If Captain Everett ever cracked a smile, I imagine it would look a lot like today’s grimace.
He’s already in the briefing room when we arrive—suit pressed, coffee untouched, eyes tracking movement like he’s prepping for a storm no one else can see. My boots echo too loud on the linoleum floor. I feel like a teenager called into the principal’s office, except the principal has backup this time.
Sitting beside Everett is a woman I don’t recognize.
Tailored dark blazer, dark gray slacks, not a wrinkle in sight. Raven black hair pulled back into a low, tight bun. No jewelry. The only color on her is the badge clipped to her belt—Major Crimes Task Force. She stands when we enter, unsmiling. She’s got the vibe of someone who’s already judged you and is only waiting for your performance to match her assumptions.
“Detective Brynn Locke,” Everett says by way of introduction. “She’s your new point of contact.”
Like we’re being gifted a seasonal liaison instead of a babysitter with claws. Locke extends a hand—to Elias first. “You must be Detective Wexler. I’ve read your reports.”
Her grip seems firm, efficient. Elias smiles, enough to be polite, but there’s something warmer in it than I’d like. His body shifts slightly toward her. Not much, but it’s enough for me to notice. She doesn’t offer me a hand, of course, just turns her head enough to meet my gaze and nods. A polite dismissal.
“Rowe,” I say evenly.
“Detective Rowe,” she says. “We’ll be working closely. Closer than I’d prefer, if I’m being honest.”
Charming.
I arch a brow. “Well, I’m sure we’ll both survive.”
Elias’s eyes snap to me and a flicker of something crosses Locke’s face—amusement or disdain, it’s hard to tell. Then she’s all business again, flipping open a slim file folder like she’s slicing open a body.
“I’ll make this brief,” she says, her voice razor-edged. “The way this case has been handled is… unconventional.”
Captain Everett nods, arms crossed, confirming what we already suspected. “Full transparency from now on. No more solo rides.”
Locke slides a paper across the table. “I’ll need all operative aliases, fake accounts, timestamps of every interaction with known cult affiliates, and a detailed report of Detective Rowe’s activities since her first contact.”
I meet her gaze head-on, teeth clenched behind a closed mouth. The air between us feels like sandpaper. I glance at Elias, who’s already nodding, posture relaxed like he’s trying to set the tone. “Happy to share everything. We’re glad for the support.”
Support. That’s generous, Elias. She doesn’t look like support, she looks like the human embodiment of a shutdown protocol.
Locke lazily turns a page. “This isn’t about turf. It’s about risk mitigation. You’ve put yourselves in dangerous proximity without backup. That’s not bold—it’s a liability. We’re lucky it hasn’t already blown up.”
She doesn’t look at Elias when she says it. Only me.
“Your alias profile—the spiritual forums, grief pages, that sort of thing. Did you consult with anyone on that strategy?”
Elias gives me a look—half warning, half admiration. He’s not used to me snapping. Maybe he likes it.
“We built the strategy and made contact with the help of Elias and Kelsi,” I say, keeping my tone as flat as possible. “And got results.”
Locke nods, once. “Which is why you’re still in the room. But results don’t excuse recklessness. If your cover breaks, we don’t just lose access—we risk exposure. That endangers more than just the two of you.”
There’s a logic to it. A cold, hard strategy. I respect it. But respect doesn’t stop the prickle running up my spine. It doesn’t stop me from noticing how Elias shifts his body toward her when she talks. Or how his brow furrows in concentration when she lays out the next steps. He does that when he’s engaged. Absorbed. That focused energy he gives to things that matter.
He used to aim it at me.
“I understand you recently made contact with a woman named Raina. You met her alone?”
“She wouldn’t have come if I brought backup,” I say. “The point was subtlety.”
“The point,” Locke says, coolly, “was that your cover could have blown and no one would’ve known where to find your body.”
Elias leans forward, ever the diplomat. “Dalia took precautions and I was nearby the entire time, monitoring from the car.”
“And that’s your idea of a security perimeter?” Brynn asks him, but this time her tone softens by a hair. “Next time you think a steering wheel counts as surveillance, loop me in.”
He gives a slight smile. “Understood.”
Brynn mirrors it. The first real shift in her expression.
The air between them warms by a fraction while my stomach tightens. It’s stupid, I know. Elias is good with people—he listens too well, stands too close, tilts his head when others speak like he’s memorizing their vowels. Still, I haven’t seen that look from him in a while, the one where his mouth curves just a little too long after a joke.
Locke flips the folder closed. “Here’s how this works. No unsanctioned contact or undercover meetings. No movement near the commune unless I sign off personally. You bring me a threat assessment and I’ll bring you authorization. We do this by the book or not at all.”
“Understood,” Elias says again.
I say nothing. The silence does the job for me.
Brynn nods once, brisk and final. “We reconvene in one hour. Have your materials ready.”
With that, she nods once and leaves, heels clicking crisply down the hallway like punctuation. Everett trails behind her, probably wondering how many calls he’ll have to field now that she’s in the mix.
When the door clicks shut, Elias lets out a low breath and mutters, “Well. That could’ve been worse.”
I stare at the spot where Locke stood. “Could’ve also been a root canal, but sure. Let’s count blessings.”
Elias glances sideways. “Come on. She’s not a monster.”
“No,” I say. “She’s exactly what we were warned about. Control. Chains. Supervision with a smile.”
“She’s not smiling,” he says, almost teasing. I don’t bite.
He runs a hand through his blonde hair. It’s still slightly damp from the morning drizzle, strands clinging to his forehead in a way that would probably look charming to anyone not currently fantasizing about throwing a mug through a window.
“She’s smart,” he adds.
“I noticed.”
“I mean, she knows what she’s doing.”
“Fantastic.”
He frowns. “Dalia…”
I wave him off. “Let’s just prep the files. Wouldn’t want to keep our new leash waiting.”
The hallway feels colder than the room we just left, and I know it’s not the air. It’s me. The fury burns in the hollow of my ribs like swallowed coals, quiet and sharp. Elias follows behind me without speaking, letting the distance stretch until the door to the briefing room swings shut behind us. We reach the end of the corridor where the glass window overlooks the precinct parking lot. Rain still spits at the panes in soft, miserable gusts. The light outside has shifted gray, muted. Even the cars look half-alive in it.
“She’s not wrong,” Elias says quietly.
I press my thumb into my palm, hard enough to sting. “That’s not what’s bothering me.”
“No?”
“She didn’t need to act like we were two rookies with a vendetta and a dream. She hasn’t smelled the farmhouse rot or stood in that damn circle while some devotee was branded like livestock.”
Elias gives me a look. I cross my arms, jaw tight. “And since when do you play so nice?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Since when do you smile that much in a ten-minute meeting?” The words snap sharper than I intend.
His brow furrows. “She’s here to help us keep the case.”
“No. She’s here to help Major Crimes snatch it. And you—”
“I’m trying to keep us in it,” he cuts in, voice low but tight with strain. He takes a step closer to me and my breath catches. “If we push too hard, she has all the leverage she needs to shut us out completely. I’d rather have a seat at the table than be left outside wondering what’s on the plate.”
I hate that he’s right. I hate that he sounds reasonable. I hate that Locke’s face keeps flashing behind my eyes—composed, smart, calculating—and the part of me that should only care about this case is suddenly tangled in the feeling that I’ve been… replaced. Reassigned. Not in the operation, but in Elias’s eyes. I have compromised not just mine but his position as well. Put Kelsi at risk too.
“I know how to play nice too,” I say. “But I don’t trust people who enter the room already writing our obituary.”
Elias steps closer again, just a few inches, and drops his voice. I can smell his cologne and it’s dizzying in the midst of my rage fit. “You think I trust her more than you?”
“Aren’t we glad for support?”
“That’s not—” He stops, exhales. “You think I’d let anyone jeopardize you after what happened at the gathering?”
My throat tightens. The memory slams back into place like a door left ajar—except it’s not the memory of the gathering itself. It’s his hands on my shoulders, his voice steadying me in the dark, the heat of his body when I rested against him like gravity had finally pulled too hard. He sees the shift in my face and his expression softens.
“Dalia,” he says, low and urgent. “You can hate Locke. Fine. But don’t mistake strategy for distance.”
I want to say something cutting, something that keeps the walls up. I should be the one acting like Locke. Rational, calculating every step, analyzing opportunity.
“I don’t like being leashed,” I whisper.
“I don’t like you walking into danger without a hand to pull you back.”
His voice cracks just slightly on the last word and my heart gives that traitorous stutter again. He steps back then, not dramatically, just enough to give me space again, to let the heat settle.
I turn back toward the bullpen. “Let’s get her that damn report.”
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Kelsi’s tech cave pulses in soft blues and whites like some kind of deep-ocean lab. She swivels in her chair as we step inside, a smudge of eyeliner streaking across her temple like war paint. The scent of energy drinks and static clings to everything, as always. At least some things don’t change.
“So, did Brynn Locke give you matching collars, or are you arguing over who gets the short leash?”
Elias groans softly. I don’t answer. I don’t have the patience for Kelsi’s flavor of sarcasm today.
Locke arrives moments later—still perfectly crisp jacket, tablet in hand. She doesn’t make eye contact with me, just takes a seat like she’s always belonged there, like this is her unit, her intel, her war. This is her power play, making sure I know my place. I let Elias’s words from earlier echo in my mind, steadying me. I’m a professional.
And I’m damn good at what I do.
I slide the evidence folder toward Locke. “Photos of suspects and surveillance from the café. Kelsi also pulled and matched most names to faces from the Facebook group and the cult gathering.”
Locke doesn’t say thank you. She opens the folder, flipping through it with that same surgeon’s precision demonstrated earlier. Her eyes linger on each picture.
“Is this the contact?” she murmurs, tapping one image where Raina is mid-turn, her mouth caught in half-speech.
“Yeah. She’s careful,” Elias says, pulling a chair closer.
Locke tilts the photo. “And you think she would be vulnerable to a turn?”
“No,” I answer. “She’s loyal to the idea and the people.”
Locke finally looks at me, eyes like polished slate. “So she’s your pressure point.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“No,” Locke says, “but you’re already tugging the thread.”
The implication settles like grit in my throat. I don’t like being read. Not by someone who sees the case in footnotes and suspects in percentages, not by someone who wasn’t at the farmhouse looking at the stitched together person with no name.
Kelsi interrupts the tension by dragging a new window onto the largest monitor. “I ran a facial comp between the photo of Ruth Quinn from the envelope and the latest café frame. It’s definitely Raina in both.”
“Build a profile,” Locke says immediately. “Everything we have on Raina. Associates. Employment. Residences. Track movements over the past year. I want to know where she gets her coffee and if she owns a cat.”
“We have already done that,” I answer bitterly.
“I want a clean case,” she ignores me. “What you two have built is commendable but messy. You’ve followed instincts and now we need structure.”
I feel that last word like a slap. Structure. As if everything we’ve done—everything I’ve risked—has been chaos masquerading as work. Maybe it was. Elias doesn’t say anything, but he stands and starts pinning up photos, names, timestamps. Kelsi’s monitor spills out surveillance grids and data crawls across the screen like ants swarming a carcass.
Locke turns to me. “You formed contact. That’s valuable. But you’re not going back under.”
I raise a brow. “That wasn’t a question.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
A flicker of something ugly burns behind my ribs. I look to Elias, but he’s watching Locke again, his expression unreadable and neutral.
He nods slowly. “There are other ways in.”
It stings, more than I expect. He’s playing nice again and Locke’s not oblivious to it. She glances his way, subtle, barely a smile—but enough. Perhaps she thinks her strategy is working and she has successfully sown the seeds of doubt in Elias. Or perhaps I’m the target.
And Elias is doing an awful good of job in assisting Locke.
“From here on,” Locke continues, tapping a few quick notes into her tablet, “we focus on knowns. The commune. Names. Land registry. Phone data. No more blind walks through the woods.”
My jaw tightens.
“Dalia’s alias could still hold,” Elias steps in. “If it’s a matter of trust, we can tighten protocols.”
Locke gives a small shake of her head. “Too risky. If she’s burned, we lose more than a cover—we lose access.”
“You don’t turn people like Raina by poking them with warrants,” I respond.
“You also don’t build cases on vibes and spiritual bonding.”
That one lands too well. Kelsi winces. Traitors.
Elias speaks again. “We’ve done everything we can to protect the integrity of the case.”
Locke looks at him, and there is a weird shift in her expression. “I believe that.”
Of course she does.
Locke rises, snaps the folder shut. “Keep digging. If Raina’s our link, then we either flip her or follow her to someone we can.”
And with that, she’s gone, footsteps echoing down the hall, clipped and confident. Elias exhales beside me. Kelsi mutters something under her breath and dramatically collapses onto her desk, sending an empty can spinning.
This sucks.
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