes. Breathe. Just breathe.
He was married. To Rachel. The "old friend" he's been having dinner with.
And he never told me.
I stand, pacing the apartment. Back and forth, back and forth. My phone sits on the counter, silent. I grab it, pulling up our messages. Scroll through weeks of texts, looking for any mention of her. Any hint that he was married, that an ex-wife exists.
Nothing.
I type: Who's Rachel?
Stare at it. Delete it.
Type: Why didn't you tell me you were married?
Delete.
Type: Are you still in love with her?
Delete delete delete.
I throw the phone onto the couch and sink down beside it, head in my hands.
He lied. Or didn't lie, exactly. Just didn't tell me. Kept it hidden, this whole part of his life, this person who clearly still matters because he's having dinner with her, because he calls her an "old friend" like it's nothing.
But it's not nothing. It's his ex-wife.
I grab my laptop again, opening it. Search: Rachel Brennan Millbrook
Her social media pops up first. Facebook, Instagram, LinkedIn. I click Instagram. Private account, but her profile photo shows her clearly—older than the wedding photos, but still beautiful. Smiling. The bio reads: Graphic designer. Dog mom. Living life one coffee at a time.
No mention of Donald. No indication they were ever married.
I close the laptop and lean back, staring at the ceiling.
Why didn't he tell me?
Is he still seeing her? Not romantically, maybe, but... what? Friends? More than friends?
My chest tightens. I think about the nights he's been late, the texts he's sent saying he's busy. Was he with her?
No. That's paranoid. He's working a case. His family's dying. Of course he's distracted.
But still. He could've mentioned her. Could've said, "Hey, my ex-wife's been checking in." Could've been honest.
Like you're honest with him?
The thought hits like a slap. I stand, walking to the window. My reflection stares back, pale and hollow.
I'm lying about everything. My name, my past, my sister, the contract. Everything. And I'm mad at him for not mentioning an ex-wife?
But it's different. Isn't it?
Except it's not. We're both keeping secrets. Both hiding pieces of ourselves, too scared or too guilty to be honest.
I think about Vanessa Cross's words at the café: Sometimes the people closest to us are the biggest mysteries.
She was right. Donald's a mystery to me. And I'm a mystery to him.
How long can this last? How long before the secrets drown us both?