Chapter 41 Erasure Complete (Doris Vale POV)
He looks up, concerned. "What?"
I'm Sarah's sister. I hired The Surgeon. I'm the reason your family is dying.
But his phone buzzes again before I can speak. He glances at it, and his expression shifts to something darker.
"What?" I ask.
"Hayes. She needs me at the precinct."
"Now?"
"Yeah, sorry. I..." He leans down, kissing my forehead. "Rain check on whatever you were going to say?"
"Yeah. Rain check."
He's gone before I can change my mind, the door closing with a soft click.
I sit there, staring at his half-eaten pasta, the sunflowers watching with their obdurate yellow faces. The confession dies in my throat, unspoken and festering.
You coward, I think. You goddamn coward.
I clear the table, scraping food into the trash. Wash the dishes with hands that won't stop shaking. The sunflowers stare at me from their vase, their loyalty a mockery.
My phone sits on the counter. I pick it up, scrolling to Eddie's contact. No messages yet about the record erasure. Still eight days to go.
Eight days until I'm someone new. Someone without ties to Sarah Vale.
But erasing the paper trail won't erase the guilt. Won't change what I've done. Won't make me less of a monster.
My phone rings thirty minutes after Donald leaves. Eddie's name flashes on the screen.
I answer immediately. "That was fast."
"Told you I was good." His voice is clipped, businesslike. "It's done. Birth certificate amended, school records scrubbed, medical files reassigned. Sarah Vale had a sister named Diane who died in childhood. Not Doris."
My legs go weak. I sink onto the couch. "You're sure?"
"I'm sure. Ran three separate database checks. Nothing connects you to Sarah Vale anymore. Different parents, different childhood, different life."
"Hospital records?"
"Altered. Your birth certificate now lists you as born in Manchester, not Phoenix. Parents deceased in a car accident when you were eight, no siblings mentioned."
"What about people who remember? Sarah's coworkers, friends..."
"Can't do anything about human memory. But paper trails? Those are ghost stories now." He pauses. "You wired the rest?"
"Last night."
"Good. Then we're done. Don't contact me again. For anything."
"Eddie..."
"I mean it, Doris. This job was too close, too risky. You're on your own from here."
The line goes dead.
I sit there, phone pressed to my ear, listening to nothing. The silence feels vast, almost vertiginous, like standing at the edge of a cliff.
It's done. The connection to Sarah is severed. If Hayes digs deeper, if Vanessa Cross investigates, they'll find nothing. Doris Vale exists, but she has no sister. No reason to want revenge on Detective Donald Eric.
I'm free.
Except I'm not. Because the guilt remains. Eddie erased the evidence, but he can't erase what I did. Can't erase Robert or Margaret or the contract I can't cancel.
I need to get out. Need people, noise, normalcy.
I grab my laptop and bag, pulling on my jacket. Bean & Bone will be busy at this hour—the dinner rush tapering off, the evening crowd settling in. Perfect.
The walk to the café is cold.
Bean & Bone's windows glow warm and inviting. I push through the door, the bell chiming. The café's half-full—scattered couples and solo laptop warriors, soft jazz playing from speakers I've never been able to locate.
Claire's not at the counter tonight. Instead, it's Mira, younger, maybe mid-twenties, with purple streaks in her hair and a nose ring. She's been working here for a month, and she's gregarious in a way Claire isn't, always asking personal questions.
"Dora!" She grins when she sees me. "Haven't seen you in a few days. Thought you abandoned us."
"Never. Just been busy."
"Busy or busy?" She waggles her eyebrows suggestively. "Because you're absolutely glowing right now. Did something happen?"
My face heats. "What? No, I just..."
"Oh my God, did Donald propose?" She leans over the counter, eyes wide. "He totally proposed, didn't he?"
"What? No!" I laugh despite myself. "Why would you think that?"
"Because you look like someone who just got engaged. That glow." She taps her own cheek. "It's unmistakable."
"It's not that. Just good news at work."
"Mm-hmm. Sure." She doesn't look convinced, but she straightens, grabbing a mug. "Your usual?"
"Yeah. Medium latte."
"Coming right up."
I claim my corner table, the one with the best view of the street. Pull out my laptop and settle in, trying to ignore the residual embarrassment from Mira's teasing.
Engaged. The thought is absurd and terrifying and tempting in a way I don't want to examine.
Mira brings my latte over, setting it down with exaggerated care. "Here you go, future Mrs. Eric."
"Stop."
"Can't. It's too fun watching you blush." She winks. "Let me know if you need anything."
She disappears back to the counter, leaving me with my laptop and my traitorous thoughts.
I open my email, scrolling through the usual detritus; spam, client updates, a reminder from Martin about the Boston contract.
Work. Normal work. The kind of thing regular people do at cafés.
Around me, conversations drift and blend. A couple at the next table arguing quietly about whose turn it is to do laundry. Two students comparing notes for an exam. An older man reading a book, occasionally chuckling at whatever's on the page.
This is what life could be. Should be. Mundane concerns and small joys and evenings at cafés working on spreadsheets.
If I wasn't me. If I hadn't done what I did.
My phone buzzes on the table. I glance down, expecting Martin or maybe Donald.
It's Eddie: We need to talk.
The relief evaporates instantly, replaced by ice-cold panic. My hands freeze on the keyboard.
We just talked. He said it was done. Said not to contact him again.
So why is he texting me?