It’s too early, and the coffee I forced down half an hour ago hasn’t kicked in yet.
Locke’s already writing on the board when I walk in. The dry-erase marker squeaks across the surface, her handwriting so angular and precise it looks like it was etched instead of scrawled. Every stroke screams, I’ve done this before. I’m in control.
I adjust my tie as I enter, offering her the kind of nod I used to give commanding officers I didn’t respect but had to impress. “Morning.”
Brynn hums something vaguely affirmative, but doesn’t turn. She just keeps writing, the dry-erase marker squeaking in clipped, efficient arcs. She doesn’t believe in warm greetings I guess. Probably doesn’t believe in warmth, period.
The door opens behind me and I know it’s Dalia before I turn. She doesn’t make eye contact, just slips into her chair with a kind of quiet that feels like a bruise refusing to heal. Brown hair tied back too tight, mouth in a straight line. There’s a darkness under her eyes I haven’t seen before—less exhaustion, more erosion, like something’s wearing her down from the inside, and she hasn’t figured out how to stop the rot.
This silence isn’t the Dalia I know. Not the sharp-edged analyst who goes mute because she’s six layers deep in pattern-matching. This one feels... wrong, like a tether’s come loose. She’s spiraling somewhere I can’t follow, because I’m too busy playing diplomat and pretending like Locke isn’t holding us back.
“Let’s get to it,” Locke says, popping the cap back on the marker. Her blazer is creased just so, the kind of tailored authority that Major Crimes seems to mass-produce.
“We’ll begin with the commune’s footprint,” she says briskly, tossing a folder onto the table. “We’ve mapped delivery traffic patterns over the past six months.”
We? More like Kelsi.
As if on cue, Kelsi wheels in on her chair like a goblin on caffeine. With a smile in the corner of my lips, I flip open the folder and pretend like I haven’t read half of this already. Thanks Kelsi.
The top page in the folder is a transport schedule. Beneath it, grainy surveillance images of unmarked trucks, dates and locations logged like a quiet heartbeat.
“Company’s called Amberfield Harvest Logistics,” our IT goblin begins. “No website or published phone number, but they make regular, low-volume deliveries to a property—you guessed it—matching the commune’s address.”
Kelsi taps a spot on the grainy map, then gestures to another page. “Here’s the kicker. Back in 2018, the land was temporarily deeded to a shell company. Guess who sits on the board of that?”
She slides another photo across the table: a scanned charity gala image with none other but Jonas Vale standing in the middle of it, shaking hands.
Locke barely reacts. “How certain is the tie?”
Kelsi leans back, twirling a pen. “Enough to get a warrant for financials, maybe. Not enough to kick in the gates.”
I glance at Dalia. She doesn’t even touch the file, although I’m certain she looked at it the moment Kelsi sent it in our group chat.
Ever since Dalia pulled me aside and let me know that Locke is withholding information from her, we set up a group with Kelsi. Protocol be damned. Locke’s been here a week, and we’ve spent most of that time handing her tools she’s too slow to use. Not that she sees it that way. From her tone, you’d think she descended from the heavens with a USB stick and a clean conscience. Plus the quest to get rid of Dalia or the very least tarnish her reputation.
I look at Kelsi and pretend like I haven’t asked this question yesterday. “And they don’t show up on any vendor listings?”
Kelsi smirks. “That’s the trick. No government contracts, no retail clients. It’s like someone built a company just to feed a hole in the woods.”
Locke finally looks impressed. Barely. “We’ll trace the registration. Get me purchase records, fuel routes, anything that links them to Vale’s network.”
I glance at Dalia again. She hasn’t even moved. That quiet... it claws at me.
“We need more than logistics,” Locke says. “This Amberfield operation gives us infrastructure, but not intent.”
Her eyes drift toward Dalia with a calculated pause. I feel my pulse climb and I lean forward, smoothing my voice into something pleasant. “We’re still monitoring Raina. There’s potential there—soft contact. She’s not hostile.”
Locke raises a brow. She considers me for a beat longer than I like. “You have charm, Wexler. I’m starting to think you would have been better at initiating contact with Raina.”
The compliment sticks in my throat. God, I hate this.
I smile anyway and don’t stick up for Dalia. Not because I don’t want to, but because we discussed I won’t. Because we all know what happens if we lose this case. They’ll cut us out like bad stitches and call it accountability. Locke will write her own report, paint Dalia as unstable, reckless, compromised. And I’ll go back to homicide with dirt under my nails and nothing to show for it but another dead girl we couldn’t save.
So, the three of us devised new strategy on how to deal with Locke. I play nice. I kiss the ring. I let Locke think I’m grateful for her presence. Even though every time she speaks, I feel like I’m swallowing sandpaper. We also agreed Dalia will remain distant, almost like she is drifting away from the case, so Locke gets off her back.
It’s not convincing. Even Locke picks up on it. “We need your head in the game, Detective Rowe.”
I see it—that flicker in Dalia’s eye. Not rage. Just a flash of something brittle. She meets Locke’s stare and doesn’t blink. I remind myself this is part of the act.
“Great findings, Kelsi,” she says.
Locke doesn’t respond and after a moment of silence, she moves to the next item on the board. But I catch it—the look she gives me afterward, like I’m the one who’s supposed to rein Dalia in. Like it’s my job to keep her from breaking protocol again. Maybe it is.
I speak up. “Has anyone run a resource analysis on Amberfield yet? Power draws, purchase volume, seasonal increases?”
Locke gives me a small nod. “Good. You take that. Dalia can continue monitoring Raina.”
I can feel Dalia tense across the table. Her jaw tightens just slightly. Locke doesn’t care. Either way, she continues like a machine spitting logic and mandates. Everything about the way she talks feels like a game of chess where people are just pawns and you don’t care which ones break as long as the board looks neat at the end.
I nod, jotting Locke’s notes down, but I’m half-watching Dalia, her eyes locked on the board, unfocused.
“Let’s reconvene at sixteen hundred. I want summaries, movement logs, and updated assets,” Locke says then closes her tablet with that same sharp finality she applies to everything—no wasted movement, no room for input. She’s already halfway out the door before anyone’s chair scrapes back from the floor. Kelsi mutters something under her breath that sounds a lot like “Iron Stiletto Barbie” as she slumps back in her seat.
I push my chair back.
“You getting lunch?” I ask Kelsi.
She waves vaguely toward the vending machines, her head already dipped back into her screens. “If Cheez-Its count.”
I nod once and step out into the hallway. I wait for Dalia to follow behind, stewing in her role to play dumb. We walk in silence down the corridor.
Our pace doesn’t match. It never has. She walks like she’s chasing something and I walk like I’m trying not to scare it off. The elevator dings as we pass it, and neither of us stops. We head for the stairwell, some unspoken instinct leading us to the place above it all. The place where we can breathe. When I push open the roof door and hold it for her, she hesitates just long enough to let me know this isn’t routine.
The roof of the precinct isn’t much—tar, gravel, rusting ducts, and a lopsided bench that probably predates the building’s last paint job—but it’s quiet, and it’s high, and most people forget it exists. Dalia is already walking towards near the edge, not close enough to be dangerous, but close enough that it reads like a mood. Her hands are tucked into her blazer pockets. The wind tugs at her collar. Her profile’s sharp against the pale wash of sky.
I cross the rooftop slowly, giving her time to tell me to leave.
“Locke’s got half the precinct chewing her paperwork,” I say. “Pretty sure Kelsi’s going to fake a technical failure just to watch her unravel.”
Dalia doesn’t laugh, just stares out across the skyline, jaw tight.
“I can’t keep doing this,” she says finally. “Coming into that room and acting like I haven’t already seen how the house burns down.”
I step beside her. “What are you talking about?”
She shakes her head. “This case. Raina. The commune. All of it. We’re playing catch-up with people who’ve been planning this for years. And Locke—she doesn’t understand. She’s not even trying to understand. She wants it neat tied with a suspect tree, like that’s going to save anyone.”
“She’s doing her job,” I say carefully.
“She’s doing a version of a job,” Dalia corrects. “The kind that fills reports and ticks boxes and gets you promoted when everything explodes because you never actually got close enough to stop it.”
There’s heat in her voice now.
“I’m not mad she’s here,” she adds, quieter. “I’m mad we needed someone to pull a leash on us to make it seem like we’re playing by the rules. And that you—” she stops, biting back the words.
“That I what?” I ask.
She looks at me then. Really looks. Her eyes are tired. Not bloodshot or red-rimmed, just worn.
“That you have to play this role,” she says, almost a whisper.
I exhale slowly. “You think I like it?”
“I think you’re better at pretending than I am.”
That hits harder than it should.
“I’m doing what we have to do,” I say. “We lose Locke, we lose the case. That’s the reality. We discussed this.”
“No,” she says. “We lost the case the moment Everett decided we couldn’t be trusted. And that’s on me.”
Her voice cracks slightly, and she turns away from me like she doesn’t want me to see it. I walk toward the bench and sit down, letting the silence stretch between us.
“It’s been a week,” I say. “Since she came on. And in that week, we haven’t lost too much ground. Kelsi found Amberfield. That’s real. That’s something.”
“And what have I found?” she asks.
I don’t answer.
“I could have messaged Raina,” she admits. “The draft is still sitting there. Half a sentence. A question I haven’t figured out how to ask.”
She sits down beside me without looking at me, both of us angled toward the city.
“I’m scared,” she says. “And not just of the commune or what happens if this lead goes nowhere. I’m scared I’ve already gone too far, that I’ve become someone I can’t walk back from.”
I swallow the knot in my throat. “You haven’t.”
She gives a dry laugh. “How would you know?”
“Because I see you,” I say. “And you’re still here.”
Her head dips slightly, like that costs her something to hear. For a moment, there’s just wind and the far-off hum of traffic.
“I’m not trying to replace anything,” I add. “With her. If that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I’m not worried.”
Lie. And I’m not innocent. Not really. I’ve been friendly with Locke, overly so at times. It’s strategic, but maybe not just that. Maybe part of me needed to believe I could still do this job without falling apart over Dalia. And maybe I’m failing at that too.
“We can still fix this,” I say. “We can take what Kelsi found and turn it into a full search warrant. We follow the logistics chain back to its source.”
Dalia nods slowly. “Yeah. Okay.”
She doesn’t sound convinced, but I’ll take it for now.
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