The Devil's Deal

The lawyer’s office smells old leather and stale coffee. I sit across from Mr. Hargrove, his desk a fortress of manila folders and legal pads. My hands twist in my lap, nails digging into my palms. The air feels too thick, like it’s pressing against my chest.

“Ms. Vale,” Hargrove says, his voice low, cautious. He adjusts his wire-rimmed glasses, peering at me over them. “You’re sure you want to see this? It’s… not easy to watch.”

I nod, my throat tight. “Show me.”

He hesitates, then slides a laptop toward me. His fingers hover over the keyboard before he presses play. The screen flickers to life, grainy body cam footage filling the frame. It’s timestamped three years ago—Sarah’s last moments. My sister. My stomach churns, but I force my eyes to stay open.

The footage shows a dimly lit community center, police radios crackling. Officers move in jerky motions, their voices sharp with adrenaline. A man’s voice cuts through, loud and commanding. “This is Detective Donald Eric. Put the gun down!” he shouts, his tone sharp, almost cocky. The camera jerks, showing a hostage-taker clutching Sarah, her face pale, eyes wide with terror. My breath catches.

“Donald, stand down!” another officer hisses, but Eric’s voice drowns him out. “You’re not in control here! Drop it, or I’ll drop you!”

The hostage-taker panics, his grip tightening on Sarah. “Back off!” he screams, voice cracking. “I’ll do it, I’ll—”

Eric doesn’t back off. He barks more orders, his voice dripping with arrogance. It happens so fast—a twitch of the hostage-taker’s hand, a gunshot. Sarah’s body jerks, blood blooming across her blouse. She crumples. The footage cuts out as officers swarm, but her scream echoes in my head, sharp and final.

I shove the laptop away, my hands trembling. Tears burn my eyes, but I blink them back. “That name,” I say, my voice shaking. “Donald Eric. Don’t say it again. Don’t… don’t ever tell me what he looks like. I don’t want a face to put to it. I don’t want to—” I stop, swallowing hard. “I don’t want to think about him as a person.”

Hargrove leans back, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Ms. Vale, if you’re thinking of doing something… revenge won’t bring her back.”

“I’m not thinking anything,” I snap, but my voice cracks. “I just needed the truth.”

He doesn’t believe me. I see it in the way his lips press together, but he nods. “The footage stays with me. No one else will see it.”

“Good.” I stand, smoothing my skirt. My hands are still shaking, but I clench them into fists. “Thank you, Mr. Hargrove. Your discretion is appreciated.”

He rises, offering a hand. I shake it, his grip firm but cold. “Take care of yourself, Doris.”

I nod, already halfway to the door. The hallway outside is sterile, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. I don’t breathe until I’m in the elevator, the doors sliding shut with a soft ding. My reflection stares back at me in the polished metal—pale, hollow-eyed, a stranger wearing my face. Sarah’s face, almost. We always looked alike, but now her absence feels like a hole carved into my chest.

In my car, I sit for a moment, gripping the steering wheel. The tears come now, hot and unstoppable, streaking down my cheeks. I see her again—Sarah, laughing at our old kitchen table, her hair catching the sunlight. Then I hear her scream, see her blood. And that name—Donald Eric—burns in my mind like a brand. I told Hargrove I didn’t want to know him, didn’t want to picture him. I thought I could let it go, walk away, keep my hands clean. But the rage is a living thing, clawing at my insides. I can’t let this go. I won’t.

I pull out my phone, my hands trembling but resolute. I don’t have the number I need—not yet. But I know someone who might. I scroll through my contacts, landing on “Eddie.” He’s a fixer from my London days, a man who knows people who know people. I hesitate, then press call.

“Doris?” Eddie’s voice is rough, like he’s just woken up. “Been a while. You back in the States?”

“I need a favor,” I say, skipping pleasantries. “I need… someone. A professional.”

A long pause. “What kind of professional?”

“The kind who makes people disappear,” I say, my voice low. “Permanently.”

Eddie whistles low. “That’s a dark road, love. You sure?”

“Don’t lecture me,” I snap. “Can you get me a contact or not?”

He sighs. “It’s not that simple. People like that don’t just hand out business cards. I’ll need to make some calls, pull some strings. It’ll cost you.”

“Money’s not an issue,” I say. “Just make it happen.”

“Alright,” he says, reluctant. “Give me a day. I’ll text you a number. But Doris—be careful. These types don’t play nice.”

“I don’t need nice,” I say. “I need results.”

The call ends, and I sit in the silence of my car, the weight of what I’m doing settling like lead in my stomach. A day later, my phone buzzes with a text from Eddie: a number, no name, and a single line—Don’t mention me. My hands shake as I dial.

It rings twice before a voice answers, low and smooth, like polished stone. “Yes?”

“This is…” I hesitate, then plunge forward. “I got your number from a mutual contact. I have a job.”

A pause. “Go on.”

“I want the family of the person responsible for my sister’s death,” I say, my voice steady now. “I don’t want to know who they are. No names, no faces, nothing. Just… make them pay. Make it hurt.”

Another pause, longer this time. “That’s a tall order,” he says, a hint of amusement in his tone. “Expensive, too.”

“Name your price,” I say. “I can pay.”

He chuckles, low and dark. “My kind of client. I’ll need a deposit. Half now, half when it’s done.”

“You’ll have it.” I open my purse, pulling out a checkbook. My pen hovers over the blank check. “Who do I make it out to?”

“No names,” he says. “Leave it blank. Wire instructions will come later.”

“Fine,” I say. “But I don’t want to know who you’re targeting. Not their names, not their faces. I need to stay clean of this.”

“Smart,” he says. “Plausible deniability. I’ll handle the rest.”

“Good.” I scribble the check, leaving the payee blank. Five hundred thousand dollars. It’s a fraction of what I inherited, but it feels like blood money now. “You’ll have the deposit by tonight.”

“Pleasure doing business,” he says. The line goes dead.

I slip the check into an envelope, address it to the P.O. box he’ll send later, and drop it in my purse. The engine hums to life as I start the car. Vegas. I need Vegas—its noise, its lights, its chaos. Something to drown out the scream in my head, to bury what I’ve just done. I pull onto the highway, the road stretching out, endless and gray.