She thinks she’s being subtle.
Dalia believes the burner phone covers her, that if she powers it only in brief windows—never on the grid too long—she’s safe. But she’s still using departmental protocols. Still pinging the same towers in patterns.
And I know her too well.
“Whatever this is,” Kelsi mutters from her desk, eyes still locked on her screen as she slides me the flash drive, “don’t let Locke find out you’re playing watchdog.”
I pocket the drive, guilt already eating at my chest. “I owe you one.”
“You owe me three,” she corrects without looking up. “I take payment in the form of energy drinks.”
I wait until I’m home to plug it in, hands shaking slightly as the data loads. I tell myself this isn’t stalking—this is partnership. This is watching out for someone who’s clearly lost perspective. But the lie tastes bitter even as I think it.
Dalia’s burner pinged the cell towers three times this week. Always short windows—never more than fifteen minutes. Always the same cluster of towers on the south end of Old Mill Road, near the industrial district where legitimate cops don’t usually have business at 3 am.
The last ping was Friday morning, 3:42 to 3:58 am. Sixteen minutes. It explains why she showed up to the precinct after 10:30, missing our morning briefing with Locke entirely. Dark circles under her eyes. Coffee shakes in her hands. The careful way she’d avoided looking at me when I asked if she was okay.
I cross-reference the tower data with traffic camera feeds—a tedious process that takes me most of the evening. The cameras in that area are either broken or positioned for monitoring truck routes, not passenger vehicles. I find one angle from an intersection camera that caught a sedan matching her plates turning onto Mill Road at 9:44 pm. From there, it’s process of elimination. Gas station. A random warehouse. Self-storage facility.
And tucked behind an overgrown tree line—a low-slung motel, the kind of place that still takes cash and doesn’t ask questions. The Pineview Lodge. A faded sign and a flickering vacancy light that’s probably been blinking since the place opened.
Dalia’s smart enough not to leave a paper trail. If she’s staying somewhere off the books, she’s paying cash. Probably using a fake name. The realization hits me like cold water: she’s not just avoiding Locke’s oversight. She’s operating like she wants to infiltrate again.
It’s why I’m parked across the street at 11:47 pm, watching Room 217 glow like a secret someone didn’t bury deep enough.
I don’t get out. Not yet. I sit in the dark with the engine off, fingers drumming against the steering wheel, trying to convince myself I’m not crossing a line I can’t uncross. My eyes trace the light spilling through cheap vertical blinds—too yellow, too warm for fluorescent bulbs.
Inside that room, I can picture her sitting cross-legged on the floor. Papers spread around her like tarot cards. Half a takeout container growing cold on the nightstand. She’s probably got her caseboard set up, red string connecting photos, maps marked with thumbtacks. Her own private cathedral of obsession.
I shift in my seat, pulse ticking against my collar. There’s no protocol for this. No manual for what to do when your partner starts building shadow investigations in motel rooms and stops showing up to briefings with actual work. Locke’s been breathing down both our necks since she transferred in from Major Crimes, and Everett’s just relieved Dalia isn’t openly defying orders anymore.
She’s not compliant because she’s accepted defeat. She’s quiet because she’s planning something that’s going to destroy her career. Maybe worse.
I check the time again. 11:49 PM. Past the hour when most people are settling into bed or pretending they’re not afraid of tomorrow. My hand hovers over the door handle. I should wait until morning. Call first, give her a chance to explain before I ambush her with evidence of my surveillance.
But I know better. If I wait, she’ll be gone. Maybe not tomorrow, but soon. She’ll walk into that commune and disappear just like all the others, and I’ll spend the rest of my life wondering if I could have stopped it.
I reach into the glove compartment for my badge—not because I’ll need it for identification, but because the weight of it in my palm feels like permission. Like I’m still a cop doing cop work, not a man whose judgment has been compromised by feelings he can’t name.
The wind hits harder when I step out of the car. Cold and damp, heavy with the smell of pine sap and old asphalt. Winter’s coming early this year. Each step across the gravel lot feels deliberate, irrevocable. A decision that changes everything that comes after.
I look up at the building—a relic from the fifties, all flat lines and faded paint. The kind of place where people go to disappear for a while. No security cameras I can see or night clerk visible through the office window. Perfect for someone who needs to stay invisible.
I knock once on her door. Quiet—not the authoritative rap of a cop, but something softer. More personal. Silence stretches long enough that I wonder if I got the wrong room.
The lock clicks and the door opens just enough for her to see me. Dalia. Her dyed hair’s down, loose around her shoulders in a way I rarely see at work. She’s wearing an oversized black hoodie that makes her look younger, more fragile than the composed detective I know. Her expression is unreadable—a careful mask she wears when she’s already calculating three moves ahead.
She doesn’t greet me, just sighs—long and resigned—and steps back from the doorway.
I walk in.
The room smells like old carpet and instant coffee, but underneath that—citrus shampoo. The space is small, cramped, but she’s made it functional. There’s a small desk shoved against the far wall, and mounted above it—a caseboard that takes my breath away.
Photos. Maps. Timeline charts. Red string connecting disparate pieces of evidence like neural pathways in a brain that’s been thinking too hard, too long. This isn’t just a side project or weekend hobby. This is a full investigation, complete and methodical. Much better than the one we have at the precinct.
Dalia closes the door behind me, and I hear the soft click of the lock sliding back into place. I take a step toward the board, hands buried deep in my coat pockets to keep them from shaking.
“You did all this yourself?” The question comes out softer than I intended, almost reverent.
She leans back against the door, arms crossed defensively. “Not like Locke was going to approve overtime for a case she’s determined to bury.”
I scan the photos—surveillance shots of Amberfield’s transport trucks, receipts with timestamps, a blurry image of Raina stepping off a bus. Locations circled in red marker. Names connected with careful lines. It’s thorough and professional.
“You think the commune’s the center of everything,” I say, not really a question.
“I know it is.” Her voice carries absolute certainty. “Amberfield Logistics is just a cover. The trucks don’t just make deliveries.”
I drag a hand over my face, feeling the weight of her obsession, the dangerous precision of it. “You should have told me.”
Her smile is sharp, humorless. “Would you have let me keep going?”
“I would have helped you.” The words come out more honest than I intended.
“And risked Locke pulling you off the case?” Her voice sharpens for just a moment before she controls it. “It’s my fault she’s breathing down our necks. I couldn’t justify dragging you down with me.”
“I don’t care about Locke.”
“Well, I do.” She pushes off from the door. “I care about your career. Your reputation.”
I look at her. The hoodie’s wrinkled like she’s been sleeping in it. There’s a faint redness around her eyes. Her hands are trembling slightly, barely noticeable unless you know to look for it. She’s running on adrenaline and stubbornness, probably hasn’t eaten a real meal in days.
“You’re going in, aren’t you?” The question sits heavy between us.
She doesn’t answer immediately, just exhales through her nose—a sound I recognize as her trying to buy time to choose her words carefully.
I step closer, voice dropping to almost a whisper. “Dalia, you can’t infiltrate that place alone.”
Her gaze lifts to meet mine, and for a moment I see past the careful control to the raw determination underneath. “I have to. It’s the only way.”
“No, it’s not. There are other options—”
“I already filed my resignation,” she says, the words hitting me like a physical blow.
I go completely still. “You what?”
“I gave Everett a month’s notice yesterday. He wasn’t exactly thrilled.” She moves past me toward the caseboard, trailing the scent of her shampoo.
“No shit he wasn’t thrilled,” I breathe, my chest feeling tight. “Jesus, Dalia, you’re serious about this.”
She nods, studying the photos pinned to the board like she’s memorizing them. “They won’t stop the investigation just because I’m gone, but this gives me the freedom to move without department oversight.”
“To do what exactly? Find Ruth? Burn the entire commune to the ground?”
She looks over her shoulder, and there’s something in her eyes that makes my blood run cold. The kind of look that says she’s already made peace with not coming back.
“Dalia—”
“I know what I’m doing, Elias.”
“No, you don’t.” My voice cracks, betraying more emotion than I intended. “You think you do, but these people—this place—it’s not just some religious community. They are fanatics who murder people like it’s their hobby. You think you can walk in there and somehow be the exception?”
Her eyes flash with something between anger and pain. “You think I haven’t already survived worse? I wake up every night hearing Wren’s voice calling for help from someplace I can’t reach. I can’t sleep, Elias. I can barely function. I’m just pretending to hold it together long enough to finish this.”
The raw honesty in her voice hits me like a punch to the chest.
“I promise I’ll come back if I can.”
I should say more. Should fight harder. Should grab her by the shoulders and shake her until she sees how insane this plan is. She’s standing so close I can feel the warmth radiating from her skin, and it’s making it hard to think clearly.
She doesn’t move away. Neither do I. We exist in this fragile moment where everything is balanced on the edge of collapse. Her expression isn’t hard tonight. The armor she usually wears is down, leaving her looking exhausted and raw and heartbreakingly human.
“I filed the divorce papers,” she says suddenly, the words quiet but clear.
I blink, the statement hitting me like a curveball. “What?”
“With Markus. I’m divorcing him.” She looks down at her hands, then back up at me. “I filed them yesterday, same day as my resignation.”
It’s not relief that hits me first—it’s guilt. Sharp and immediate and ugly. The selfish part of me that’s been hoping, waiting, wanting something I had no right to want.
I swallow hard, not trusting my voice. Not knowing what to say that won’t reveal too much of what I’ve been feeling, what I’ve been carrying around like a secret weight for longer than I care to admit.
The silence stretches between us, heavy. She’s watching me, and I can feel her gaze like a physical touch. There’s something different in her expression—softer, more open than I’ve seen in months. Like the walls she keeps up at work have finally cracked.
“Elias,” she says quietly, and just the way she says my name makes something shift in my chest.
I take a half-step closer without meaning to. She doesn’t back away. The space between us feels charged, dangerous. We’re standing in a cheap motel room at midnight, surrounded by evidence of her obsession, and all I can think about is how badly I want to reach for her.
“You tracked me down,” Dalia says, but there’s no accusation in it.
“I was worried about you.” The words come out rougher than I intended.
“Were you?” Something flickers across her face—surprise, maybe.
The question hangs in the air between us. I could lie. Should lie. Give her the safe answer about partnership and professional concern. Her eyes search my face, and I can’t read what she’s looking for.
I could deflect. Change the subject. Go back to talking about her resignation or her suicidal plan. But the exhaustion in her eyes, the way she’s been carrying this burden alone—it breaks something open in my chest.
“I care about you,” I continue, knowing I’m about to destroy the best partnership I’ve ever had. “More than I should.”
I expect her to step away, to put professional distance between us again. To tell me this complicates things, that we can’t work together anymore. I expect disappointment. Her expression is unreadable, and the silence stretches long enough that I start to panic. I’ve ruined everything. Years of partnership, of trust, of—
Her hand finds mine. Fingers brush slow, almost shy, like she doesn’t know if I’ll pull away. I don’t, I couldn’t if I tried. My palm opens and hers fits there like it always should have. The contact sends electricity up my arm, makes my chest tight.
I don’t know what this is. Comfort, maybe. Pity for the partner who just confessed to crossing professional lines. She’s probably trying to soften the blow before she tells me this changes everything between us. But God, even if it’s just sympathy, I can’t stop the way my pulse jumps at her touch, the way every rational thought scatters like leaves.
She lifts her other hand to my face, brushing hair from my forehead. Her knuckles graze my temple and I feel the touch everywhere—down my spine, in my chest, lower. I close my eyes, trying to memorize the sensation because this might be all I get. This woman is going to be the death of me.
But then she moves.
She closes the remaining space between us, pressing her mouth to mine. The kiss is soft at first, hesitant, like she’s testing whether I’ll push her away. Her lips are warm and trembling, and I can taste the uncertainty there, the weight of everything we’re crossing.
My breath catches in my throat as my hands find her waist, tentative at first because I’m terrified of breaking this moment, then surer, pulling her in. Her hoodie bunches under my palms and I can feel the warmth of her skin underneath the fabric.
“Elias,” she sighs against my mouth and it wrecks me completely. The sound of my name on her lips is better than any prayer. I tilt her head back gently, deepen the kiss. One hand slides to the nape of her neck, fingers curling into her hair—it’s softer than I imagined. Her body curves into mine, every point of contact burning. Her hands move too—up my chest, into my collar, anchoring herself to me like I’m anchoring myself to her.
I kiss her again, even slower this time, like if I go too fast, it’ll disappear. Like she’ll remember all the reasons we shouldn’t be doing this.
This must be a fever dream. I may have fallen asleep in the car while staring at the motel door, but her weight against me is too real, too perfect to be anything but truth.
My thumb grazes her cheek, and she shudders. I press a kiss to the corner of her mouth, then her jaw, then just under her ear. Her breath hitches, and the sound goes straight through me. She turns her head slightly, giving me more access, and I take it. Reverently. My mouth grazes the skin just below her earlobe, tasting salt and something uniquely her. Her pulse is fast against my lips. So is mine.
I want everything. Every inch of her. Every secret. Every breath. I want to know what makes her gasp, what makes her arch against me. I want to lose myself in her until there’s no case, no danger, no world outside this room.
My hand skims down her side, feeling the curve of her, the flare of her hip. I’m drowning in the need to touch more, to taste more.
But then her hand flattens on my chest. I freeze, every muscle tensing.
Dalia pulls back just enough to look up at me. Her lips are red, swollen from my kisses.
“Elias,” she whispers. Her voice is small but grounded—like it’s being pulled up from someplace deep. I’m trembling. Actually trembling like I’m some inexperienced teenager instead of a trained operative who’s supposed to have control.
I whisper her name back, just as soft. “Dalia.”
My hand lifts—gentle, tentative—and finds the edge of her jaw. My thumb brushes the corner of her mouth, where her lips are still red, parted slightly like she wants to say something but can’t decide which truth will hurt less.
I want to ask her not to go. I want to beg her to stay. I want to tell her that losing her would destroy me.
I wrap my arms around her and pull her in, our chests pressed together, her face tucked under my chin. Her body is warm, rigid at first, then softening slowly, like she’s letting herself be held for the first time in weeks. Maybe months.
Or years.
I press my cheek against her temple, breathing in the scent of her shampoo. My voice comes out low, hoarse. “Don’t go.”
Her hands tighten against my back, fingers digging into my shirt.
“We can figure this out,” I say, barely above breath. “Together. You don’t have to do this alone.”
She pulls back to meet my eyes. Her hands slide up to rest on either side of my face, and I lean into the touch like a man starved.
“I already made the decision,” she says. Not cold or cruel. Just final.
I shake my head. “We’ll find another way. There has to be one. Locke doesn’t—”
“She’ll never approve another infiltration,” Dalia cuts in.
She’s right. I know she’s right. But that doesn’t make it easier to accept.
“I can still do this, Elias,” Dalia continues. “I can get inside and get us something solid. I just—” Her voice falters. “I need to do this.”
I stare at her, at the lines under her eyes, at the exhaustion in the way her shoulders slump when she forgets to hold them straight. At the determination that’s going to take her away from me.
I lean in and kiss her again. This time, she doesn’t hesitate. It’s sharp and hungry and a little bit broken, the way people kiss when they don’t know what goodbye’s going to look like. Her hands knot in my shirt, tugging me closer until our bodies are flush again, until I can feel every curve of her against me. I walk her back toward the bed, blind to everything but the taste of her mouth, the smell of her skin, the fact that I’ve wanted this—her—for so long it aches.
My hands slide under the hem of her hoodie to touch bare skin. She gasps into my mouth when I grip her tighter, but doesn’t stop me. Her skin is impossibly soft, impossibly warm. Her fingers tangle in my hair, nails scraping lightly against my scalp, and I groan against her lips.
We fall onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs and breath and heat. The springs creak under us, but we don’t care.
“God, Dalia…” I whisper into her skin, and she arches beneath me.
She tilts her head back, and the sound she makes—half laugh, half sigh—is like nothing I’ve ever heard from her. Careless and young and so beautiful it makes my chest tight. I don’t think I’ve ever heard her laugh like that and it only makes me more desperate to learn every sound she can make.
Her breath stutters when I trace my tongue along the column of her throat, then kiss her there, soft but urgent. She is mesmerizing. Perfect. Mine, at least for tonight.
Her finger presses against my lips, gentle but firm, eyes glassy and unreadable in the dim light.
“I’m coming back,” she says.
I nod, heart in my throat, not trusting my voice.
“I promise.”
I believe her. I don’t know if I should, but I do. I have to.
I adjust to lay down on my side, facing towards her and pull her in. She cuddles her head against my chest, and I can feel her heartbeat slowly matching mine. My hand strokes slow patterns into her back, feeling the delicate bones of her spine. Her breathing evens out first.
I refuse to sleep. Instead, I memorize everything—the weight of her in my arms, the warmth of her thigh against mine, the way her hair tickles my chin. The scent of her shampoo. The steady whisper of her breath on my collarbone.
Because I don’t know if I’ll get another night like this.
And I don’t ever want to let her go.
ns216.73.216.10da2
