My breath catches so hard I almost choke on it.
I know those shoulders. I know the way he holds his head when he’s pleased with himself, the particular set of his mouth when he thinks he’s won something. I know him because I lived with him for years, shared a bed with him, trusted him with everything that mattered.
“Hello, Dalia.”
Markus steps into the candlelit space like he’s entering his own living room, hands clasped behind his back in a posture that suggests calm authority. He’s dressed differently than I remember—all black, the fabric expensive-looking and somehow ceremonial. But it’s definitely him. My ex-husband. The father of my missing child.
The man I never suspected.
“Surprised?” he asks, and his smile is the same one he used to wear when he’d solved a crossword puzzle I couldn’t finish. Smug. Self-satisfied. Vindicated.
I can’t speak. Can’t breathe. My brain is scrambling to process what I’m seeing, to fit this impossible piece into the puzzle I’ve been assembling for weeks. Markus. Here, in this underground hell, but not as a victim.
As a perpetrator.
“You always prided yourself on being such a great detective,” Markus continues, moving closer to the bars with the casual confidence of someone who knows I can’t reach him. “All those cases you solved. All those criminals you put away. All that intuition you claimed to have.”
My mouth opens but no sound comes out. I feel like I’m drowning in still water.
“And yet you never figured it out, did you? Six years, Dalia. Six years of searching for Wren, and you never once looked at the man sleeping next to you every night.”
The words hit like punches to the stomach. He's right. Six years of grief and guilt and desperate investigation, and the answer was right there. In my bed. At my dinner table. Holding me while I cried over the daughter he took.
“You…” I finally manage to whisper, my voice coming out like broken glass. “You took her.”
“Took her?” Markus laughs, and the sound is warm and familiar and absolutely wrong in this place. “I saved her. I delivered her to her true purpose.”
I think about that day—the last day I saw Wren alive. A perfect spring afternoon, warm enough for her to play outside while I made lunch. I’d gone inside for ten minutes. Maybe fifteen. Just long enough to put together sandwiches.
When I came back out, she was gone.
No neighbors saw anything. No strangers in the area. No signs of struggle. Just a six-year-old girl who vanished like smoke, leaving behind only a pink hair tie and six years of my life dedicated to finding her.
“She went with you willingly,” I say, the realization hitting me like a sledgehammer to the chest. “She trusted you.”
“Of course she trusted me. I’m her father.” He says it like I’m stupid for not understanding something so obvious. “She was playing in the backyard, like you said. I told her we were going on a special adventure, just the two of us. She was so excited.”
My vision blurs with tears I can’t control. The image forms in my mind—Wren, taking her father’s hand and walking away from the only home she’d ever known. No fear. No resistance. A little girl who loved her daddy and believed he would keep her safe.
“That’s why there were no witnesses,” I whisper, more to myself than to him. “No one saw a stranger because it wasn’t a stranger. It was you.”
“Brilliant deduction, Detective.” His tone is mocking now, cruel in a way I never heard from him during our marriage. “Though it only took you six years to figure it out.”
I press my back against the concrete wall, needing something solid to keep me upright. Everything I thought I knew about that day, about the investigation, about my marriage—all of it is crumbling like a house built on sand.
“Where is she?” The question tears from my throat like a scream. “Where’s my daughter?”
Markus’s expression darkens, the smug satisfaction replaced by something uglier. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? That’s why we’re all here.”
“What do you mean?”
“Wren was chosen. Selected for transformation. It was supposed to be beautiful, perfect. She was so young, so pure. The vessel would have been flawless.” His hands clench into fists behind his back. “But it got botched.”
“Botched how?”
“That girl. Ruth.” He spits the name like it tastes poisonous. “That girl interfered. Put up a fight when she should have understood the honor being bestowed.”
Ruth Quinn. The missing woman whose photograph showed her alive and faithful at a cult gathering. The woman whose case led me here.
“She was supposed to assist with the ritual,” Markus continues, his voice growing more agitated. “Help prepare Wren for transformation, but she turned. Started screaming about it being wrong, about Wren being just a child. She fought us.”
My heart is hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat. “What happened?”
“She grabbed Wren and ran.” The words come out through gritted teeth. “Took her somewhere. Hid her. We don’t know where.”
The tears are flowing freely now, hot tracks down my cheeks that I don’t bother to wipe away.
“She ruined everything,” Markus’s composure cracks, revealing the fanatic underneath. “Wren was meant for something sacred, something transcendent. Ruth condemned her to mundane existence instead of divine purpose.”
“She saved my daughter’s life. Our daughter’s life.”
“She stole what wasn’t hers to steal.”
I think about Ruth, the missing woman I’ve been trying to find. The woman who died protecting a child she didn’t even know. Who sacrificed herself so that Wren could live, could escape whatever horror they had planned.
“You killed her for it,” I say, the pieces clicking together. “You killed Ruth because she saved Wren.”
“The ritual required a vessel. Ruth made herself available through her interference.” Markus shrugs like he’s discussing the weather. “Her transformation wasn’t as clean as Wren’s would have been, but it served its purpose.”
“You’re a monster,” I whisper.
“I’m enlightened. There’s a difference.”
“She’s alive,” I say, the thought hitting me like revelation. “Wren is alive somewhere.”
“Presumably. Though after six years in hiding, who knows what kind of damage has been done? What kind of life she’s living?” His voice takes on a tone of mock sympathy. “She could be anywhere. Living under any name, with any family. You’ll never find her now.”
But she’s alive. After six years of believing the worst, of imagining her body in shallow graves or at the bottom of rivers or worse, the knowledge that she’s breathing somewhere in the world is almost too much to bear.
“Speaking of searches,” Markus says, his voice shifting to something more conversational, “your partner came by the house recently. Sweet Elias, so concerned about your wellbeing. He wanted me to file a missing person’s report.”
My blood turns to ice. “What did you tell him?”
“The truth. That you left, packed a bag, filed divorce papers, and walked away from our marriage without a word.” His smile is poisonous. “I may have implied that you were having some kind of mental breakdown. Pressure from the job, unresolved grief. You know how it is.”
I don’t say anything.
“A detective who abandoned her post, her marriage, her responsibilities. A woman clearly suffering from psychological instability,” Markus shakes his head. “I think he’ll assume you needed space to work through your issues. By the time anyone realizes you’re truly missing, it’ll be far too late.”
The manipulation is breathtaking in its simplicity. Use my own actions—the divorce papers, the distance I’d been putting between myself and my old life—to explain my disappearance. Make it look voluntary, temporary, understandable.
“Although,” he continues, his voice taking on a note of disgust, “I did notice he seemed particularly invested in your welfare. More than a partner should be.”
I don’t respond, but something in my expression must give me away.
“Ah.” Markus’s eyes light up with malicious understanding. “I was right. You did file those divorce papers so you could fuck him guilt-free.”
The words are like a slap. “That’s not—”
“Please. I’m not blind, Dalia. The way he looked at you. The late nights, the private conversations, the way you’d light up when he sent a message.” He steps closer to the bars, close enough that I can see the gold flecks in his eyes. “How long were you planning to wait? Until the ink was dry on our divorce decree? Or were you already spreading your legs for him while we were still married?”
I flinch. I've never been so repulsed by a person.
“You’re pathetic,” he continues. “A middle-aged woman playing at romance like some teenager. Did you think he loved you? Did you think you were going to run away together and live happily ever after?”
I taste bile in my throat. Surely, this isn't the man I used to share a bed with.
“It doesn’t matter now,” Markus just keeps going, his voice returning to that terrible calm. “Because you’re never going to see him again. You’re never going to see anyone again.”
The implications settle over me like a burial shroud. Deep down, I knew. This is a death sentence with extra steps.
“It’s actually perfect, when you think about it,” he steps back from the bars with that smug satisfaction returning to his features. “It’s a shame Wren couldn’t fulfill her destiny as a vessel. But I should have seen it earlier—her replacement was right there the whole time.”
“No.”
“You. You’re going to take her place. You’re going to become what she was meant to become.”
“I’m not pure or innocent or whatever sick criteria you use.”
“Purity isn’t about age or innocence. It’s about potential for transformation. And you?” His smile is genuinely affectionate now, which somehow makes it worse. “You’ve been preparing for this your whole life. All that suffering. All that desperate searching for meaning in a meaningless world. You’re perfect.”
I have no words.
Markus was there the whole time. Living with me. Comforting me. Helping me search for the daughter he took. Watching me tear myself apart with guilt while he knew exactly where she was and what had happened to her.
“The irony is beautiful, don’t you think?” he says, moving toward the door. “You spent six years looking for Wren, and in the end, you found her. Just not in the way you expected.”
“She’s alive,” I say again. It’s the only thing keeping me sane right now.
“For now. But who knows? Maybe someday we’ll find her again. Maybe she’ll join you in transformation.” His hand is on the door handle now. “Wouldn’t that be a beautiful reunion? Mother and daughter, together in divine purpose?”
“You’re insane.”
“I’m enlightened." he repeats. "And soon, so will you be too.”
The door closes behind him with its soft whisper of finality. The lock engages with an electronic beep that sounds like a countdown timer.
I sit in the candlelit darkness, my mind reeling with revelations that feel too enormous to process. Markus. He gave her to these monsters. He watched me suffer and helped me search while knowing the truth the entire time.
I think about Elias, probably back at the precinct right now. He’ll look for me eventually—I know he will. But will he look in the right places? Will he see through Markus’s lies before it’s too late?
The thought of him discovering what happened to me, what Markus did to Wren, makes something fracture inside my chest.
But for the first time in six years, I have hope. Not for myself—that ship has probably sailed—but for Wren. Ruth Quinn died to give her that chance. I won’t let that sacrifice be meaningless.
Whatever they have planned for me, whatever transformation they think they’re going to perform, I’ll fight it every step of the way. Not because I think I can escape—I’m not that naive—but because someone needs to remember. Someone needs to bear witness to what these monsters do in the name of their twisted salvation.
And maybe, if I’m very lucky, Elias will find this place before it’s too late.
Maybe he’ll succeed where I failed.
Maybe he’ll bring them all down.
The candles flicker in the still air, casting dancing shadows on the walls like ghosts of all the women who came before me. Ruth Quinn. The nameless woman in the farmhouse. Others whose stories I’ll never know.
It’s not the ending I wanted. But it’s not the ending I feared either.
And for now, that has to be enough.
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