Chapter 50 Breaking News (Donald Eric POV)
I'm at my desk reviewing surveillance footage when Hayes walks in, her face ashen.
"Don." Her voice cracks on my name.
I look up. The expression on her face tells me everything before she opens her mouth.
"No," I say. "No, Hayes, don't..."
"Seattle PD just called." She sits on the edge of my desk, her hand finding my shoulder. "It's Marcus."
The room tilts. Walls sliding, floor dropping. "When?"
"Last night. Between midnight and two AM." Her grip tightens. "Same M.O. Single gunshot, close range. No forced entry."
"The patrol..."
"Officer Rodriguez. Found unconscious in his car this morning. Drugged, they think. Rohypnol in his coffee thermos."
Marcus. My brother. The one I just talked to, just made peace with after years of estrangement.
Gone.
"Jessica?" The word comes out hoarse. "The kids?"
"They're safe. They were at her sister's for the night. He was alone."
Alone. Marcus died alone in his own house while a drugged cop sat outside and his family slept somewhere else.
I stand, and Hayes stands with me. "Don..."
"I need to..." What? Do what? Say what? My mind is blank, utterly vacuous.
"Sit down. Please."
"I can't." But my legs give out anyway, and I sink back into the chair. "Two in one week. Robert, Linda, Margaret, now Marcus. Four people, Hayes. Four members of my family."
"I know."
"We talked. Last night. He called to apologize, and we talked like brothers for the first time in years." My voice sounds distant, detached. "He invited me for Christmas. Said the kids should know their uncle."
Hayes's hand is still on my shoulder, anchoring me to reality. "I'm so sorry, Don."
"He has kids. Had kids. Ethan and Emma. They're... God, they're just kids." I look up at her. "How do you tell kids their father's been murdered?"
"I don't know."
Captain Hendricks appears in the doorway. "Eric. My office."
I follow like an automaton, Hayes trailing behind. In the captain's office, Agent Johnson is already there, laptop open, expression grim.
"Detective Eric," Johnson says. "I know this is difficult, but we need to move fast. Whoever's doing this is escalating."
"Escalating?" The word feels foreign in my mouth. "They've killed four people. How much more can they escalate?"
"Five attacks in weeks," Johnson corrects. "If we count the failed attempts on your half-brother's previous visit. They're refining their method. The drugged patrol officer, that's new. More sophisticated."
"Bethany," I say suddenly. "Where's Bethany?"
"Still in protective custody," Hendricks says. "We've tripled the guard. No one in or out without FBI clearance."
"That's what we said about Marcus." My voice rises. "That's what we said about Linda. And they're both dead."
"Don..." Hayes starts.
"Don't." I stand, backing toward the door. "Just... I need air."
I'm out the door before they can stop me, down the stairs, through the bullpen. Murphy calls my name, but I don't stop. Just push through the entrance into the parking lot.
The cold air hits my face, sharp and bracing. I lean against the building, breathing hard, staring at nothing.
Marcus. My brother. The man I resented for years over petty childhood grievances that meant nothing. The man who called last night to apologize, to bridge the gap I'd let widen into a chasm.
And now he's gone.
My phone rings. Jessica's number.
I answer. "Jessica..."
"Don." She's crying, the sound raw and broken. "They said...they said Marcus is..."
"I know. I just found out."
"The kids..." Her voice dissolves into sobs. "How do I tell the kids their father's not coming home?"
"I don't know. God, Jessica, I don't know."
"This is your fault!" The words explode through the phone. "Your family, your mess, and Marcus paid for it!"
She's right. She's absolutely right.
"I'm sorry. I'm s..."
The line goes dead.
I stand there, phone pressed to my ear, listening to silence. Then I'm getting in my car, starting the engine, driving.
I don't decide to go to Dora's. My body just does it, muscle memory carrying me through traffic I don't see, stoplights I barely register.
Her building appears. I park. Take the stairs. Knock on her door.
She opens it immediately, and whatever she sees in my face makes her expression crumble.
"Don? What..."
"Marcus." The name falls from my lips like a stone into water.
"Oh God. Oh, Don, no..."
I step inside, and she closes the door. I walk to the couch, sitting down mechanically. Stare at the wall.
She sits beside me, her hand finding mine. "When?"
"Last night. While I was sleeping. While he was sleeping. While everyone was sleeping except the killer."
"I'm so sorry."
"We talked yesterday. Made peace. He said—" My voice breaks. "He said he wanted me to come for Christmas. That we'd wasted enough time being angry."
"I know."
"And now he's gone. Just like that. One night, and he's gone."
Dora pulls me against her, and I let her. Let her wrap her arms around me, let her hold me while the reality settles like sediment in my chest.
I don't cry this time. Didn't cry when Hayes told me. Didn't cry in the captain's office or the parking lot or the car. Just feel... empty. Hollowed out. Like someone's scooped out everything inside and left only the shell.
"Two in one week," I say into her shoulder. "Linda on Monday. Marcus on Friday. Five days apart."
"I know."
"Jessica blames me. She's right to. If I wasn't—if I hadn't.".
"Stop." Her voice is fierce. "This isn't your fault."
"Isn't it? They're targeting my family because of me. Because of Sarah Vale, because I fucked up that hostage situation, because I'm me."
"No. They're targeting your family because they're evil. Because they're a monster. That's not on you."
I want to believe her. Want to think this isn't my fault, that I'm not responsible for four deaths.
But Jessica's words echo: Your family, your mess, and Marcus paid for it.
"Bethany's next," I say. "She's the only one left. The only one I can still save."
"She's safe. She's in protective custody."
"So was Marcus. So was Linda." I pull away, looking at her. "Protected doesn't mean safe. It just means we're pretending they are."
"Then what do you do?"
"I catch whoever's doing this. Before they get to Bethany. Before I lose everyone."
"How?"
The question is simple but impossible. How do I catch someone who's killed four people without leaving evidence? Who can drug patrol officers and slip past security? Who seems to know every move I make before I make it?
"I don't know." The admission feels like failure. "I don't know, and it's killing me."
Dora's quiet for a long moment. Then: "What if you stopped trying?"
I look at her. "What?"
"What if you stepped back? Let the FBI handle it? You're too close, too emotional. Maybe that's why you can't see clearly."
"I can't step back. It's my family."
"And that's why you should step back." She takes my hand again. "Don, you're breaking apart. I can see it. Everyone can see it. And if you break completely, you're no good to Bethany or anyone else."
"So what? I just walk away? Let someone else solve this while my niece is in danger?"
"You let people who aren't emotionally devastated think clearly. Who can see patterns you're missing because you're too close."
She's echoing Rachel's words. And Hayes's. And probably the captain's and Rivera's.
Everyone thinks I should step back. That I'm too compromised.
Maybe they're right.
But I can't. Can't walk away while Bethany's life hangs in the balance. Can't let go while whoever's doing this is still out there.
"I can't," I say simply.
Dora nods like she expected that answer. "Then I'm here. Whatever you need."
"I don't know what I need."
"That's okay too."
We sit there in silence, her hand in mine, the apartment quiet around us. Outside, the world keeps turning—people going to work, living their lives, oblivious to the fact that mine is disintegrating.
"I should call Diane," I say eventually. "Bethany's mother. Make sure she's okay."
"Do you want me to do it?"
"No. I should—it should come from me."
But I don't move. Just sit there, staring at nothing, Marcus's voice echoing in my head: Christmas. Come for Christmas. We'll make up for lost time.
There won't be a Christmas now. Won't be a visit to Seattle. Won't be anything except this—grief and guilt and the hollow ache of another funeral I'll have to attend.
"Don?" Dora's voice is soft. "You with me?"
"Yeah. I'm here."
But I'm not. Not really. I'm somewhere else, somewhere empty and dark where the people I love keep dying and I can't do anything to stop it.