The walls of the hotel room have started to pulse.
That’s the only word for it—pulse. The cheap beige flower wallpaper breathes, textured and uneven in the lamplight, as if it might exhale and collapse in on me at any second. I haven’t really slept in forty-three hours. Maybe forty-five. The numbers stopped mattering sometime yesterday when I poured cold coffee over my notes and didn’t even bother to clean it up. The stains are still there. Top corner of the commune supply grid, right through the name “Amberfield.”
I cross my legs on the floor. This isn’t a desk job anymore but an excavation. Case files spread like an autopsy, highlighters in colors I didn’t choose. There’s something obsessive in the symmetry I’ve created: post-it notes mapped edge to edge along the mirror, the floor, the windowsill. Pins in a corkboard I nicked from the office. Threads leading to the photo of Ruth. Jonas Vale. Raina.
I stopped using a chair a week ago. The bed’s untouched. I sleep on the floor, when I sleep at all but mostly I just sit. Think. Wait for something to click into place.
The burner phone buzzes against my thigh—no message, just the flicker of battery warning, dim and resentful. I press the power button and let it die.
With a sigh, I reach behind me, digging through the stack of legal folders until my fingers find an envelope. The divorce papers are inside—drafts. Still. I told the lawyer I’d approve them by the end of the week. That was four days ago.
I pull myself up, spine cracking, knees aching. My reflection in the mirror is a smear: hair twisted back in a half-knot, face drawn tight, lips cracked. My coffee-stained shirt’s wrinkled and I can’t even call it white anymore. My skin feels too dry, like it doesn’t fit anymore. I stare at myself until the blur sharpens into someone I recognize.
I pick up my phone to dial Markus’s attorney. I sigh of relief escapes me as it goes to voicemail. I leave the message short and professional. “Hi Pete, It’s Dalia Rowe. I’m ready to proceed. Please email me with the next steps.”
When I hang up, I stare at my phone wallpaper a beat too long. It used to be a family photo of Wren, Markus and me on a road trip, huddled up together laughing, trying to fit it in the picture. I don’t cry. The grief’s gotten quieter lately. Not smaller—just more skilled at hiding in the daylight.
Ten minutes later I’m in the bathroom, sitting on the edge of the tub as I fold my arms around my stomach. The ceramic’s cold beneath me and for a second, I pretend I’m underwater.
I let myself cry a single-thread leak. No sobs, only salt on my cheeks and no one here to see it. When it passes, I get up, wash my face with cold water. Towel off with something thin and dirty beige, stained with makeup. Back in the main room, I grab my phone again—there’s a message draft still open from last night.
Can’t. I think I’m being watched.
I stare at it. Then delete the whole thing. Again. It’s almost comforting now, the ritual of it. Drafting a message. Deleting it. The unsent things feel more honest than anything I’ve said out loud. It’s not fear that stops me, it’s the opposite. I want too much from this—to make her talk, to understand, to find the missing pieces.
My eyes drift to Elias’s name in my messages. He texted me last night—sent over a voice log Locke had pulled from the therapist’s office, Ruth’s final session.
I haven’t listened yet. Instead, I tap out a reply.
Thanks.
I don’t send it. I know where he was last night. It was the first thing Locke said to me this morning at the precinct, trying to rattle me. Bitch.
She did a good job at it as well, because I couldn’t stop thinking about it for the rest of the day. I’d watch like a hawk and listen to every minuscule word uttered between the two of them. I’m so delusional from the sleep deprivation I wonder whether I’ve just hallucinated the whole thing.
My throat tightens. I shouldn’t care as I have no claim. Elias isn’t mine, he’s my partner. He’s my last tether to this case, to reason. He’s kept me from falling off the edge more than once, and I owe him more than I’ve ever said aloud.
I kneel in front of the travel bag I keep stashed beneath the bed and unzip it. Inside are the items that don’t belong to the department: copies of files, private notes, USB drives. I sort through them, labeling them with a date and alias, then sliding them into a reinforced evidence pouch.
Then I pull out my resignation letter. Two copies. One for Everett, one for HR, both signed with my full name, my signature at the bottom taunting me with it’s cursive loops. I fold both into separate envelopes and tuck them away—I’ll deliver it tomorrow. I’ll also need to draft up an e-mail.
The final step of the day is digital. I sit at the edge of the bed and open my laptop, scrub the browser history. Clear cache, temp files, cookies. Then I reroute the motel Wi-Fi through a rotating IP mask I borrowed from Kelsi’s encrypted packet. I do this every single day out of routine. Nothing here will lead back to me once I’m gone.
The sun’s coming up behind the thin motel curtains. I watch the morning edge in through the cracks and for a moment I allow myself to think of Elias, how his golden messy curls remind me of the sunshine.
The laptop hums, open to the file marked AMBERFIELD-VALVE_SPLINTER3. I’ve memorized it by now—the logistics charts, vehicle types, quotes, everything cross-checked against shipping manifests and ghost companies. Raina’s last message is still sitting on the burner.
Tomorrow. 7pm. Same spot.
Soon, I’ll reply to Raina and no one will stop me.
I wonder if Elias would call me reckless.
I have swapped out the license plate on my car in the parking lot. It’s not legal but that doesn’t matter. If Locke’s digging, I want her finding dead ends. Let her focus on Elias, he’s better at playing nice anyway. I’m not built for pretending.
There’s a USB drive plugged into my laptop containing everything I know. Everything I’ve learned off-record, which isn’t much. Case notes. Backup evidence. Transcripts Locke never saw because Kelsi hates her just as much as me. Not entirely professional of the three of us to push Locke out, but if we played by her rules, we would never solve this case. And if I don’t come back, someone has to finish this. Even if it’s not the way I would’ve done it.
It will have to be Elias and Kelsi.
I stash my laptop into the travel bag and slide it under the bed. Not the best hiding place but it will do.
By the time I stand up again, the hotel room looks less like a living space and more like a bunker. One cup on the nightstand that’s been there the last four nights. I leave the burner phone next to it and go back to the caseboard. There’s a photo of Wren I keep at the top right corner—a random photo I took, blurred from motion. I caught it by accident one morning in the kitchen as she was reaching for a mug. Her hair still wet, sunlight dancing across her face. She didn’t know I was watching.
I touch the edge of the image with two fingers.
If they find this room after I’m gone, I want them to know I didn’t vanish. I went in with my eyes open. They’ll never understand what it takes to walk into the dark on purpose.
But I do and I’m ready.
I’m not letting those fuckers take one more victim.
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At some point, I must’ve moved from the desk to the bed, but I don’t remember how or when. The sheets are tangled around my legs, damp with sweat. Another nightmare my mind refuses to remember in order to spare me.
I glance at the clock on the wall. 9.51 am. I’m terribly late.
My laptop glows faintly from the corner of the room, the cursor blinking at the bottom of the drafted email to Everett, resignation attached. It’s not a grand exit. It’s just the only way I know to leave without someone taking the badge from my hand.
I shower like I’m scrubbing off evidence. Pull on a plain navy button-up, black slacks, the same blazer I’ve been wearing for the past week. It’s starting to smell like burnt coffee and gun oil. My badge clips on easily—too easily. It’s become muscle memory.
By the time I get to the precinct, the building’s already alive with phones ringing, voices layered over the low buzz of the old fluorescents. The familiar rhythm of controlled chaos. A world I’ve lived in for too long.
I’m going to miss this.
I move quickly, don’t stop at my desk. Elias isn’t there, which helps. Kelsi’s nowhere in sight. Locke’s probably in the briefing room with them. Good.
Everett’s door is open, so I knock once on the frame and step inside. He doesn’t look up right away, just gestures to come in. With a swift motion, I pull the door closed behind me and sit down in the chair in front of his desk. That’s how he knows something is wrong.
The resignation envelope slides from my fingers onto his desk. Everett looks at it for a long moment before touching it.
“A month?” he says, like the word tastes bad.
I nod once. “Yeah.”
“You’re technically required to give three,” he mutters, scratching his bald head in disbelief.
“And you’ve technically wanted me gone since September, so I figure we’re even.”
His jaw shifts—grinding down the urge to snap. He folds the letter along the center crease and sets it on the desk without looking at me. I stay still. I’ve learned that with Everett, silence moves faster than escalation. Let him stew. Let him realize I’m not giving him a fight.
“I don’t want the others to know,” I add.
“And what should I tell them when they notice you packing up the case files you don’t officially have access to?”
What he just said doesn’t even make sense, but there’s something charming about the Captain’s dramatic antics. Weirdly, I’m going to miss this too.
“I won’t cause you any problems,” I say.
Lies.
His eyes flick up. “I wanted accountability, Rowe.”
I keep my voice level. “Then you should’ve thought twice before bringing in someone who treats this place like spit on the ground.”
“Locke has delivered more procedural compliance in two weeks than you have all year.”
“She’s a blunt instrument,” I agree. “You handed her a scalpel job and told her to amputate.”
“And you think bleeding out slowly is a better outcome?”
No answer to that. Not one that keeps me from getting pulled off the case early, anyway. I shift my weight slightly, back still straight. My hands stay folded on my lap. He watches me the way he used to watch internal reviews—like he’s waiting to hear if something will explode.
“I’m staying until the notice ends,” I say firmly. “I’ll give you everything you need. But when the month is up, I’m gone.”
His eyes stay on me, measuring. Not sympathy—he doesn’t deal in that. Curiosity. Maybe even relief.
Everett exhales through his nose and waves a hand at me, neat and clinical. “Dismissed.”
I leave his office without another word.
Well, that went better than expected.
The envelope’s out of my hands now. It’s real. Permanent. The kind of clean cut that doesn’t bleed until you’re already miles away from the wound. And still, my fingers tremble.
I push into the breakroom and let the door close behind me. The space is empty. I press the heel of my palm against my sternum like it might calm the flutter. I need coffee.
It’s not fresh, but at least it’s hot. I pour a cup mostly to have something to hold and the ceramic mug warms my skin, anchoring me.
Out the window, a single car pulls into the parking lot outside. Elias’s. His silhouette in the driver’s seat still for a second too long before he turns off the engine. I wonder where he has been.
Did she touch you?
Did you let her?
Did you like it?
The questions grind their way into my spine and it makes me want to scream.
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