The room feels wrong without her.
Not just empty—fundamentally wrong. The kind of wrongness you feel in your bones before your brain catches up, like a frequency pitched just below human hearing. Atmospheric pressure dropping before a storm. Too quiet for this time of morning, even for a budget motel where silence is supposed to be standard.
I haven’t moved yet. Still sitting up in bed with my hand dragging down my face, trying not to acknowledge how cold the sheets are on her side. Not poetically cold—just lifeless, like she was never here at all. Like I dreamed her warmth, her weight beside me, and the dream ended when my alarm dragged me back to reality.
I stare at the dent in the pillow where her head should be. The fabric’s still creased from her body, holding the ghost impression of her shape. The faint scent of her shampoo clings to the pillowcase—citrus and something herbal that makes my chest ache. I want to bury my face in it and breathe deep until my lungs burn. Instead, I just sit here, elbows braced on knees, staring at the worn carpet like it might reveal what I did wrong.
Day three.
I check my phone for what has to be the hundredth time since dawn. No messages. No missed calls. The silence from her end is complete, absolute.
I tell myself this is normal for Dalia. She doesn’t check in, doesn’t leave breadcrumbs when she’s working a case. That self-contained focus is part of what makes her brilliant at this job. But this doesn’t feel like calculated professional distance.
This feels like a hole torn in the world.
I drag myself upright and stumble toward the kitchenette on legs that feel disconnected from my body. I make coffee—burnt, black, bitter enough to strip paint. She always said it tasted like regret in liquid form. I drain half a mug anyway, letting it sit like acid in my empty stomach.
Leaning against the counter, I stare out the rain-fogged window at the parking lot. A minivan pulls in—some family traveling too early, probably trying to beat traffic. I watch the father in the driver’s seat rub exhaustion from his eyes while kids tumble out the sliding door, their laughter cutting through the gray morning like knives.
I shower. Dress. Standard uniform—button-down shirt, pressed slacks, badge clipped to my belt like armor I don’t deserve to wear. The mirror reflects someone who looks like he’s playing dress-up, pretending to be human. I splash cold water on my face and brace my hands against the sink, head bowed. Water drips from my chin in slow, irregular beats.
I gather what I need and head out. The motel door closes behind me with a soft snick that sounds like finality. The rain has softened to a fine mist. I unlock my car and slide into the driver’s seat, muscle memory taking over. Turn the key. The engine rumbles to life.
I know who I need to see.
Dalia and Markus used to live on the east end of town. Now it’s just Markus.
Big craftsman-style house with pale blue siding and ivy that keeps trying to reclaim the brick foundation. It’s a nice place—too nice for him, if I’m being completely honest. A little too well-maintained, like he spends more energy pruning hedges than actually living inside the house. Grief wears differently on different people. On him, it looks like curated normalcy, everything arranged to suggest a life that’s moving forward.
I slow to a crawl as I approach the driveway. No car visible, just a soggy newspaper someone forgot to bring in and a half-dead potted plant by the front steps. All the curtains are drawn tight against the gray morning.
The last time I was here, wine was already open before I made it through the front door. I’d brought Dalia jam from the farmer’s market—some ridiculous flavor she’d mentioned wanting to try. That dinner feels like it happened in another lifetime.
I kill the engine and sit in the sudden silence, hand still on the keys, jaw clenched tight enough to make my temples ache.
I don’t hate Markus. That’s the worst part of this. I want to hate him—God knows he makes it easy sometimes—but I don’t. I pity him instead. Maybe that’s worse.
I knock twice. Solid, deliberate knocks that don’t pretend this is a casual social call.
Nothing.
I’m raising my hand to knock again when the door finally creaks open.
Markus stands there in wrinkled sweatpants and a half-zipped hoodie, barefoot on his own threshold. Hair sticking up like he just rolled out of bed. Eyes sunken deep enough to cast shadows, like he hasn’t slept properly in days. There’s the beginning of a beard he normally wouldn’t let grow in, patchy and unkempt.
We stare at each other for several seconds too long.
“Elias,” he says, blinking like I’ve pulled him out of a dream. “This is… early.”
“It’s nearly noon.”
He glances back into the house like he needs to verify this against a clock.
I nod toward the hallway behind him. “Can I come in?”
He hesitates—not out of rudeness, more like someone trying to remember social protocols. Then he steps aside, gesturing me into the house.
The interior smells like microwaved leftovers. The living room looks exactly the same as it did months ago—same framed drawings lining the walls, same overstuffed couch Dalia used to sink into like it owed her comfort. But everything feels slightly off, like a movie set dressed to look lived-in but missing the actual life.
Markus doesn’t offer coffee. Doesn’t sit down or invite me to.
I stand near the edge of the hallway rug and cut straight to why I’m here.
“She’s gone.”
His frown is more confusion than concern. “Dalia?”
I nod. “Three days now. No messages, no calls. She hasn’t been to work.”
Markus shrugs with the kind of casual dismissal that makes my teeth clench. “That’s not exactly new territory for her. She’s always been like that when she gets focused on something. You know how she is.”
“Three days,” I repeat, letting the weight of that timeline hang between us.
He leans against the wall, arms crossed defensively. “So? If she doesn’t want to be found, she won’t be. Isn’t disappearing what she does best?”
Something sharp and hot flickers behind my ribs.
“She’s still your wife, Markus.” The words taste bitter coming out.
“Estranged wife,” he snaps back. “And she filed for divorce, in case you haven’t heard. She’s been gone for weeks already.”
That catches me off guard.
“You’re still listed as her emergency contact,” I press. “Still her legal next of kin. If you haven’t seen her, if there’s a chance she’s actually missing, you should have reported it by now.”
He scoffs, the sound harsh in the quiet room. “She left me, Elias. Walked out of here with half her life packed into a beat-up duffel bag and disappeared. Said she needed space to figure things out. And now you show up at my door acting like I’m supposed to file missing person reports on a woman who won’t even return my texts?”
“You’re supposed to care,” I snap, louder than I intended.
The silence that follows feels like floodwater rising, heavy and threatening to drown us both.
Markus works his jaw like he’s chewing on words he doesn’t want to say. Then he finally looks at me—really looks, with the kind of scrutiny that makes my skin crawl.
“Shouldn’t you know where she is?” he asks, voice dropping to something dangerous. “Since you two are so… close?”
The venom isn’t subtle. Neither is the implication. It lands like a physical blow even though it’s not entirely unfounded. He doesn’t know about the motel room, about stolen kisses in the dark, about the way her hand fits against my chest like it was designed to rest there. But his suspicion cuts close enough to the truth to draw blood.
“She’s my partner,” I say as evenly as I can manage. “Professional partner. That’s why I’m here. Because if something’s happened to her—”
“Something’s always happening to her,” Markus interrupts, voice rising. “That’s who Dalia is. She disappears into her work, into whatever investigation has captured her attention, into some mission she’s decided is more important than everything else. She forgets other people exist unless they’re standing directly in front of her demanding attention.”
The words hit like slaps. Not because they’re cruel, but because they contain enough truth to sting.
“I just need to know if you’ve seen her,” I say quietly, fighting to keep my voice level. “Or if she’s tried to contact you.”
“No,” Markus says flatly. “And I wouldn’t expect her to. That would require her to remember I exist.”
I stand there for another beat, taking in his hollow cheeks and the bitterness radiating from every line of his body. I wonder what part of him still misses her, still loves the woman who walked out of this house carrying secrets he’ll never understand.
I turn toward the door. “You should report her missing anyway.”
“Wait,” he calls as I reach for the handle. “If she’s really gone… if something’s actually happened to her…”
I stop but don’t turn around.
“She’s not dead,” I say, more to convince myself than him.
She can't be.
I let the door slam behind me without waiting for his response. The sound echoes sharp and final in the damp quiet. I make it to my car without looking back, hands shaking slightly as I fumble with the keys.
The driver’s seat is cold, the kind of chill that’s soaked through everything and settled in for the duration. I don’t start the engine immediately. Just sit with my hands pressed flat against the steering wheel, knuckles gone pale from pressure, like if I grip hard enough, maybe I’ll wake up somewhere else.
Dalia’s absence sits in the passenger seat like it has weight and substance. I can see her there—phantom memory of her body turned slightly toward me, that quiet half-smile she wore when she was about to say something worth regretting. I can picture her clearer than I want to: motel lamplight slanting across her bare shoulder, mouth swollen from my kisses, voice fierce and quiet as she promised to come back.
Now all I have are fragments—the memory of her in tangled sheets, eyes burning with something that looked like grief and hope and defiance braided together. Her breath hot against my shoulder, steadying my world just by existing in it. Like I could keep her tethered through sheer proximity.
I punch the steering wheel once. Not hard—just enough to make the leather creak under my palm and give my frustration somewhere to go.
Water streaks down the windshield in random patterns, slicing the world outside into fragments—blurred hedges, the outline of Markus’s porch, gray-white sky behind everything. The car feels claustrophobic suddenly, like the walls are closing in.
I let my head fall back against the headrest and close my eyes.
I should go back to the precinct. Call Kelsi, see what else she’s found. File some kind of official report. But my jaw is locked so tight I can feel the tension pulsing behind my ears like a second heartbeat.
She’s out there somewhere. I have to believe that. She’s not the kind of person to break a promise, not when it matters. She’s stubborn and brave in that infuriating, admirable way that makes you want to shake her and kiss her in the same desperate breath.
Please be alive.
I drive back to the precinct through streets that feel like they’re moving underwater. Everything seems muted, distant, like I’m experiencing the world through thick glass.
Kelsi’s at her desk when I arrive, head down, profile lit by the pale blue glow of her monitor. She doesn’t notice me at first—fingers flying across the keyboard.
“Tell me you’ve found something else,” I say quietly, sliding into the chair beside her workstation.
Her eyes snap up, tired but alert with the kind of focus that comes from too much caffeine and not enough sleep. “Still working on it. I’m mining every traffic camera from Route 41 all the way out to the commune access roads.”
My eyebrows lift at her directness.
“I did find something weird.”
She pivots her monitor toward me, adjusting the angle so I can see clearly. The footage is grainy black and white, timestamped two nights ago. A gas station on the edge of town, camera mounted high and wide to catch the maximum area. The kind of security setup that prioritizes coverage over detail.
I lean closer, studying the image.
There—a figure steps into frame from the right, moving across the lot toward a parked sedan. Hoodie pulled up, head down, walking with purpose but not panic. The posture is familiar in a way that makes my chest tight.
Kelsi plays the clip again. “That’s her,” she says quietly.
I watch it a third time, memorizing every detail. The way the figure moves, the brief turn of the head, the pause before getting into the car like she’s checking for surveillance.
Dalia.
I nod once. “That’s definitely her.”
“She switched out her license plates too,” Kelsi adds, pulling up another screen. “False registration. She’s been planning this for a while.”
I sit back in the chair, pulse picking up speed. It shouldn’t mean much—just a few seconds of grainy footage. But it does mean everything. It means she was still moving under her own power. Still thinking clearly. Still alive.
“Does Locke know about this?” I ask.
Kelsi hesitates, chewing her lower lip. “I told her I was just running general activity analysis for the area. She’s too focused on pushing through the warrant paperwork to care about traffic cams.”
“And you?” I study her face. “You’re doing this because…?”
She snorts softly. “Because you’re a shit liar, Elias. And because if it were me out there somewhere, you’d be tearing the entire system apart to find me too.”
The simple honesty of it hits harder than I expect. I nod once, looking down at my hands. They’re still gripped tight against my knees—I hadn’t even noticed.
I know Dalia went to the commune. Of course I know that’s where she was headed, what her plan was. But I can’t reveal that knowledge too easily, can’t just tell Everett she’s infiltrated without context that would raise more questions than it answers. There’s a delicate balance here—I need the others to slowly realize what she’s done, to understand the implications, to see the need for a rescue mission. But if I simply announced that she’s inside the commune, there would be more outrage about protocol violations than urgency about extraction.
At least Locke is pushing for the warrant. For all her flaws, she wants to move on this case. If I go to the commune alone, they can kill me and dispose of the body before anyone knows I’m missing. But if I go with a full raid team and proper authorization…
Kelsi changes tabs, opening another clip. “There’s more.”
This footage shows the same sedan heading west on a rural road, timestamp placing it about an hour after the gas station sighting.
“She was definitely heading toward the commune area,” Kelsi says. “If I had to guess based on her trajectory, she’s been circling the perimeter. Doing reconnaissance.”
I lean forward. “You think she’s already gone inside?”
Kelsi worries the inside of her cheek with her teeth. “I think… she’s close. And she’s completely alone out there.”
A heavy silence builds between us, filled with everything we’re not saying.
“She left without telling me,” I murmur. It’s not exactly a lie—she didn’t tell me when, didn’t give me a chance to stop her or insist on backup.
“She probably thinks she’s protecting you,” Kelsi says softly.
I don’t answer.
“So. What do we do now?”
I rub the back of my neck, feeling the weight of the question settle on my shoulders like a lead blanket. It’s too big, too cruel, too full of variables I can’t control.
“We need Locke,” I say finally, the words tasting like compromise and desperation.
Kelsi stares at me like I’ve suggested we set ourselves on fire.
“If Dalia’s inside the commune,” I continue, working through the logic out loud, “we can’t just storm in there without proper authority. They could scatter, destroy evidence, disappear completely. We need that warrant, and we need it fast.”
“She could disappear too,” Kelsi points out.
“She could already be—” I stop myself, swallow hard, try again. “She asked me to trust her. Made me promise.”
Kelsi looks away, and I can see the anger radiating from her rigid posture. I understand it completely. I’m angry too—furious at Dalia for going in alone, at myself for not stopping her, at this whole situation that’s spiraling beyond anyone’s control.
But it’s a quiet kind of anger now. The kind that comes with waiting for an explosion that might never come, or might have already happened without anyone hearing the sound.
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