It’s late enough that most desks sit empty, their papers curling slightly at the edges like dried leaves. I stare at the screen in front of me, fingers hovering above the keyboard, not typing.
The message box is open. Waiting.
Across the room, Elias pretends to read over a stack of reports, but I can feel him watching. Not impatient, just present. The way you watch someone edging a cliff. Not because you don’t trust them, but because you’re terrified they will make one misstep, falling off, never to be seen again.
I scroll back through Raina’s profile, analyzing her like we used to study suspect photos. Something in the way she stands—always off-center in pictures, like she’s hiding from her own life—makes my gut tighten. In both images—Ruth’s old photo from the envelope and Elias’s recent surveillance shot—Raina is near the edge of the gathering. Watching and still. She’s not leading, but she’s not aimless either. It’s almost like she’s waiting for instruction orr maybe permission.
The screen glows pale across my face.
Hi, I saw your comment in the Church of Reclamation post. I’m new here, still figuring things out. It’s been hard finding people who understand what it feels like to be… searching. I’d love to talk if you’re open to it.
I reread it six times. The wording’s careful. Too careful?
“She won’t bite if you sound like a bot,” Kelsi said earlier.
My stomach is a coil of nerves I can’t unwind. Elias shifts in his swivel chair. I don’t look at him, but I hear the quiet thud of his mug hitting the desk.
“You’re overthinking it,” he says softly from across.
I glance at him. “That’s the job.”
He stands up from his desk and walks closer, enough for me to feel the faint stir of his warmth again. I should be used to it by now but I’m not. My body still reacts like it’s being handed something it forgot it needed. It’s been like this ever since the cult gathering.
“You trust her to be harmless?” he asks.
“I don’t even know her.”
“Exactly.”
I nod, eyes back on the screen. “I trust my instincts.”
I push back from the desk. The room feels smaller suddenly. I can hear Kelsi typing from her tech cave—probably digging deeper into the Church of Reclamation, trying to find a breadcrumb the cult didn’t cover with doctrine and gold foil. Elias leans against the edge of my desk, arms folded, silent. I hate waiting.
The precinct smells like dust and recycled air. That late-afternoon drag when the building feels like it’s breathing heavier than the people inside it. I stand and walk past the bullpen—desks abandoned, paper stacks left mid-collapse—and head straight for the only room still glowing. IT. The cave. Kelsi’s domain. Inside, it’s all cold light and the electric thrum of machines thinking too hard. Kelsi’s curled over her desk, boots up on a printer, typing one-handed and sipping what smells like battery acid, which is probably her third energy drink. Maybe her fourth.
Elias follows me, leaning against a filing cabinet like the concrete underneath him isn’t quite steady. I notice how his collar is unbuttoned, sleeves rolled. The kind of tired he’s not trying to hide anymore.
Kelsi doesn’t look up. “Your fake self is alive and well.”
I cross my arms. “Anything else we need to tweak before I try and make a new friend?”
She spins in her chair, one brow arched too-long bangs. “You’ve joined three grief forums, a healing yoga group, and something called Light Beyond Wounds.”
“That sounds like a skincare ad.”
Kelsi grins. “No. More like a pyramid scheme.”
The computer dings. Kelsi’s eyes flick to her screen before I can even react. “She answered.”
Everything inside me goes still. I half-run back to my desk too fast, chair wheels creaking, fingers suddenly cold despite the warm throb in my chest. The screen refreshes itself with a soft flicker. There it is.
Raina L. has sent you a message.
Elias hovers behind me, silent. I click it open.
Hey, I think I saw you at the last Circle… you were the one they called up, right? Most people don’t reach out after something like that, so either you’re curious, or brave. Maybe both. Want to grab a coffee?
I reread it, then again, and a third time, slower. She recognized me from the ritual, from the firelight and the chanting and the moment I said nothing as that young man stepped into the center of that circle. A version of me exists in her mind now. A silhouette shaped by secrets and half-light and tomorrow, she wants to meet her.
Elias’s quiet, but I can feel the resistance like static in the air between us. He’s holding it in, maybe because he knows he can’t stop me or maybe because he’s not sure if he should.
“What if this is how they pull people deeper?” he murmurs. “Start friendly. Build the trust. Then they ask you to give something up.”
“Then I’ll give her just enough,” I say, “until she gives me something real.”
“She’s cautious,” Elias says.
“She’s baiting,” I counter, but the words don’t land with conviction. I can’t tell yet. I don’t know if I want her to be dangerous or just lost. One is easier to confront. The other… might mean Ruth really had a chance. I lean back in my chair, eyes still glued to the message like it’ll shift if I blink too long.
“I’ll go,” I say.
Elias hums low, like he’s already preparing for battle. “You could wear a hidden mic and GPS bracelet.”
“You’ll be close, right?”
His eyes meet mine, sharp and unreadable. “Always.”
And just like that, the fear loosens in my chest—only slightly, but enough to breathe. I stare at the message one last time before typing my reply. I need to be measured. Gentle.
Thank you. Which cafe were you thinking?
I don’t hit send immediately. I glance back at Elias, his arms still crossed, jaw the usual tightness. He looks like he’s bracing for a punch that hasn’t landed yet.
“It will be fine,” I whisper, but in my gut, I know this is a step off that ledge. I hit Send. The reply disappears into the digital ether, and the screen stares back at me like it’s waiting to see if I flinch.
There’s a little place in Halloway called the Pear & Birch. Tomorrow, 4pm?
Just a meeting. Just talk.
Tomorrow, I meet Raina.
Tomorrow, the door opens wider.
Maybe that’s exactly what Ruth thought too.
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We’ve been parked here for twenty minutes, maybe longer. The engine’s off, but the car still carries the heat from the drive, its interior warm, like it’s trying to keep us suspended in a moment neither of us wants to admit is real. Outside, Halloway hums at a pace just slightly too slow for comfort. The café is across the street, all chipped paint and crooked charm. A hanging sign creaks faintly in the breeze: Pear & Birch. A little bell hangs above the red-painted door—scuffed from years of use, but still bright enough to catch the eye. The windows are fogged from the inside, glowing amber with light that spills over rows of worn wooden tables and mismatched chairs. A single plant in the window.
Elias sits beside me, hands loose on his knees. His coffee’s long gone cold, forgotten in the cupholder. I can feel his gaze every so often, flicking toward me, then away. He’s letting me have silence. He’s always been good at that—giving quiet without making it feel like absence. I stare down at my hands, knuckles pale. My nails are bare, trimmed short. Nothing about me screams believer, but the disguise runs deeper than hair dye and soft clothes. My voice has to shift. My posture. The role is supposed to feel like armor, but today it clings to my skin like wet fabric. Every breath feels like it might give me away.
I glance at the café again. Through the front window, I catch a silhouette. Could be Raina.
“She saw me,” I say. “At the fire.”
“I know.”
“She remembered.”
“She was meant to,” Elias says, his voice lower now. “You were the newest member.”
He shifts, turning slightly to face me.
“She could be dangerous,” he murmurs.
“So could I.”
He huffs out a dry laugh, but there’s no amusement in it, only tension, stretched tight between us, one thread away from fraying.
“Dalia,” he says.
I look at him. His mouth is a line. His eyes are oceans that could swallow me whole.
“If something doesn’t feel right—anything—get out.”
The air is thick between us now, heavy with things unspoken and I reach for the door handle.
“I’ll be careful,” I nod. He doesn’t stop me, but as I step out, I feel his gaze like a hand on my back—steady, tethering, warm. I close my eyes and I am no longer Dalia Rowe.
I am a wound, looking for light.
ns216.73.216.30da2
