Ridgepath isn’t far. Twenty minutes east, maybe less with lights. Smaller than I expected—quieter, too—but not in the peaceful way. More like silence that’s been forced into corners and bolted down. The streets are too wide for how few cars crawl them. The houses huddle close together, a patchwork of rusted gutters, sagging porches, and paint the color of old teeth. Yards bleed into each other, fences half-finished or never started, a kid’s scooter abandoned on a lawn that hasn’t been mowed since last summer.
Every damn place we have visited so far feels abandoned or neglected.
We roll through on four wheels and tinted windows like we’re something foreign and unwelcome, and the town watches us back through fluttering curtains and cracked blinds. Dalia is flipping through a bunch of files in the passenger seat. Her face is unreadable, but I know she is lost in her flow state, eyes locked on Ruth Quinn’s photo like she’s trying to memorize every tiny detail.
The GPS tells us we’ve arrived before we see the place. I park across from Ridgepath Community Center, though calling it a center is a little generous. It’s a single-story building set between a boarded-up laundromat and a liquor store that advertises two-for-one tallboys on Thursdays. The exterior is beige, a crooked ramp leading up to the front door. The windows are painted with outdated Christmas scenes—hand-stenciled snowflakes that’ve melted into themselves in the spring heat. A rickety wooden sign hangs over the door, swaying slightly in the wind.
RIDGEPATH COMMUNITY CENTER
Clothing Drive Mondays — Bible Study Fridays
The F in Fridays is backward.
Dalia exits first, her boots hitting the pavement like punctuation. I follow, shrugging my jacket closed against the damp in the air. We climb the ramp in step, wood groaning under our weight. A bell jingles when I push open the door—a meek, apologetic sound, like even it knows it’s not welcome here. There’s no music playing inside, only the sound of our footsteps echoing on linoleum and the faint tick of a wall clock that’s running five minutes behind.
A folding table serves as the front desk. Draped in a faded cloth with sunflowers stitched along the hem, it holds a plastic box labeled LOST & FOUND. Behind it sits a woman who looks like she was born in that chair—white curls, thick glasses, a sweater weighed down by an army of mismatched cat brooches. She looks up slowly but her expression doesn’t change.
“Can I help you?”
I flash my badge first. “Detective Wexler. This is Detective Rowe. We’re following up on an ongoing investigation. Wondering if we could ask you a few questions about an event hosted here last year.”
The woman squints, sits back slightly. “Depends on the event.”
Dalia steps forward, pulling out the pamphlet piece. “A religious gathering. Would’ve been last spring, possibly early summer.”
The woman’s brows knit. Her hand, seemingly on reflex, shifts toward the rosary looped around her wrist, fingers brushing the beads.
“Oh,” she murmurs, voice dropping like a stone into water. “You mean those Reclamation people.”
Dalia stiffens beside me. Subtle, but I feel it. A taut wire suddenly pulled.
“They went by that name?” she asks. “Church of Reclamation?”
The woman nods, slow and reluctant. Her lips thin into a flat line, as though saying the name out loud leaves a bad taste.
“That’s what they called themselves,” she confirms. “Showed up around October. Always Fridays, just before dark. Paid in cash. Walked in, held their little sermons or whatever they were, and left like smoke.”
“Did they ever distribute flyers?” I ask.
“They handed one to me, once,” she mutters. “Didn’t post it, though. Should’ve listened to my gut then. But we needed the rental money. Times being what they are.”
Dalia tilts her head, gentle but focused. “What made you uneasy?”
“They didn’t pray,” she says. “Couldn’t hear no Scripture, no verses. No hymns. Some phrases they said over and over, like they were casting something. I stood outside the door one night. Thought I’d pop my head in but glad I didn’t.”
Her voice hitches—barely. “Made my skin crawl. I’m Catholic, you see. That—whatever they were doing—it wasn’t worship.”
A chill creeps under my collar.
“Do you remember who led the group?” Dalia asks.
The woman leans forward a little, voice dropping.
“He smiled too much, but it never reached his eyes. I caught him once, watching me lock up through the glass, standing there like… A statue. His name was Jonas. Vellum? Voss? No... Vale, I believe.”
Jonas Vale.
“Do you happen to still have that flyer?” I ask.
She sighs, then swivels in her chair with the huff of someone reluctant to revisit something better left buried. Drawers creak open. Paper rustles. Metal clicks. Finally, she pulls a folder from beneath a stack of outdated newsletters and gently extracts a single piece of cardstock. She passes it across the desk with two fingers. Doesn’t look at it.
I reach for it. The paper feels thick, almost waxed. There’s no clutter, no design—just a spiral, pressed in gold foil, perfectly centered. Beneath it, in sharp serif:
The Vessel Suffers For Our Salvation.
Then, in smaller print:
Church of Reclamation
Fridays at 7PM — Ridgepath Community Hall, Rear Entrance
Led by Jonas Vale
No website. No contact info. No branding.
“Did they leave anything behind when they stopped coming?” I ask, turning the paper in my hand for any clues. The woman’s jaw clenches.
“No.”
I hand the paper to Dalia and she runs her thumb along the edge of the flyer. “Mind if we hold onto this?”
The woman doesn’t hesitate. “Take it.”
She shifts her eyes back to her rosary. Clutches it tight, like she is praying.
Outside, the door creaks open just as we step toward it. Wind rushes in behind us, sharp and sudden, slamming it shut with a noise too loud for the space it came from. Dalia slips the flyer into her jacket.
“We’ve got a name,” she murmurs.
I nod. “Jonas Vale.”
It’s colder now, the kind of bite that gets into your bones. The clouds have thickened while we were inside, folded over the sky like cotton candy spun too thick. Ridgepath’s gravel parking lot still stretches empty around us—just our car, some sagging parking signs, and one crooked bench with a “No Loitering” notice duct-taped to its side.
Inside the car, Dalia gives me a reassuring smile, flicks the heat dial up, and we both pull out our phones in synchronicity.
The name on the flyer—it doesn’t sit right. Jonas Vale. Sounds made up. It’s the kind of name you give yourself when you want people to remember it, want it to roll off tongues like a warning dressed in civility. I type it into the database. Nothing official comes up, but then again I really don’t think Jonas is his real name. No database profile.
“Got something,” Dalia murmurs with a smile, victory plastered all over her face. I give her an easy smile back.
“Show me.”
She tilts the phone my way. While I was looking at the police database, she went straight to Google.
A Facebook group, request to join type. The cover photo shows a black spiral carved into wood. The name just reads: Reclaimers. Beneath it, the administrator: Jonas Vale.
“Looks like he keeps it tight,” I say, frowning. “We could use a fake account to join and view the posts.”
Dalia leans closer, nodding. She smells like wind and leather and the tension she’s worn since sunrise. “We could ask Kelsi from IT for one.”
The wind outside picks up again, howling low between the side mirrors.
I start the car, ready to head back and dig deeper. “You think Ruth was part of the group?”
“I think it’s the best lead we’ve had. And that phrase...” She glances down at her phone again. “The vessel suffers for our salvation. It’s a belief system. If we are looking at religious cult-type activity, it could explain why Ruth felt paranoid. Sects like that won’t let their followers go easy.”
I drive us out of the Ridgepath lot, gravel popping under the tires. In a few minutes, we merge onto the highway, the town falling behind us. The horizon flattens out again, fields and scrub and bones of old barns scattered like the remains of a story no one wanted to finish.
I don’t know why I glance at her then. Maybe just instinct. She’s looking out the window, fingers twitching slightly where they rest on her thigh. Like she’s working something out. Or holding something in.
I almost ask but then she turns to me.
“I was thinking of cooking dinner tomorrow,” she says, sudden. “Come by after shift?”
It throws me off-balance. “Dinner?”
“Sure. Markus said he will serve up his famous bread pudding.”
Ah. So it’s that.
I manage a neutral nod, but the knot that tightens behind my ribs doesn’t budge. “Alright.”
“He asked about you.”
“What’d you tell him?”
“That you’re my partner.”
“Right.”
The word feels too small in my mouth.
“He’s not…” She trails off, then sighs. “He’s just not great with this part of my life.”
“You mean the truth?”
I can’t help it. We’ve been partners for three years and I’ve met Markus on office parties before. We get on fine, but I can tell he doesn’t like me.
I’ve never been over for dinner.
It feels like a test I’m not sure I can pass.
ns216.73.216.76da2
