He looks so peaceful in the morning light. Too peaceful for the kind of world we live in.
Sunlight sneaks through the thin gap of the motel curtains, a narrow stripe that lands across his face and shoulder, softening the usual sharpness of his features. The angles I’ve memorized in passing—cheekbone, jaw, the quiet bend of his mouth—have all blurred slightly in sleep. Less defined, less guarded.
I don’t move, not yet. I stay where I am, head still on the pillow, turned just enough to watch him without guilt. He’s lying on his side, one arm folded beneath his head, the other draped low near the edge of the mattress. His breathing is steady. Measured. There’s a faint crease along his cheek from the pillowcase and his blonde hair is tousled from the night, a few strands falling across his forehead. He’ll brush it back automatically when he wakes. Elias Wexler is never still, not really. Even in sleep, there’s a quiet pull to him, like he’s listening to a frequency no one else hears. But right now, wrapped in the leftover hush of night, he looks... calm.
It’s disarming.
There’s something about this version of him—unseen by most, untouched by the world—that makes my chest feel too tight. The softness doesn’t belong to either of us, not really. Not with everything waiting outside the door. Not with the weight we carry. But in this moment, it’s here. Flickering and fragile.
He’s handsome. I’ve always known it, of course. Objectively. In the way other people see him: sunshine grins, easy shoulders, the kind of warmth that makes strangers spill secrets without realizing it. But this is different. This is private. Something low and quiet, coiled in my gut and uninvited.
I shouldn’t be looking at him like this. And worse—I don’t want to stop.
I roll onto my back, eyes tracing the mottled ceiling, trying to reset the rhythm in my own body. There’s a crack near the corner that stretches like a fault line, splitting the plaster above the bed. I focus on it, let my breathing match the rise and fall of his beside me. I don’t know why the stillness here feels heavier than the silence at a crime scene, but it does. Maybe because it’s honest. Or maybe because it asks questions I’m not ready to answer.
He stirs.
A slow breath, a shift of weight. His arm curls slightly, and I hear the soft scrape of his palm dragging along the blanket. When he blinks his eyes open, it’s gradual, like waking costs him something. His gaze finds the ceiling first, then drifts sideways—toward me.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t smile, either. Just watches me with that open, unreadable calm he wears like armor.
“Hey,” he murmurs, voice still laced with sleep.
I nod once. “Morning.”
We don’t move.
The air between us stretches—thick, unsure. There’s nothing inappropriate here. Not technically. But there’s a proximity neither of us is naming. Shared silence. Shared air. Shared warmth, still trapped beneath the covers.
“You sleep?” he asks, too softly.
“Enough.”
He studies me a beat too long, and I know he sees the lie. But he doesn’t call me on it. Just hums once and glances at the window. The sunlight’s brighter now, dragging the edges of the day closer. I sit up first, pushing the blanket down and swinging my legs to the floor. The carpet is thin, coarse beneath my feet. The kind that absorbs every sound like it’s hiding something. I reach for my jacket, tug it around my shoulders. Behind me, I hear the mattress creak as he follows.
The kettle on the counter is old, with a switch that never lights up. I fill it with tap water and set it to boil. Elias moves beside me, his movements quiet, practiced. He doesn’t speak while he rinses his face in the bathroom sink, running cold water through his fingers like he’s trying to wash off more than just sleep.
“I’ll grab breakfast from the diner,” he says after a beat.
I manage a half-smile. “Just coffee.”
“You’ll get whatever’s been on the roller for three days.”
“Perfect.”
He gives me a crooked grin, and just for a second, it softens everything. The edges between us blur.
When he leaves, the door clicks softly behind him. The air feels different without him in it. Lighter. Colder. I move to the window, part the curtain, and look out at the road—washed clean by last night’s storm, stretching empty in both directions. We’re chasing something out here. I know that. Something that doesn’t want to be caught.
The silence starts to itch the moment the door closes.
He didn’t reach for me, but he could’ve. And the worst part is, I might’ve let him. Not like that. Just enough to feel a little less like I was unravelling alone.
Without Elias, the room reverts back to what it really is—cheap wood veneer, cigarette burns, a single unblinking eye of light in the ceiling that casts everything in a washed-out yellow. I stare at the kettle like it might give me a reason to stay still. It doesn’t. It hums softly, then clicks off, steam curling upward like smoke from a small fire that already burned itself out.
I cross to the bed. My duffel still sits open from last night. I crouch down beside it, tug at the zipper lazily—half out of habit, half because I don’t want to think too hard about anything else. I packed quickly. Clean shirt. Spare socks. Notebook. Pens. The essentials.
The door clicks open. Elias is balancing two cardboard cups and a grease-stained paper bag that smells like fried oil and calories.
“You survived,” I give him an easy smile.
“Barely,” he mutters. “The cook called me ‘chief’ and tried to upsell me a meatloaf breakfast burrito. I said no. You’re welcome.”
He hands me one of the coffees. It’s too hot, too full, the kind that scalds your fingers if you don’t cradle it just right. Still, it smells like salvation. I nod once. Small gratitude. He sets the food down on the nightstand and tosses me a sealed pack of grape jelly. “They were out of strawberry.”
“Of course they were.”
We fall into a quiet rhythm—him unwrapping biscuits, me folding the motel napkin into a rough triangle, pretending it matters. I’m just about to ask if he brought sugar when his phone buzzes. A call.
He glances down at the screen, coffee halfway to his mouth. “Wexler.”
His voice goes flat, clipped in that way it only does when he’s talking to someone with a badge but no bedside manner. I lean back on the bed, sip the coffee, and watch his face closely.
“Yeah. That’s me.”
“...Uh-huh.”
Pause. He turns slightly away, one hand braced on the dresser, knuckles pale.
“Where was that flagged from?”
I watch his face change— it’s a shift you only notice if you’ve studied someone long enough. A thread pulled tight.
“Quinn? First name?”
“Ruth,” he repeats aloud, turning towards me. “Yeah. No, that one didn’t show up in the database yesterday. What was the tag?”
He listens, eyes wide. “Ivory fabric? Wait, like the dress our victim was wearing?”
Another pause. “Jesus.”
He hangs up and doesn’t say anything for a beat. I wait patiently.
“They flagged a four-year-old missing persons case,” he says finally. “Ruth Quinn. Went cold. Never found a body. But get this—her belongings were recovered in an old barn. Ivory dress. Not catalogued properly, just bagged and stored. One of the techs took another look this morning. Exact replica of our victim’s dress. Same texture, same weave ,said the stitching looked handmade.”
Ruth Quinn. My fingers twitch toward my phone before I tell them to. I open the internal database.
F, 27. Last seen 4 years ago.
Caven County.
Disappearance filed, case closed due to insufficient leads.
No body. No suspects. No follow-up.
Until now.
“We hit the local department,” Elias says. “Pull their archived case files.”
The rest of the morning is routine in shape but not in tone. We get dressed, gear up, check out. The receptionist doesn’t even look up when we drop the key. Maybe she’s used to people leaving with more baggage than they brought in.
The local precinct is small. Two stories, beige brick, a tired flag fluttering on a pole that’s been leaning left since the early 2000s. We flash badges. Elias does most of the talking—his voice has that disarming cadence that makes strangers nod before they process what he’s saying.
“I’ll check records,” I tell him. “Start with the Quinn file.”
He nods, already halfway to the bullpen. Inside, everything smells like copier toner and half-hearted disinfectant. The archive room’s tucked behind a supply closet, barely lit. I don’t bother with a chair. I kneel, fingers skimming across file spines, looking for 4-year-old dust.
Quinn, Ruth.
There. It’s thin. Five pages, not including the missing persons report. Her photo stares up at me. She looks like she bit her tongue just before the flash. I scan the notes.
Disappeared from apartment complex. No signs of struggle.
Neighbors unhelpful.
No cameras on that side of the building.
Last person to see her: sibling. No follow-up interview on file.
I frown. The signature at the bottom of the report is shaky. Rookie hand. Someone who didn’t want to ask more questions. I take a photo of the entire folder with my phone and return it to the drawer. As I leave, I call up the sibling’s name: Lena Quinn. Address listed as current. Still in Caven’s Hollow.
I text Elias.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
In minutes, I’m back behind the wheel again. Elias respects my silence and I hope he understands it’s nothing to do with him. It’s focus. We haven’t had a case like this in a while and something about it scratches the back of my brain. Not sure why.
The address leads us to a squat building near the outskirts of town—three stories of off-white siding, cracked windows, the kind of place where packages go missing and no one reports it. Unit 2C. Second floor. Outside corridor. The paint is peeling in long, curling strips and cigarette butts huddle in the corners like guilty secrets. A broken porch light buzzes above the door, not enough to illuminate, just enough to remind you it’s trying. The number’s crooked, hanging by one rusted nail. You get the feeling it’s only still up because it hasn’t decided to fall yet.
I don’t like places like this. Not because they’re run-down, but because they hold everything too tight. Fear. Grief. Memory. All crammed behind cheap drywall and hollow-core doors.
Elias stops beside me. He lifts his hand, then pauses.
I watch the moment stretch between breath and action, his knuckles suspended just inches from the faded wood. Then three knocks. Measured, calm.
We wait.
Behind the door, something shifts—slow, cautious. I hear the soft clink of a deadbolt sliding free, and the door opens two inches. She peers out. Pale, sharp shoulders wrapped in a faded and stretched-out pink cardigan. Her hair’s tied back in a loose knot that’s coming undone at the nape of her neck. Eyes sunken—not from makeup, but from months or years of sleep lost. The smell that slips out behind her is lived-in.
“What do you want?” she asks. Her voice is thin. Hoarse, like she’s already spoken these words and never liked what followed.
“We’re here about Ruth Quinn,” I say. Her expression doesn’t change, but her posture sags. We’ve just knocked on a wound that never closed.
“You’re four years late,” she says.
For a moment, I think she will shut the door on us.
“Something’s changed,” Elias offers, voice gentler than mine. “We’re reopening lines.”
Lena hesitates. Then opens the door wider.
Inside, the apartment is cluttered but not dirty. Old air freshener clinging to the walls like smoke, citrus layered over something older. Dust, dry paper, the faint bite of bleach. The front room is small and narrow. Dim. One window, curtained in a heavy floral print that blocks out more light than it lets in. The fabric sags at the edges, pinned back with a plastic hair clip. I spot another one abandoned on the windowsill, dull pink with one tooth missing.
The couch seems secondhand, covered in a crocheted throw someone started but never finished. Coffee table’s pushed too close, stacked with unopened mail, a single mug half-full with something long cold that’s starting to separate. Photos line the wall behind the television. They aren’t framed, just thumbtacked into the drywall. A girl in every one—Ruth, based on the pictures I saw in her file—smiling with uneven teeth and sunburned cheeks. On a dock. At a fair. Standing beside a dog that’s too big for her frame.
Elias carefully moves toward the hallway and I let him lead, following closely behind. The kitchen is barely a step away—open concept if you’re being generous. One of the cabinet doors is missing its handle. The linoleum’s curled in the corner near the fridge, revealing chipped tile underneath. Letter magnets on the freezer door spell out half a sentence.
I glance down the hall. There are two doors. One ajar - the bathroom - and the other closed. That’s going to be the bedroom.
Lena has her arms crossed, fingers gripping her sleeves like she’s holding herself together by the seams. Elias gives her a sympathetic smile. “You two lived here together?”
“No. I came by a lot, though. After our mom passed. Ruth got the lease, said she liked the quiet. It helped her think.”
I pause at the end of the hallway, waiting. Elias keeps his voice even. “Did she talk to anyone unusual? Mention feeling watched? Nervous?”
“She always felt nervous,” Lena murmurs. “It was just part of her. But yeah... maybe more, toward the end. She said someone had been leaving things in her mailbox. Notes. Weird trinkets. Coins. I thought it was just anxiety, but now...”
Elias shifts his weight, voice gentler. “Do you still have the notes?”
Lena shakes her head. “I burned them.”
“Why?”
“I thought they were making it worse.”
She finally opens the door, but doesn’t follow us in.
The bedroom is smaller than I expected. Also cluttered, but not in a careless way, more like someone trying to hold their life together by keeping everything close. The bed is neatly made—creased corners, quilt tucked tight like it’s trying to keep something from slipping through the seams. A bookshelf stands crooked against the wall, sagging under the weight of dog-eared paperbacks and stacked medical folders.
Elias doesn’t speak. He circles the room slowly, hands loose at his sides, scanning the shelves, the walls, the gaps beneath furniture. I crouch beside the bed, fingers ghosting over the worn carpet. There’s no dust here. Lena kept this place clean. I run a hand under the bedframe and pause. Something catches.
It’s not hidden well—just pressed between the frame slats and the box spring, maybe shoved there in a moment of panic or just indecision. I ease it free.
It’s a battered manila envelope. Thin, taped shut, then slit open again. Inside, there’s a folded discharge document stamped with the faded letterhead of Whitmoor Psychiatric Center. I pull it open slowly. The paper is creased like it’s been read too many times. The ink has begun to bleed at the edges.
Name: Ruth Quinn
DOB: 1994
Age at Intake: 27
Date of Admission: March 2019
Date of Discharge: August 2020
Primary Diagnosis: Severe Anxiety with Psychotic Features
Discharge Summary: "Patient no longer presents immediate harm to self or others. Persistent delusional ideation remains but manageable under current medication regimen. Due to financial constraints and lack of continued insurance coverage, patient was released into care of family." Dr. Hal G. Cartwright
I feel the edges of the paper cut into my fingers. No insurance. Discharged with unresolved symptoms. That’s not a release, it’s an abandonment with a signature. There’s more: another page, handwritten this time.
Ruth— I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
The last words are scratched in harder, the ink thickening as the pen struggled to keep up with her hand. I sit back on my heels, the weight of it all pressing down on my chest.
“Dalia.” Elias crouches beside me, eyes flicking over the papers I’m holding. I pass him the envelope, silent. He reads fast, mouth tightening with every line. I turn towards the door, check whether Lena is still standing there but it seems like she left.
“They just let her go?” he asks, voice low.
“No money, no options.” I nod toward the billing sheet still tucked behind the letter. “Lena couldn’t afford it.”
His jaw flexes. “So she came home.”
“And then disappeared.” I fold the letter carefully, once, then again, like maybe if I handle it gently, it’ll feel less cruel.
Elias is already pulling out his phone. “I’ll run down Whitmoor’s records. If she was released in 2020, maybe someone still remembers her.”
“Persistent delusional ideation,” I add, pointing to the psych notes.
He nods once. “Whitmoor next?”
“Yeah,” I confirm, but can’t shake this sinking feeling we are a million steps behind.
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