Online, everyone believes what they want to see.
It’s early—early enough that the rest of the precinct still smells like overnight coffee and unspoken exhaustion. There is no chatter or paperwork rustle, just the low buzz of machinery and the sharp click of a keyboard in motion. Kelsi’s already here. Perched on her rolling stool like a vulture in a graphic tee, black nail polish chipped, red roots overdue, she doesn’t look up as I enter. She just keeps typing, fingers flying like the keyboard offended her personally.
“I thought you slept in shifts now,” I say.
She snorts. “I did. Ninety minutes. Long enough to dream about servers catching fire and someone asking if I’d turned them off and on again.”
The room hums low around us—rows of monitors, half-lit server racks, cords twisted like nerves across the floor. The air’s dry and cold and carries the metallic scent of overworked electronics. Processors rattling, internal fans threatening to revolt. I sit beside Kelsi’s desk, drag my fingers over my temple.
Elias walks in, coffee in hand, collar crooked. He looks like he got dressed in the dark and skipped a shave on purpose. He doesn’t meet my eyes. The tension from yesterday still clings to us like static—faint, buzzing, inconvenient.
“Alright. Are you ready?”
Both me and Elias lean forward, unconsciously synced.
“The profile’s clean,” Kelsi continues, flipping a pen between two fingers. “Female. Mid-30s. Bookish. Single mom. No red flags.”
Elias raises a brow. “Why a woman?”
Kelsi sighs. “Because online cult spaces are more likely to engage with women who seem vulnerable. Single mothers, women seeking community, grief groups—that’s their sweet spot. Men draw suspicion. You look like a cop or a troll, and you’re out.”
It always comes down to who looks breakable.
“The account’s been warming for a while,” she adds. “I’ve joined about a dozen spiritual groups over the past three months. Yoga meetups, crystal healing, parenting support. I even commented on a few prayer threads so it wouldn’t seem too clean. The algorithm thinks she’s lost and searching.”
“Perfect,” I say, impressed with Kelsi.
Elias gives her a crooked grin. “Remind me to never cross you.”
She smirks. “Too late.”
Kelsi spins back to her monitor and pulls up Facebook. The screen blinks, then loads the Church of Reclamation’s private Facebook group.
Closed Group
Followers: 213
Group Rules: No hate, no doubt, no disruption. We speak light into the darkness.
The request to join is already pending under our fake account.
“Shouldn’t take long,” Kelsi mutters. While we wait, Elias shifts his weight beside me. His coffee’s cold. I know that because he hasn’t taken a sip in five minutes. He’s just holding it like something solid might anchor the moment.
“Let’s lay it out again,” I say. “Everything. In order.”
Elias doesn’t argue. Kelsi hums faintly in the background, probably to stay awake. Every few minutes I check the screen. Nothing.
Then it happens. A soft ping.
Request Approved.
The fake account is now a member. Posts load in reverse order, newest at the top. Most of them are vague quotes, grainy photos of gatherings, or questions about upcoming “Communion Circles.” The comments are riddled with praise-hands emojis and odd phrases.
Kelsi lets me take the mouse and I scroll slowly, methodically, fingers hovering.
Upcoming Gathering
“🌒 The faithful will convene beneath open sky. Our next Guidance Night is set:
Friday. 8:00 PM.
Location: Dunhaven Glade, Riverbend County
Dress light. Bring only what you can carry.
No doubt. He moves through us all. 🌘”
— J. Vale
Elias reads it over my shoulder and his sudden closeness startles me. “Dunhaven Glade?”
I nod, eyes trained on the screen. “Probably middle of nowhere. It says beneath open sky.”
We both stare at the post a moment longer. There’s no RSVP list or contact number.
Kelsi turns in her chair. “Want me to try tracing the group’s admin? J. Vale?”
“Jonas. Let me know if you find anything useful,” I respond to Kelsi.
Dunhaven Glade. Friday, one week. This gives us time. Not much, but enough to prepare. I reach for my phone and make a quick note.
Then, as we stand to leave, I feel Elias’s gaze flick toward me—something thoughtful behind it.
“What?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Just wondering how I’m going to pack for a cult retreat.”
I give him a small smile.
We say bye to Kelsi and move into the meeting room to discuss strategy. It’s one of the smaller ones on the second floor, barely larger than a break room, walls washed in that nauseating shade of beige. The table’s warped in the middle, chairs unmatched. There’s a single whiteboard in the corner, stained with the ghosts of past notes no one ever really erased.
I’ve got the laptop open, map spread beside it, flyer from the community center pinned under my phone. Dunhaven Glade—also called North Hollow Grounds, according to the county records—sits twenty miles into the rural edge of Riverbend County. Forest-bound. Seems to be off the grid.
“People rent it for yoga retreats and rustic weddings,” I say, scanning the bookings history. “But not much activity in the past year. Local group handles bookings.”
Elias traces a finger along the dirt road that cuts through the trees. “Isolated. Perfect for a cult meetup.”
He exhales slowly through his nose. The sound is more a warning than a breath. “We can’t just walk in. If they realize we are cops, we compromise the case. Worse—we don’t know what these people do behind closed doors.”
“I’m not suggesting we walk in guns blazing,” I say, sharper than I mean to be.
“You want to go in.”
He says it flat, but the edge beneath the calm gives him away.
I sigh. “You know we won’t get a warrant on Jonas Vale’s property. If it’s all talk and singing under the stars, the DA won’t care. We don’t have concrete evidence tying him to Ruth. But if we go in and see something—hear something…”
His jaw tenses. He turns, paces a few steps, then swings back around.
“It should be me,” I add quietly. “If they see you, they will see a cop.”
“You think you’re less visible?” he asks, his hands in a fist.
“No. I think I’m better at being what they want to see.”
His eyes search my face, but I keep it blank. There’s too much truth under the surface, and I don’t trust myself not to spill it.
Finally, he nods. Once. “We prep for entry. But not alone. You go in and I stay close. If you so much as blink wrong, I’m dragging you out.”
“You’ll spook them.”
“I’d rather spook them than lose you.”
I open my mouth then think better of it. Instead, I gather the papers, slip the flyer into the folder, shut the laptop a little too hard.
“It’s a week away,” I say. “That gives us time. Research, supplies, hotel. I’ll reach out to the local sheriff’s office, quietly. Let them know we’re running something out there, just in case.”
Elias doesn’t respond right away. He’s looking down at the floor, brow furrowed.
“You think Ruth made it out there?” he asks finally.
“No. I have little hope Ruth is still alive.”
Elias straightens. “We go in together. But I mean it—one wrong sign, and I pull you out.”
I meet his gaze. “Fine.”
I’d rather spook them than lose you.
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