Day 5.
There’s a kind of silence that builds between heartbeats. Tight. Pressurized. It starts small—like a breath you didn’t finish taking—and then it spreads through your chest, climbs up into your jaw, cracks down the bridge of your nose until every inhale feels deliberate, forced. I’ve been breathing like that all morning, like my lungs have forgotten their basic function.
Kelsi finds me in the evidence review room, hunched over files I’m not really reading. The door barely clicks shut before her voice cuts through the stale air.
“Another traffic cam,” she says, voice low but too calm, the kind of forced steadiness that means she’s found something I won’t want to see. “Found another angle.”
My fingers tighten around the manila folder in my hands. I don’t answer immediately, just flick my eyes up to meet hers. She looks like she hasn’t slept either.
Kelsi sets her laptop on the scarred table between us, turns the screen toward me with deliberate precision. Pauses the footage at the thirty-second mark. It’s a still image—grainy, overexposed, but clear enough to make my stomach drop.
A street just beyond Route 12, where clean pavement deteriorates into gravel before the treeline swallows everything. The dense forest that I know rings the commune like a protective barrier.
And in the foreground—Dalia.
Too distant to catch facial details, but I know that silhouette like I know my own heartbeat. You learn to read someone like that when they’ve stood beside you through more crime scenes than you can count, when you’ve watched them move through the world with that particular combination of confidence and caution that comes with carrying a badge.
She’s not alone.
Beside her is a woman in a long dark coat—tall, composed, moving with the fluid grace of someone completely at home in her environment.
Kelsi taps the space bar. The still image transforms into grainy footage, silent except for the faint hum of the laptop’s fan. I watch Dalia pause at the treeline, the other woman leaning in close like she’s sharing something important. Dalia nods once—slow, mechanical, like she’s agreeing to terms she doesn’t fully understand.
Then they disappear into the trees together, swallowed by shadows and pine needles.
Time stamp: 7:48 PM. Five days ago.
I swallow hard.
“Camera’s old—one of those DOT units mounted on the back of a light pole. Usually just monitors traffic flow, not crime. We got lucky it was functioning at all.” Kelsi explains, voice clinical and detached.
I nod, jaw clenched tight enough to make my temples ache. “Did you run plates on any vehicles?”
“The car’s not in this frame but I’m working on pulling footage from adjacent intersections.”
Kelsi exhales hard through her nose, the sound sharp in the quiet room. “Locke’s going to say she broke protocol. That Dalia left on her own, no crime committed.”
“Bullshit,” I mutter, the word coming out harsher than intended. “She’s been missing for five days. We’ve got footage showing suspicious activity. Circumstantial or not, it’s grounds for—”
“I know,” Kelsi cuts in, leaning forward with intensity that matches my own.
I study the frozen image again, memorizing every detail.
Kelsi leans against the table beside me, arms crossed defensively. “You really think Dalia would just walk away from everything without some kind of plan?”
“No,” I say. “She walked in there with a plan. I just don’t think she accounted for all the fucking variables.”
We stare at the laptop screen in shared silence, both lost in our own dark thoughts about what those variables might be.
Kelsi looks up at me, studying my face. “What do we do now?”
I stand slowly, feeling every joint protest from too many sleepless nights and too much tension. My voice comes out measured, controlled. “Now we make them listen.”
“I don’t think Locke’s going to be cooperative about this.”
“She’ll shrug it off,” I say, bitterness creeping into my tone. “Call it off-book freelancing. Claim Dalia knew exactly what she was doing.”
“She did know,” Kelsi replies quietly. “Doesn’t make Locke right.”
I nod once, sharp and decisive.
“Let’s go talk to Locke,” I say.
Kelsi logs the footage into the precinct’s case management system with practiced efficiency, flagging it under “Internal Concern”. She doesn’t speak as we walk down the hallway toward Locke’s office, and neither do I.
Locke doesn’t look up when we appear in her doorway. She’s halfway through what looks like a sad desk lunch—cold turkey between white bread, mustard bleeding into the crust like yellow wounds. One hand pecks at her keyboard while the other holds her sandwich, completely absorbed in whatever report she’s writing, like we’re not standing there with potential evidence that one of our own might be walking into a mass grave.
Kelsi speaks first, voice cutting through the mundane office atmosphere. “We’ve got something you need to see.”
“Uh-huh,” Locke says flatly, still typing with one hand, not bothering to make eye contact. I set the evidence folder on her desk with deliberate force. Not violent, but firm enough to make my point clear.
She sighs through her nose like she’s already decided this is going to be a waste of her time.
Kelsi flips the laptop open, revealing the video. “Traffic camera footage. Pulled it from DOT records. That stretch backs directly into forest land, which conveniently runs parallel to the commune’s western perimeter.”
Locke’s chewing slows but she doesn’t stop typing. “And?”
“And it shows Detective Rowe,” Kelsi says with quiet emphasis. “Walking into those woods with Raina.”
That gets her attention. Her fingers freeze above the keyboard. The corner of her mouth develops a slight tic.
Kelsi reaches across the desk and taps the spacebar on her laptop. The footage plays in uncomfortable silence—Dalia and Raina crossing the frame with purposeful strides, the forest swallowing them like a hungry mouth. No struggle, no obvious coercion, just two women disappearing into darkness.
We watch it play through twice, the timestamp marking each second of Dalia’s voluntary walk toward potential disaster. Then Locke leans back in her chair and folds her hands over her stomach like she’s about to deliver a lecture to particularly dense students.
“She’s not missing,” she says with infuriating calm.
I blink, certain I’ve misheard. “Come again?”
“Detective Rowe is not missing,” she repeats with the patience of someone explaining basic concepts to children. “There’s no evidence of abduction. No distress signals. No official missing person report. What I see here is a detective walking into those woods of her own free will.”
My voice drops to something dangerous. “She hasn’t checked in with anyone for five consecutive days.”
“Because she’s pursuing a personal vendetta,” Locke replies without missing a beat. “A risky, reckless, completely unsanctioned investigation she took upon herself without proper clearance or departmental oversight. Again.”
Kelsi’s jaw flexes with barely controlled anger. “So we’re just going to do nothing?”
“We’re going to follow protocol,” Locke states firmly. “Detective Rowe made her choice. She decided to operate outside department guidelines, and now she gets to live with the consequences of that decision.”
It takes everything in my self-control not to slam my fist into her pristine desk. “She’s one of ours.”
“And what exactly does that mean?” Locke’s voice flattens to bureaucratic indifference. “She’s not exempt from consequences just because she carries a badge. She’s not exempt from making catastrophically poor decisions. If we go charging into that commune right now without proper justification, we open ourselves up to lawsuits, media backlash, and public relations disasters. You want tomorrow’s headlines to read ’Local Police Storm Private Property Based on Paranoid Speculation’?”
“There’s enough evidence here to justify concern,” Kelsi says quietly, but with steel underneath.
Locke turns her attention to me, eyes narrowing with suspicion. “You knew about this, didn’t you?”
My mouth tightens. It says enough.
“And you didn’t think to stop her? Report her intentions to a superior officer?”
“She didn’t exactly put it to a committee vote.”
Locke leans forward, pressing her advantage. “Then her safety isn’t your responsibility, Detective.”
She’s wrong. She’s so fundamentally, annoyingly wrong it makes my chest burn with frustration. But arguing that point won’t change her position—it’ll only make her more defensive, transform stubborn resistance into immovable bureaucratic stone.
So I change tactics. Step back, letting my hands fall loose at my sides.
“If you won’t treat this as a departmental concern,” I say, voice going cold and professional, “then I’ll handle it as a personal matter.”
Locke raises one perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“Missing person report. Official documentation.”
She scoffs dismissively. “That’s a flagrant misuse of departmental resources and processes.”
“I’m filing as a concerned citizen,” I counter smoothly. “And as her professional colleague with knowledge of the circumstances.”
“You honestly think that’s sufficient to obtain a search warrant?” she asks with condescending amusement. “You believe the DA is going to authorize an armed sweep of private property based on traffic camera footage and your personal hunches?”
“No,” I admit. “But he might sign off if you push it through proper channels.”
Locke laughs—bitter and bone-deep. “You’re barking up the wrong goddamn tree, Wexler.”
“Then get out of my way.”
The silence that follows feels like held breath. Kelsi stares at the floor like she’s counting individual carpet fibers. My fists curl slowly at my sides, knuckles going white with tension.
“Fine,” Locke says finally. “You want to risk your badge and professional credibility for someone who deliberately lied to this department? Be my guest. But don’t expect any backup when it all falls apart.”
I don’t respond. Instead, I commandeer Kelsi’s laptop and start drafting the most comprehensive missing person report of my career. Kelsi positions herself beside me like a statue, silent but supportive.
Name: Dalia Rowe
Age: 34
Status: Active duty, homicide division
Legal affiliation: Married, legal separation filed, no dependent children
Last known contact: November 11, 08:34 am
Last confirmed sighting: Traffic camera footage, November 11, 7:48 PM—Rockvale and Ledge intersection
Mental state assessment: Subject exhibited increased stress levels regarding ongoing casework over past three weeks. Documented lack of sleep, hypervigilance, exaggerated startle responses. Recent conflicts with supervising officer regarding investigation methodologies and tactical approaches.
I pause there, fingers hovering above the keyboard. What I’m writing isn’t false—it’s strategic emphasis. Careful selection of facts to build a case.
I continue typing.
Nature of concern: Detective Rowe is believed to have entered a compound associated with an organization under active investigation for suspected criminal cult activity. Due to the documented history of threats and unexplained disappearances connected to said organization—including the mutilated victim discovered September 13—there is reasonable cause to believe Detective Rowe’s physical safety is severely compromised.
Subject has failed to maintain contact with department personnel, legal spouse, or any documented associates for five consecutive days. Standard check-in protocols have lapsed completely. Subject’s mobile device appears to be powered down or otherwise disabled.
Based on the totality of circumstances, there is immediate cause for concern regarding her physical safety and psychological well-being.
I hit print.
Locke’s printer whirs and clanks, processing the pages with mechanical reluctance. I don’t wait for the full document before reaching for the first warm sheets emerging from the machine.
I drop the pages on her desk.
Locke’s eyes scan the text with clinical precision, hunting for procedural errors or factual inconsistencies she can use to dismiss the whole thing. Her expression shifts subtly as she reads. A slight furrow appears between her brows when she reaches the mental state assessment. Another micro-expression when she processes “no contact for five days.”
By the time she gets to the section about the compound and documented disappearances, her posture has changed entirely. Still not open or cooperative, but careful now. Calculating.
She sets the papers down and folds her hands with bureaucratic precision.
“So you want a warrant,” she says.
“Yes, I want a goddamn search warrant,” I confirm.
She taps the edge of the document with one manicured nail. “There’s enough here to raise eyebrows in the right offices. Maybe generate some official concern. But the DA won’t sign authorization without more substantial evidence.”
“Then make it substantial,” I say.
Her smile is thin and humorless. “You think they trust my judgment more than yours?”
“You’re Major Crimes,” Kelsi interjects, speaking for the first time since we entered the office. “You have connections we don’t.”
Locke remains motionless for several beats, considering options and political ramifications.
“We flag it as an internal concern,” I propose. “Mark it urgent. You call in whatever favors you have with the DA’s office directly. Keep the chain of communication quiet and professional.”
Locke lets out a long breath. A part of me feels like she is pleased, because she did want a warrant and somehow this is is amusing her.
“Alright,” she says finally.
I turn to leave, but her voice stops me at the doorway.
“Wexler.”
I glance back.
“You better be right about this.”
The next eighteen hours crawl by like wet concrete drying in winter. I pace the precinct hallways, drink coffee that tastes like burnt anxiety, and check my phone every three minutes for updates that never come. By the time Everett finally calls with news, it’s late afternoon and my nerves feel like exposed electrical wires.
Kelsi catches my attention from across the bullpen with a sharp nod.
“Warrant approved under exigent circumstances.”
“When do we move?”
“Now. We roll out in twenty minutes.”
The drive takes us deep into rural territory where cell towers become sparse and the darkness between streetlights stretches for miles.
I take an unmarked sedan, surprised when Kelsi claims the passenger seat. I’ve never seen her participate in field operations before—she’s strictly tech support, more comfortable with keyboards than service weapons. But she buckles her seatbelt with grim determination, checking her sidearm one more time before settling in for the ride.
She doesn’t talk much during the drive—just stares out the window at passing forest and periodically checks her phone for updates from the local units ahead of us.
Night falls in gradual stages, daylight bleeding away behind distant hills. By the time we turn off the state highway onto the long, winding gravel road that leads toward the commune, the world has transformed into navy sky and shifting shadows. Ancient pines rise like cathedral columns on both sides of the narrow path, their branches forming a canopy that blocks most of the remaining light.
“This is it,” Kelsi murmurs, reading from printed briefing materials. “Original property was purchased as a preservationist retreat in 1987. Sold twice through various LLCs over the past decade. Most recent ownership documents trace back to a shell company registered under the name J. Vale.”
She’s talking more to herself than to me, working through nervous energy by reciting facts and procedural details.
Two county sheriff cruisers idle at the forest edge where gravel meets asphalt, their emergency lights dark to avoid alerting anyone inside the compound. Local officers emerge to meet us—three of them wearing standard uniforms and the professionally bored expressions of cops pulled off routine patrol calls to assist with detective work.
“We’ve maintained perimeter observation for the past hour,” the senior officer reports. “No visible movement, no lights in any windows. You’re clear to proceed.”
I nod in acknowledgment. “Let’s move.”
The first thing that strikes me as we approach the main buildings is the absolute silence.
No voices calling out questions about our presence. No evening sounds of communal activity—dinner preparation, group discussions, whatever collective rituals I imagined cult members conducting at the edge of civilization.
Just profound, unsettling quiet.
The commune spreads before us—a collection of moss-dark cabins connected by dirt paths, wide windows that reflect our flashlight beams like blank eyes. Everything sits low among the hills, designed to blend into the landscape. No perimeter fence or obvious security measures, just open space that feels simultaneously inviting and inescapable.
The main lodge dominates the center of the settlement—two stories of pine logs and weathered boards, with an oddly circular roofline that spirals outward like a shell. Gauzy curtains cover every window, preventing us from seeing inside while creating the impression that something watches from behind the fabric.
I take point with my service weapon drawn low, flashlight cutting through the gathering darkness.
We clear the main building systematically.
Room by room. Floor by floor.
The interior is polished wood floors worn smooth by countless bare feet, air thick with the lingering scents of lavender and lemon balm. The circular rug in the main room bears a spiral pattern.
The kitchen smells of industrial bleach and absolutely nothing else. Surfaces scrubbed clean, no dishes, no food, no evidence that anyone has prepared a meal here in days.
A hallway leads deeper into the building, lined with empty hooks where robes or coats might have hung. Bedrooms stripped to bare mattresses—frames intact but no sheets, no personal belongings, no sign of recent habitation.
Then we find the basement access.
A heavy wooden door with brass hinges. The skeleton key hangs on a nail beside the frame like an invitation. The door opens with a low groan onto narrow stone steps that spiral downward into absolute darkness.
My flashlight beam reveals the chamber below—arched stone walls, candle holders around the perimeter, a curved ceiling that creates perfect acoustics. And at the center, a long stone slab.
Empty.
Completely, utterly empty.
We search every building on the property. Cabins, outbuildings, storage sheds. Every structure that could potentially hide human beings or evidence of recent activity.
Nothing.
No Dalia. No Raina. No Jonas Vale. No commune members.
No people anywhere.
No leads, no clues, no bodies.
Just vacant spaces, wiped surfaces, and the certainty that we arrived too late.
By the time we complete our sweep, it’s past midnight. The local PD officers watch us emerge from the final building with expressions that mix pity with professional frustration.
Kelsi approaches, holding her phone like a lifeline. Her face looks pale and drawn in the artificial light.
“You okay?” she asks quietly.
No. Not even remotely close to okay.
“They cleared out,” I say, stating the obvious because silence feels worse. “Probably hours before we arrived. Maybe days.”
We stand in the empty courtyard surrounded by abandoned buildings and the weight of failure. Kelsi’s fingers drum against her phone case—nervous energy with nowhere productive to go.
“What now?” she asks.
I stare at the main lodge, at windows that reflect our flashlight beams like black mirrors. Somewhere in this compound, Dalia discovered whatever terrible truth the commune was hiding. Somewhere in these buildings, she found evidence worth dying for.
And now it’s all gone. Sanitized. Erased.
They left too quickly to eliminate everything. There will be traces, fragments, microscopic evidence that forensics can uncover if we’re methodical enough.
I don’t care about departmental protocols or career consequences anymore. If Dalia is still alive somewhere, I’m going to find her.
I don’t care that she walked into hell voluntarily.
I will walk right after her.
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