The key sticks in the lock like the house is punishing me for leaving it so long.
When I finally get the door open, the apartment smells like a weird combination of stale Chinese takeout and fabric softener. The lights are off, but I don’t need them. I could walk this space blindfolded. The TV glows faintly in the living room, a documentary muted on pause. Markus is already home.
The moment I close the door, he calls for me. “Dalia?”
His voice is lighter than I expected. Hopeful. I kick off my shoes. “Yeah.”
Markus rounds the corner a second later, a dish towel slung over his shoulder. He probably forgot about it when he was washing the dishes earlier. His smile falters when he sees my face. “How are you?”
I sigh. “Exhausted.”
He nods.
“I’ve been calling,” he says, more softly. I drop my bag too hard on the entry bench. It tips, hits the floor with a soft thud.
“I know.”
“You didn’t answer.”
“I was busy.”
“I’m not accusing you,” Markus says quickly. “I’m not. I’m just—Christ, Dalia. You’ve been gone more than home lately. Some nights I don’t even know where you’re sleeping. Am I supposed to just get used to that?”
I hang my coat, avoiding his eyes. “You know what this case is.”
“No,” he says, stepping closer. “I know what you said it was. But I don’t know anymore. You come back looking like you’ve been through hell. You flinch in your sleep. You won’t talk to me. And now you’re disappearing and you won’t tell me why.”
I close my eyes. “I don’t want to bring it here.”
“What does that even mean?”
“I mean I have constant nightmares, Markus,” I snap. “Wren. I see her covered in blood. Her hands shaking. Some stupid cult necklace around her neck. I wake up gasping, thinking she is out in those goddamn woods. I don’t want to bring that home. I don’t want you to see me like that.”
He stares at me, jaw clenched. “So what? You’d rather disappear into motel rooms and trauma-bond with your partner instead?”
“That’s not fair.”
“No, it’s not,” he says, voice rising now. “It’s not fair that I’m standing here like a goddamn bystander in my own relationship. That I have no idea what you’re going through because every time I ask, you shut down like you’re the only one allowed to grieve.”
I turn away, because looking at him hurts too much. “I don’t need your pity, Markus.”
His laugh is sharp. “Is that what you think this is? You think I’m here out of pity?”
I don’t answer.
“Jesus, Dalia,” he says, stepping back like I’ve hit him. “You really don’t see it, do you?”
“I don’t want your support if it’s just to make yourself feel better,” I whisper. “I don’t want you holding me while I fall apart just so you don’t have to feel helpless.”
He stares at me, wounded. “Then what do you want?”
I don’t have an answer. I can’t say what I’m really thinking—that Elias was the one there when the burn on my hand still stung, when the dark felt too thick to breathe through. That his voice pulled me back. That I needed him in that moment and I let myself have that, just for a second. It’s not fair, but Markus sees it, I think. He sees the distance and realizes he can’t cross it.
He shakes his head like he’s trying to dislodge the thought. “Do you even want this life anymore, Dalia? This home? Me?”
That stings. I look at the coat rack missing my jacket too many days in a row.
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “But I know I can’t keep pretending that coming back here makes it better.”
Markus steps back, and the air feels colder suddenly.
“I’m going to stay at my sister’s tonight,” he says. “Give you space. But you need to figure out what that space is for, Dalia. If you want anyone left when this ends.”
“Markus—”
But he’s already walking towards the door, passing by me, grabbing his keys. He pauses only once, hand on the knob.
“When you figure out whether you want me or just the memory of me, let me know.”
The door clicks shut behind him like the final sentence of a chapter I never meant to write. I stand in the echo of it, hands trembling slightly. This case isn’t just pulling me under, it’s hollowing me out. And the worst part is I’m letting it.
Silence blooms, immediate and almost sacred.
I stand frozen in the middle of the hallway for I don’t know how long, hands still clenched, breath sharp in my throat. The fight with Markus hangs in the air like static—unfinished, unresolved. Eventually, I make my way into the kitchen. It’s dark except for the glow of the fridge light when I open it. No appetite, no plan, only instinct. I grab the first thing I see: a carton of almond milk and a half-full box of cereal from the counter I don’t remember buying.
The spoon clinks softly in the bowl. I take it to the couch, still not bothering with the lights. It’s absurd, the comfort I find in the sound of cereal shifting in milk, the cold ceramic against my palms. I eat slowly, like chewing will buy me more time to not think. Guilt creeps in like fog, thick and clinging. I should’ve come home sooner. Should’ve called. Should’ve tried harder not to disappear into the shadows of the case. But Markus doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand the dreams, the way Wren’s voice lingers like smoke in my lungs. He thinks it’s about trust, about honesty. But it’s about weight and how heavy it feels to let someone try to carry what you can barely even hold yourself.
I work my way through the cereal, each bite turning soggy before I can swallow it. The spoon scrapes the bottom of the bowl louder than it should. The place still smells like Markus. His jacket is gone, but the ghost of his soap lingers in the fabric of the furniture. The cereal sticks in my throat. I force it down. There’s a half-dead cactus by the window, and I can’t remember the last time I watered it. Probably around the same time I last came home to stay, before the hotel sheets and burner phones and silence that became easier to explain than guilt.
Anyway, I thought cacti were easy to take care of.
Suddenly, there is a faint buzzing from the hallway. Not the usual hum of the fridge or pipes settling. Mechanical. Rhythmic.
I set the bowl aside and cross the room quickly. The hallway’s still swallowed in darkness, my shadow blending in as I step over the laundry basket I kicked after Markus left. This day just keeps getting better and better. I drop to my knees beside my fallen bag, digging through crumpled receipts and tangled cords until my fingers close around the body of the burner phone.
One new message. Raina.
The clock in the hallway ticks 10:03 p.m. I hesitate, my thumb hovering above the screen. I shouldn’t open it, but I do it anyway.
Hey. Was thinking about our talk. You free tomorrow?
I exhale slowly and let the message burn in my brain. It’s late. If I answer now, it’s a breach. The sensible thing is to ignore it. The right strategy is to ignore it. If I want to keep this case, I have to ignore it.
I open the reply window.
Sure. What time?
I stare at the words, my thumb over the send button, chest is tight. Something in my ribs pulls back like a warning.
So I delete it. But then I type again.
Can’t tomorrow. Maybe later this week?
Delete. Backspace eats the letters like they were never real and the temptation sits with me like a second skin. This isn’t Locke’s moment. It’s mine. The moment where I choose whether I keep control or let it go.
No. I’m smarter than this, the logical part of me whispers. Sure, Locke is an ass but Elias is right. We’ve still got the case. Maybe Ruth is still alive.
My phone buzzes from my jean’s back pocket. This time, it’s Elias.
Locke pulled audio logs from Whitmoor, with Ruth’s therapist, Dr. Cartwright. You looped in?
I blink at the screen. I’m not. Of course I’m not. I laugh out loud as I sit on the cold hallway tiles, still in my work clothes. She went behind my back. Maybe Elias told her I’d want the logs and she just didn’t care. Or maybe he’s been spending more time with her than I realized. I stare at the screen too long. I don’t reply. It’s clear Locke doesn’t trust me. Elias… I’m not sure what he’s doing. I trust him but my mind is fried from the case, from Markus, from the distaste I have for Locke. Sleepless nights, nightmares, Wren. The list just keeps growing.
The screen dims and I begin to form a plan.
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I don’t sleep. The couch might as well have been stone, and the blanket a net made of threadbare guilt. Every time I closed my eyes, Wren’s face hovered in the dark like smoke over a dying fire. At some point, I rolled to the floor and lay there instead. Never sent Raina the message either. Now it sits in my drafts, a quiet thing with teeth.
The conversation with Markus still loops in my mind like a bad surveillance feed—grainy, off-kilter, full of things unsaid.
By the time I step into the precinct, the lights feel too bright. The elevator is slow. The walls inside are mirrored just enough to remind me that I look like hell. I tie my hair up. Tight. Controlled. A version of myself that looks more certain than I feel. Inside the briefing room, the buzz of screens and cooling fans hums low. Kelsi’s already there, perched like a gargoyle on the edge of her chair. Her fingers twitch over her tablet without looking, like the motion’s a tic more than a task. Locke stands across the room, straight as an arrow, arms folded tight, expression colder than the tile beneath our feet. Elias is beside her, close enough to share the screen she’s pulled up.
He looks up first when I enter.
“Morning,” he says, too casual. He looks tired too. Tie loosened. That permanent furrow between his brows dug deeper.
“Barely,” Kelsi mutters.
Locke doesn’t look up. “You’re late.”
“It’s seven-oh-two.”
“And I said seven sharp.”
Her tone isn’t aggressive, just sharp enough to slice. Kelsi raises her brows at me. I don’t return the expression.
Locke taps the whiteboard behind her with the end of her pen. “We’re building a suspect tree. We start with the core leadership—whoever’s running this commune—and work our way down through recruiters, handlers, and outer-ring contacts like your friend Raina.”
I want to laugh. We have already done this.
“She’s not my friend,” I respond.
Locke doesn’t blink. “She’s your informant until she’s not. We act accordingly.”
On the whiteboard behind her there are surveillance shots, digital profiles, financial records half-built.
“Still no formal IDs on the two figures in white hovering around Vale from the last Circle meet-up,” Elias says.
“Start digging,” Locke says, like we have been just sitting on our asses the past weeks. “I want their activity. Cross-reference location pings. And that therapist—Cartwright? If he’s got dirt, I want it unburied.”
Elias glances at me and I look away. This is my moment to ask, but I stay silent because I’m going to let Locke play these games. I’m barely listening to her as I take a seat next to Kelsi.
“Raina’s planning something,” Locke goes on. “No one in a group that secretive just ‘grabs coffee’ without an agenda.”
What a genius. Didn’t know Major Crimes is full of prodigies like her.
“She could just be testing the waters,” I offer. “Feeling me out.”
“She’s already touched base once,” Locke says. “We should flip her.”
“You’re suggesting we confront her?” I ask innocently, trying hard not to sound like I’m performing.
“She’s already compromised. Better to move now than sit on our hands until someone else goes missing.”
I hope my expression doesn’t give away my disdain. “She invited me to the commune. If we push her now, we lose the one person giving us a way in.”
Locke’s gaze sharpens, but Elias cuts in, measured, calm. “She’s right. If Dalia’s presence feels authentic, pushing too soon burns the thread.”
For a moment, Locke just stares at him. Then me. She doesn’t say anything, but I can feel the verdict in the way she turns back to the whiteboard: conditional. Perhaps she doesn’t want to lose Elias’s support for now so she plays along.
Also, what idiot suggests trying to turn a full on cult zealot after one coffee meetup?
“You’ve got forty-eight hours to come up with a better plan on how to use Raina,” she says finally. “After that, I pull the plug. Either Raina gives us something useful, or she becomes a liability.”
My heart is a stone in my chest. Meanwhile, Kelsi hands Elias a piece of paper and he tapes it onto the whiteboard. It’s a topographic map.
“Commune’s here.” Locke circles a patch of remote forest. The silence that follows is too thick to swallow. I stare at the map, at the radius of isolation.
There is a creeping sense that every inch of that place was designed to swallow girls like Ruth whole.
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