I walk through the front entrance with the weight of a sleepless night in my spine.
The warmth of the cabin, of Elias, is already slipping from my skin like water. All that’s left is the tension coiled tight between my shoulders and the echo of Jonas Vale’s voice. I’m halfway through the glass doors to my desk when Hutchins looks up from the front desk and lifts a hand. “Detective Rowe.”
His voice cuts clean across the lobby. He’s holding a manila envelope, the station's address printed out in a neat font in the middle.
“Came in this morning,” he says as I approach.
“Who dropped it?”
Hutchins hands me the envelope. “The postman.”
My stomach tightens. I take the envelope from him and hold it at the edges, wondering whether I should get it screened for fingerprints, even though deep down I know it won't yield anything. The envelope isn't addressed directly to me or Elias and I'm about to ask Hutchins why he thinks its for me when I see it. The other side says 'FARMHOUSE' on it.
I should wait for Elias but my curiosity takes over. The seal fights me as I peel it open with one thumb, careful not to tear it. Inside, there's one piece of thick cream-colored paper, almost card stock. There's nothing on it. No writing or signature, just a blank piece of paper.
I open the envelope wider. The hallway tilts slightly beneath my feet.
“Dalia?”
I don’t turn immediately. The voice is familiar in a way that used to be comforting, but isn't anymore. I stiffen, tucking the paper back into the envelope before turning. He’s standing at the end of the corridor, holding a brown paper bag in one hand and two coffees in a cardboard tray with the other. Dressed casual—faded shirt, sleeves rolled. His brown hair is too neat, the kind of neat that means he’s trying. I used to love that about him. The way he cared about showing up.
Markus. The door glides shut behind him with a hiss. He is smiling like this isn’t the first time he’s done this, like we’re still the couple who does brunch on Sundays. He steps forward, and I don’t move. I let him hand me the bag—warm, egg sandwich, probably with rye—and I force a thin smile. My usual, back when I still had one.
“Markus.” I keep my voice neutral, measured. “What are you doing here?”
He shrugs, like it should be obvious. “You haven't been home. I texted. I figured—I don’t know, maybe this was one of those long weeks. Thought I’d swing by.”
I didn't go home after the trip to Dunhaven Glade. I couldn't.
I force a smile. “Thanks. You didn’t have to.”
He nods. “You look tired.”
Movement catches my eye and I see Elias walking up to the entrance of the station. His footsteps are deliberate, soft but solid as he walks through, a stack of files under one arm, a half-drunk coffee in the other. He waves to Hutchins, an easy smile playing on his lips.
“Morning,” Elias says as he walks past the two of us.
Markus glances over, slightly turning towards him. “Morning.”
The way he says it is too smooth. I can hear it in the undertone, the weight behind the syllables. I wonder if Elias hears it too.
Markus shifts again, eyes flicking to the envelope still in my hand. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Just casework,” I say automatically. I'm annoyed he is here.
Markus nods, but it doesn’t sit right. “Well… I’ll let you get back to it.”
He leans in slightly, just enough for the scent of his aftershave to hit me—a citrusy cologne. I hate the smell of it.
“Text me later?” he asks.
“Sure.”
Markus leaves, figure vanishing through the precinct doors like he was never here in the first place. I watch him go, then awkwardly catch up to Elias at my office desk.
“You okay?” he asks. I pass him the envelope in response. He takes it, brows knitting as he pulls the paper out. His jaw tightens, and his fingers flex once before handing it back. There's a twitch in his fingers like he’s fighting the urge to crumple it.
“This is bold,” Elias says finally, staring at the second item that was inside the envelope. A photo.
Of Ruth Quinn.
She’s standing near the edge of a circle—campfire smoke curling around her shoulders like mist. Her ginger hair is longer than in the ID photo. Eyes wide. She’s wearing a threadbare dress, something floral, sleeves uneven. The firelight casts a bruised glow across one side of her face. People surround her, some sitting, some standing, but she’s the only one looking directly at the camera. Not with fear.
Belief.
“Looks similar to the Dunhaven gathering,” Elias murmurs.
I take the photo from his hand, fingers brushing his. The paper is matte and heavy, not printed from a home computer—this was processed, chosen, delivered.
Elias shakes his head as he turns the envelope, looking for more clues. ”They know."
I ignore the comment.
“She was there,” I say. “Alive.”
“Dalia, the envelope says farmhouse,” Elias looks at me with an intensity I don't want to acknowledge right now. “And there is a photo of Ruth.”
“They want us to know,” I say slowly.
"You don't wanna hear it, do you?"
“Kelsi might be able to run comparisons. If we can match faces from old gatherings, we can build a pattern.”
Elias frowns. "Dalia—"
I point to the slightly blurry person behind Ruth on the photo. "That looks like Vale."
Elias grabs my left shoulder. He isn't rough but the contact shocks me, like electricity running through wire.
"She is dead, Dalia. She is quite likely the woman in the farmhouse we couldn't identify."
It's my turn to frown at him. "We don't know that."
"Regardless," Elias lets go of my shoulder. "This is a threat."
I fold my arms in front of me. "What's up with you?"
He doesn’t say anything, just watches me for a moment longer. "Let's go to Kelsi."
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Kelsi is mid-mouthful of granola when we barge into her office, slightly breathless from the conversation with Elias. I can still feel the weight of the envelope in my hands, even though Elias is the one carrying it now. I trail behind him like a ghost of my own nerves.
Kelsi's fingers freeze above her keyboard, spoon dangling from the other hand. She glances between us and the envelope in Elias’s hand. “Please tell me that’s not another antique murder postcard.”
“No,” I say. “Worse.”
Elias drops the envelope on her desk. She wipes her fingers on a napkin and slides the photo from the sleeve like she’s opening a cursed letter. The second she sees Ruth, her expression changes. No more snark. Just a quiet, focused narrowing of the eyes.
“Where’d this come from?”
“Postman dropped it off,” I reply. “Said 'farmhouse' on the envelope, so Hutchins knew it was our case.”
Kelsi spins her chair to her workstation and sets the photo gently beneath her document camera. The light glints off the image as she pulls it up onscreen, her fingers already dancing across the keyboard like she’s trying to beat the image into compliance. Lines sharpen. Faces come into focus.
“Damn.” Kelsi mutters.
I fold my arms, eyes locked on the screen. “Someone inside the Church of Reclamation is keeping tabs.”
Kelsi clicks twice, and the screen flares to life with the photos Elias took. The resolution improves again, pulling the background faces into jagged half-clarity. Most of them are blurred—just indistinct enough to escape recognition. Then, Kelsi pulls up the picture of Ruth from the envelope right next to it.
Kelsi points to a woman—late thirties, maybe early forties, curly brown hair pulled into a messy bun, expression soft.
“She’s looking at Ruth,” I say slowly.
“You’ve seen her before,” Kelsi nods at her. She taps another key. The image vanishes, replaced by another still pulled from Elias’s footage at the last cult gathering. It’s darker—firelight flickering, faces half-shadowed—but she’s there. Same woman. Same bun. This time, her hands are raised in front of her chest in an open-palmed prayer gesture.
“She was there,” Elias mutters. “Last Friday. Same woman. That’s… four years apart.”
“Same person,” I confirm. “No doubt.”
Kelsi splits the screen and lays the two images side by side. Even with the differences in lighting, posture, and context, it’s unmistakable.
"Let's find her." Kelsi pulls up the fake Facebook page and after a few clicks, we have our person. The woman, called Raina Ellery, had been circling this group for a long time.
The screen shifts again—this time to Raina's Facebook profile. It’s curated with intent. Every picture looks casual, but lands just shy of posed. A mix of spiritual imagery, wellness quotes, and cryptic mentions of the Church. She writes like someone who wants to be seen as both enlightened and unreachable.
Kelsi scrolls faster now. “She reposts Vale’s writings. Replies to comments like she’s moderating.”
“She’s going to be at the next gathering,” I say. “That’s not a question.”
I tap my fingers against the edge of Kelsi’s desk, mind spiraling into motion. The profile is just a shell, but I know better. I’ve seen that kind of shell up close. People who hide in plain sight, wear serenity like armor, who speak in soft syllables while moving bodies in the dark.
“If she saw me last time,” I say, “and she’s in with the inner circle—then we need her to trust me.”
“Dalia,” Elias warns.
“She won’t trust a stranger,” I say. “But maybe she’ll talk to someone who was chosen by Vale before.”
There’s a pause. Not silence—Kelsi’s server rack is humming, her screens flickering—but the emotional kind. Elias doesn’t like this. He doesn’t have to say it.
Kelsi swivels lazily in her chair, one boot hooked on a drawer handle, nail polish half-flaked and unapologetic. “You’re talking about walking up to a senior cult member and saying what? ‘Hi, loved your emotionally manipulative confession ritual. Want to get coffee?’”
I glance at her. “Subtlety’s not your strong suit, is it?”
“Sweetheart, I work in a bunker full of blinking lights and surveillance spiders. If subtlety paid my rent, I’d be homeless.”
Elias runs a hand down his jaw. “We don’t know what she’s capable of.”
“We didn’t know what Jonas was capable of either,” I shoot back. “And he picked me out of a crowd.”
“Exactly,” Elias snaps. “You think that was a coincidence? You think you can just walk into the den again and hope Raina plays nice?”
“I don’t hope,” I say flatly. “I calculate risk. And this one’s worth it.”
Kelsi cocks her head, watching me. Her eyes are sharp despite the smudged eyeliner, reading every microshift in my posture.
“She looked at Ruth like she meant something,” I add. “If there’s any way to know what happened to her—to stop this from happening to anyone else—then it is worth the risk.”
Kelsi leans back, her expression unreadable. Elias doesn't speak. Maybe he hoped there would be more time between the last cult meeting and the next.
“I’m not asking for permission,” I add, quieter now.
Kelsi lets out a low breath and rolls her chair back to the keyboard. “Fine. Let's message her.”
Elias still hasn’t said anything. Not directly.
I turn to him. “Say it.”
He shakes his head. “No.”
“Say it anyway.”
Elias studies me with that same unreadable stillness he wears like a second skin. But I know him better. Enough to see the twitch of his jaw, the slight drag of his thumb across his knuckles. He’s holding something back. Maybe a dozen things.
“She could be bait,” he says finally. “You know that, right? She might be nothing. Or worse, she might be exactly what they want you to find.”
I nod. “I know.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “And you're still going to message her.”
“Yes.”
Kelsi mutters, “Well, someone has to be the match in this powder keg.”
She scrolls, clicks. The screen lights up brighter than before. I turn to Elias again, steadier this time. “If it were me in that photo—if it were someone you cared about—you’d do the same.”
He doesn't respond and that's answer enough for me.
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