I lie to myself that I found the key by accident.
It’s nestled in the bottom seam of Dalia’s purse—wedged beneath her badge wallet and a crushed protein bar she probably meant to throw away weeks ago.
I wouldn’t have found it if I hadn’t been shaking the whole thing out over the motel bed, desperate for one more clue. One more trail of breadcrumb dust that might still smell like her citrus shampoo. The purse gave up its secrets reluctantly—loose change, evidence bags, pen caps without pens, a folded receipt from the gas station.
And the key. House key, worn smooth at the edges from years of daily use.
I hold it in my palm and stare like it might blink back, like it might transform into something less dangerous than what it represents: access to the life she shared with him.
I sit there for a while, breathing too hard, blinking through the salt burn behind my eyes. My hands shake with more than caffeine withdrawal. This crosses every line I’ve ever drawn between professional and personal, between justified and reckless. But those lines feel academic now that she’s gone.
I get up. I throw on my jacket, shove the key into my pocket alongside my service weapon, and drive. No hesitation, no call to Locke. Not even a text to Kelsi.
I’m truly off the rails.
I park down the block from the house. Her house. Markus’s house. The house they shared, I correct myself, because the distinction matters in ways that cut deep. The one I’ve only ever been to a handful of times for carefully orchestrated dinners where I swallowed jealousy and wine in equal measure, watching him touch her shoulder while she talked about cases he didn’t understand.
The mail is still gathering under the slot, a small avalanche of catalogs and bills that suggests no one’s home.
I don’t hesitate or knock, just slide the key into the front door. It turns smoothly, welcoming me. The house swallows me with the particular silence of a place waiting for its occupants to return.
I walk through the hallway slowly, wondering if Markus is home, my boots echoing off hardwood and tile in a rhythm that feels too loud, too invasive. The kitchen is exactly as I remember from that dinner—granite countertops, stainless steel appliances. A single coffee mug sits by the sink.
I head down to the basement to prepare.
The stairs creak under my weight, each step announcing my descent into something I can’t come back from. I drop the duffel bag I brought at the bottom of the stairs.
I grab two folding chairs from behind the water heater. A card table hidden between boxes of Christmas decorations and old tax returns. One coil of rope that I test with my hands, checking the tensile strength like I’m preparing to secure evidence instead of a human being.
I stage it all in the corner where the cement wall meets the washer-dryer stack, where the old heating pipes rattle with age. The basement has one window, high and narrow, covered with grime and security mesh. No one will see. No one will hear.
I breathe in slow, count to five like they taught us in the academy for managing adrenaline.
This is not for revenge, I tell myself.
This is for information.
This is for Dalia.
I roll my shoulders, work out the tension that’s been building since I found that photograph. Pull my service weapon, check the slide, confirm the magazine is full. Fifteen rounds. More than enough for what I’m planning, which is nothing beyond intimidation and theater.
I holster it and wait.
Evening falls like a guillotine, sharp and final.
When I hear the click of the front door—quiet, almost thoughtful, the sound of someone coming home to a place that feels safe—I already have my hand at my gun.
Markus steps inside like he’s never had to worry about what might be waiting for him in the dark. His shoes scuff against the hardwood in the particular rhythm of someone who’s tired from a long day at the office, someone whose biggest concern is what to order for dinner.
I move fast, muscle memory from tactical training taking over conscious thought. I round the corner from the living room and he looks up too late, grocery bag swinging from one wrist, keys still in his other hand.
“Don’t move,” I say, gun already drawn and levelled at center mass, voice carrying the kind of authority that comes from years of experience. “Hands where I can see them.”
Markus freezes, his mouth opening in the beginning of a question that dies when he sees my expression.
“What the hell—”
“Hands,” I bark, using the tone reserved for armed suspects and domestic disturbance calls.
He drops the grocery bag. It hits the tile with a hollow thud, its contents rolling across the floor. I don’t care about any of it.
“Back against the wall,” I say.
“What the fuck, Elias?”
“Back against the wall.” My tone cuts through his confusion like a blade through soft tissue.
He obeys slowly, hands raised in the universal gesture of surrender. I step forward, fast and clean, using techniques I learned in defensive tactics training. One knee to the back of his leg, just enough pressure to make him stagger and understand that compliance isn’t optional. My cuffs are out in a second, the familiar weight of them solid in my palm. The ratcheting sound as they close around his wrists is satisfying in a way that should probably worry me.
One twist to check the fit. Double lock to prevent tightening. He’s secure.
I holster my weapon and grab his elbow, fingers finding the pressure point that makes resistance painful. “Basement. Move.”
“Have you lost your goddamn mind?”
“Move.” I apply just enough pressure to his elbow to encourage compliance without causing permanent damage.
He stumbles but doesn’t resist, letting me guide him toward the basement stairs like a suspect who’s finally realized the severity of his situation.
“You’re making a mistake,” he says, but his voice lacks conviction. “You’re going to lose your job. Everything.”
I let him talk. Let him try to spin this like he’s the victim.
The chair creaks when Markus settles into it, the sound echoing off concrete walls. A single bare bulb hangs from the ceiling, casting harsh shadows.
I cuff his hands behind the chair back, secure his ankles with zip ties—nothing fancy, just enough to keep him stationary. Then I wrap rope around his torso, binding him to the chair.
I drag the second folding chair opposite him and sit, close enough to read his micro-expressions but far enough back to avoid any desperate attempts at physical retaliation.
Markus laughs once, sharp and bitter. “Is this legal, Detective?”
I say nothing, just study him with the same clinical detachment I bring to interrogation rooms and witness interviews. He’s flushed—anger, confusion, maybe the first whispers of real fear working their way up his spine. The smugness that used to annoy the hell out of me at dinner parties has evaporated, replaced by something raw and more honest.
I pull out a manila folder, thick with photographs and surveillance stills. The images from Dalia’s infiltration of the cult gathering, enhanced by Kelsi’s digital wizardry until faces emerge from shadows like accusations.
I place the first photo on the card table between us with deliberate ceremony.
He doesn’t flinch, but his eyes drop to study the image. A group of figures around a bonfire, their faces slack with religious ecstasy or pharmaceutical assistance.
“Recognize this?”
Markus shrugs, but the gesture is a half-second too delayed to be genuine. “Can’t say I do.”
I flip to the next photo without breaking eye contact.
Then the next.
Then the money shot—the enhanced image that shows a man in a baseball cap and hoodie, positioned just outside the main circle of worshippers. Light from the bonfire catches just enough of the jawline. Just enough of the mouth and half of his face.
Markus watching his ex-wife perform as someone else while cultists chanted around a fire.
“I think you do recognize it,” I say, my voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “And I think you were watching her that night.”
“Her?”
“Dalia.” I let her name hang in the air like an accusation. “The woman you claimed to love.”
He exhales slowly, leaning his head back against the chair like this whole situation bores him. But I can see the rapid pulse in his throat, the slight tremor in his hands.
“You’ve completely lost it,” he says, but the words lack the outrage they should carry.
“You didn’t report her missing.”
“She left. Packed a bag. Filed divorce papers. What exactly was I supposed to report?”
“You knew where she was going. You knew what she was walking into. But you didn’t say a word to anyone.”
Markus’s jaw flexes, the muscle jumping like a lie detector needle. “And what about you? You’re her partner. You were supposed to look out for her.”
My blood pressure spikes, a dangerous heat spreading through my chest. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you failed her too. You’re sitting here trying to pin this on me when you’re the one who let her walk into danger.”
His smile is slow, predatory, the expression of someone who thinks they still hold cards worth playing. “You think I never noticed? The way you looked at her? Like she was oxygen and you’d been drowning for years.”
I don’t reply, but my silence seems to encourage him.
“You just sat on the side lines like a good little soldier, waiting for her to fall apart so you could swoop in and play hero.”
He laughs.
“Did you fuck her?” Markus continues, his grin widening with malicious pleasure. “Was it everything you imagined it would be?”
The urge to hit him is overwhelming, a physical pressure behind my eyes that makes my vision blur at the edges. But I force myself to lean back slowly, to stand with deliberate control. I walk to the duffel bag I left at the foot of the stairs.
I unzip the bag, revealing the contents I’ve arranged for maximum psychological impact. Evidence collection tools repurposed for interrogation: surgical instruments that gleam under the harsh basement lighting, forceps and scalpels that catch the light like promises made in the dark.
I take out a scalpel and set it on the table between us with a soft click that seems to echo forever in the silence.
Then a bone clamp.
Then surgical scissors that close with a whisper of sharpened steel.
Markus goes very still, his breathing becoming shallow and rapid. I sit again, arranging myself with the calm of someone who’s done this before.
“Did you know I used to play the good cop in interrogations?” I ask conversationally. “My specialty was building rapport, finding common ground, making suspects feel safe enough to confess.”
He doesn’t answer, but his eyes won’t leave the instruments.
“This is the part where I stop asking nicely.”
“I’m not scared of you,” Markus whispers, but his voice cracks on the last word.
“You should be.”
His breathing is faster now, chest rising in shallow bursts like someone on the edge of hyperventilation. The cocky husband who made snide comments about my feelings for his wife has been replaced by something more primal.
“You’re bluffing,” Markus says, but the words come out too quiet to carry conviction.
I pick up the scalpel, holding it to the light so he can see how sharp it is, how easily it would part skin and muscle. “I know exactly where to cut to cause maximum pain without risking permanent damage. Excellent training, courtesy of the state.”
“You’re sick.”
“Are you talking about yourself?”
I place the scalpel point-down in the center of the enhanced photograph, piercing his grainy, surveillance-captured face. The blade goes through the paper and bites into the plastic beneath with a soft thunk.
“You watched her,” I say, my voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “You let them take her.”
Still no response, but I can see him processing options, calculating odds, trying to find an angle that gets him out of this basement intact.
“Tell me where she is.”
Markus’s grin returns, wider now and completely unhinged. “There’s nothing you can do.”
“What does that mean?”
“There’s nothing left for you to save.”
I slam my fist down on the table hard enough to make the surgical instruments jump. The sound reverberates through the basement like thunder.
“She belongs to them now,” he continues, leaning forward as far as his restraints allow. His voice is calm in a way that’s more terrifying than screaming. “You’re too late.”
The word hangs in the air between us like a verdict.
Markus leans back in the chair, the manic edge drained from his expression—not because he’s not scared anymore, but because he thinks he’s already won. I haven’t touched him yet, haven’t crossed that final line between interrogation and torture. But the space between intention and action feels paper-thin.
I pick up the scalpel again and begin cutting a careful square around his knee, the denim parting like tissue under the sharp blade. The sound it makes—a soft whisper of separation—seems to fill the entire basement.
That gets his attention. That makes him stop grinning.
“You’re too late,” Markus says again, but quieter this time, like he’s sharing a secret. “There’s no stopping it now.”
“Where. Is. She.” I echo, and the word tastes like copper in my mouth.
He laughs, a sound like breaking glass. “Late, late, late.”
I complete the cut and peel away the fabric, exposing pale skin and the vulnerable landscape of tendon and bone beneath. I bring the scalpel close enough for him to feel the cold metal against his kneecap.
“I didn't understand it at first,” he says, his voice taking on the dreamy quality of someone recounting a religious experience. “Until I saw her on that hill. The way they looked at her. The way she… glowed.”
I apply just enough pressure with the scalpel to dimple the skin without drawing blood.
“You don’t get to gatekeep devotion, Elias,” he continues, and now he’s definitely talking like he belongs in that cult. “Not when you didn’t even have the spine to say anything until she was halfway out the door.”
My pulse spikes, but I keep my hand steady.
“You joined a cult to watch your wife be murdered.”
“I didn’t join to watch,” he corrects, and there’s something evangelical in his tone now. “She’s part of a higher calling. Something bigger than your small obsessions.”
The way he says it—like awe and corruption folded into a single breath—makes my skin crawl.
“Where is she, Markus?” I push the scalpel deeper, drawing a thin line of blood.
His eyes close, and when he speaks, it’s with the peaceful certainty of a true believer. “Preparing.”
“For what?”
“For the return.”
I look at him—really look—and for the first time, I don’t see Markus-the-husband or Markus-the-manipulator. I see a convert. Someone who’s drunk the communion wine and found it tasted like salvation.
“What did you do?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. “What did you let them do to her?”
He opens his eyes, and they gleam with something that might be ecstasy or madness or both. “She offered herself.”
“She was doing her job.”
“Are you so sure about that?”
Markus won’t stop smiling, won’t stop looking at me like I’m the one who doesn’t understand the fundamental truth of the universe.
“She walked in, Elias,” he says, his voice low and intimate, like he’s sharing the punchline to a joke I’ll never get. “You ever think maybe that place was always meant for her?”
I hold the scalpel still.
“I know her better than you ever will,” Markus continues relentlessly. “I know what she looks like when she wants something she’s not allowed to ask for. The way she looked at those case files like they were love letters.”
“She wanted justice. She wanted answers.”
“She wanted to disappear into something bigger than herself.” His voice drops to a whisper. “And now she has.”
I don’t respond, can’t respond, because there’s a terrible logic to what he’s saying that I refuse to examine.
“She’s already theirs,” Markus says with finality.
I adjust my grip on the scalpel. “Where?”
When he doesn’t answer immediately, I begin to apply pressure in directions that tendons and ligaments aren’t meant to go. His scream echoes off the concrete walls like a prayer in reverse.
He is trashing in the chair but I don't stop. I keep going till he finally breaks.
“Twenty miles northwest,” he gasps. “Past Whitehill. Look for a gravel turnoff—no signs, no name. Just a break in the trees. There’s an old water tower on the left, half-covered in ivy. You’ll see a rise past that.”
The directions burn themselves into my memory with the clarity that comes from desperation. I repeat them silently, mapping the route in my head.
I withdraw the scalpel and examine the damage. He’ll survive, might favor the other leg for a month, but nothing permanent. Nothing that won’t heal. I pull out my phone and text Kelsi: Send ambulance to Dalia’s home address. Suspect injured resisting arrest.
“By the time you get there,” Markus calls after me as I head for the stairs, “there won’t be enough left to save.”
I don’t look back. Don’t acknowledge the possibility that he might be right.
I’m bringing Dalia home.
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