Chapter 47 Seattle Rain (Marcus Eric POV)
The flight home feels interminable, every minute stretching like hours. Jessica sits beside me, her hand resting on mine, neither of us speaking. What is there to say? Linda's dead. My aunt—warm, kind Linda who sent birthday cards and called just to check in—is gone.
And I wasted years being angry at Don over shit that doesn't matter anymore.
The plane lands in Seattle just after eight PM. Rain streaks the windows, typical Pacific Northwest gloom. We collect our bags and head to the car, the parking garage echoing with our footsteps.
Jessica drives. I stare out the window, watching raindrops race across the glass.
"You okay?" she asks quietly.
"No."
"Me neither." She reaches over, squeezing my hand. "But we will be."
I want to believe her.
The house looks exactly as we left it—lights on timers, lawn slightly overgrown, mail piling up. And there, parked across the street, the patrol car. Officer Rodriguez this time, visible through the windshield, coffee cup in hand.
Jessica waves. He waves back.
"At least they're awake this time," I mutter.
"Marcus—"
"Sorry. That was—" I stop, rubbing my face. "Sorry."
We head inside. The house smells stale, closed-up. Jessica opens windows despite the rain, letting fresh air circulate.
"Kids should be back soon," she says, checking her phone. "Linda's dropping them off around nine."
Linda. Not my aunt Linda. Jessica's sister Linda. I'd forgotten about the name overlap until just now.
I sink onto the couch, suddenly exhausted. The funeral replays in my head—Don's broken eulogy, Bethany sobbing, that woman Dora looking like she wanted to disappear. And me, sitting there cold and distant because I'm too stubborn to let go of old resentments.
Even at a funeral. Even after three family members murdered.
What the hell is wrong with me?
The front door bursts open twenty minutes later. Ethan and Emma barrel in, talking over each other about the movie they saw and the ice cream Aunt Linda bought them.
"Dad!" Ethan launches himself at me, and I catch him, pulling him into a tight hug.
"Hey, bud. Miss me?"
"Yeah! Aunt Linda let us stay up late and we watched two movies and—"
"That's great." I hold him tighter than necessary, breathing in the kid-smell of him—shampoo and something vaguely sticky.
Emma appears at my elbow, more reserved. "Hi, Daddy."
I pull her into the hug too, both kids squirming and giggling. "Hi, sweetheart."
Jessica's sister appears in the doorway, smiling tiredly. "They've been angels. Well, mostly angels."
"Thanks, Linda. Really."
"Anytime. You guys doing okay?"
"Getting there."
After she leaves, Jessica herds the kids toward the bathroom. "Teeth, pajamas, bed. School tomorrow."
"But Mom—"
"No buts. Go."
They grumble but obey, thundering up the stairs. I follow more slowly, checking the locks on the windows, the deadbolt on the door. Old habits from the week in protective custody.
Upstairs, I help Emma brush her teeth while Jessica wrestles Ethan into pajamas. The mundane domesticity of it feels surreal after the day we've had.
"Daddy?" Emma looks up at me, toothbrush in hand. "Is Uncle Donnie okay?"
The question catches me off guard. "Why do you ask?"
"Because he looked sad. At the funeral."
"Yeah, baby. He's sad. We all are."
"Because Aunt Linda died?"
"Yes."
"Will we die too?"
My chest tightens. "No. No, sweetheart. You're safe. That's why the police are outside."
"But Aunt Linda had police too, right? And she still died."
Jessica appears in the doorway, expression stricken. We exchange a look.
"The police are being extra careful now," Jessica says gently. "You're safe, Emma. I promise."
Emma doesn't look convinced, but she nods. "Okay."
I tuck her in, pulling the blanket up to her chin. "Love you, baby girl."
"Love you too, Daddy."
In Ethan's room, he's already half-asleep, clutching his favorite stuffed dinosaur. I kiss his forehead, and he mumbles something incoherent.
Downstairs, Jessica pours two glasses of wine. We sit on the couch together, the house finally quiet.
"She's scared," Jessica says.
"I know."
"They both are. They just don't want to show it."
I take a sip of wine. It's cheap, slightly acerbic, but I drink it anyway. "I should call Don."
"You should."
"I was such an ass to him. At the funeral, when he visited—"
"Then apologize." She sets down her glass. "Life's too short, Marcus. Linda proved that."
"Yeah." I pull out my phone, staring at Don's contact. "What if he doesn't want to hear from me?"
"Then he hangs up. But at least you tried."
I nod, standing. "I'm going to take this outside."
The rain has lightened to a drizzle. I stand on the porch, phone in hand, watching Officer Rodriguez's patrol car across the street. He gives me a nod. I nod back.
Then I dial.
It rings three times. Four. I'm about to hang up when he answers.
"Marcus?"
"Hey." My voice comes out rougher than intended. "You got a minute?"
"Yeah. Of course. What's up?"
I swallow hard, gripping the porch railing. "I wanted to—I need to apologize. For everything. For being cold at the funeral. For what I said when you visited. For the years I wasted being angry over stupid shit that doesn't matter."
Silence on the other end. Then: "Marcus—"
"No, let me finish." My voice cracks. "You're my brother. Half-brother, whatever, but you're family. And I've spent so long resenting you for having it harder, for getting Dad's attention when you visited, for—God, I don't even know anymore. But it was wrong. And I'm sorry."
More silence. I can hear his breathing, uneven and shaky.
"I'm sorry too," he says finally. "For not being around more. For not trying harder to stay in touch. For—" He stops. "For a lot of things."
"We both screwed up."
"Yeah. We did." He laughs, but it sounds more like a sob. "Linda would've kicked our asses for wasting so much time."
"She really would've."
We're quiet for a moment, just breathing together across the distance.
"How are the kids?" Don asks.
"Good. Scared, but good. Emma asked if we're going to die too."
"Shit. What'd you say?"
"That she's safe. That the police are watching." I watch Rodriguez in his car, illuminated by the porch light. "I hope I'm not lying."
"You're not. I won't let anything happen to you guys."
"I know you won't." And I realize I mean it. "Don, I—thank you. For everything you're doing. I know I didn't make it easy, but—"
"You don't have to thank me. You're family."
The word settles something in my chest. Family. Not half-family. Not estranged family. Just family.
"Christmas," I say suddenly. "You should come for Christmas. Bring Dora. Let the kids actually get to know their uncle."
"Marcus—"
"I'm serious. After this is over—and it will be over—come to Seattle. Stay a week. We'll make up for lost time."
"I'd like that."
"Good. It's settled then." I lean against the railing, feeling lighter than I have in days. "How are you holding up? Really?"
"I'm—" He pauses. "I'm a mess, honestly. But Dora helps. Having her there, it makes it bearable."
"She seems nice. Quiet."
"She is. She's good for me." There's something defensive in his tone, like he's heard this criticism before.
"Then I'm glad you have her."
"Thanks." He exhales slowly. "Rachel cornered her after the funeral. Gave her some speech about keeping an eye on me."
"Rachel was there?"
"Yeah. Being Rachel. Concerned but overstepping."
I remember Rachel from his wedding, from the handful of times we met before the divorce. She was good for him then. But that was before Sarah Vale, before everything fell apart.
"Is she right to be concerned?" I ask.
"Probably. But that's my problem, not Dora's."
"Don—"
"I'm fine, Marcus. Or I will be." His voice firms up. "Right now I need to focus on catching whoever's doing this. Everything else can wait."
"Okay. But if you need anything—"
"I'll call. I promise."
We talk for another twenty minutes. About the kids, about work, about Linda's service. Normal brother stuff, the kind of conversation we should've been having for years.
When we finally hang up, I stand on the porch for a long moment, phone in hand, feeling something like hope despite the circumstances.
Inside, Jessica's waiting. "How'd it go?"
"Good. Really good." I pull her into a hug. "We're going to be okay. All of us."
"I hope so."
"We will." I say it with more conviction than I feel, but saying it helps.
Upstairs, I check on the kids one more time. Emma's sprawled across her bed, blanket kicked off. I cover her gently, and she doesn't stir.
In Ethan's room, he's curled around his dinosaur, breathing softly. Peaceful. Safe.
I stand in the doorway, watching them sleep, and make a silent promise. Whatever it takes, however long—I'll keep them safe. I'll be the brother Don needs. I'll make up for the years I wasted.
Life's too short for anything else.