The Secrets We Keep

by GreenAndPurple12

Summary:

Agatha is Westview’s sharpest detective. Rio, the brilliant new criminologist.
Colleagues by day, wives by night — their marriage is a secret kept from everyone. But beneath the surface of their carefully guarded lives lie painful pasts and hidden ties… And some secrets refuse to stay buried.

Notes:

(Secretly) Married / Detective Agatha / Coworkers

Chapter 1

 

6:05 a.m.

The alarm buzzed softly in the stillness of the house, its sound barely disturbing the quiet of the early hour. Outside, the city remained wrapped in nocturnal shadows, the sky only beginning to pale with first signs of morning lights.

Detective Agatha Harkness stirred, her hand emerging from beneath the covers to silence the alarm before it could grow insistent enough to wake anyone else. She blinked slowly, her body trying to wake up, and slowly pushed herself upright with the carefulness of someone used in not disturbing the peace around her.

Beside her, her wife lay curled on her side, still deep in sleep. Agatha paused, watching the soft rise and fall of her chest. Strands of dark hair had slipped across her face, slightly moved by the rhythm of her breath. Her sleep shirt had ridden up during the night, exposing the constellation of old white scars that mapped across her skin—silent stories of battles fought and survived. Agatha’s gaze softened. She leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

There was always a part of her reluctant to leave this—this fragile, unspoken moment of stillness. But the day was already ticking forward.

Minutes later, Agatha moved through the house dressed in black running gear, her footsteps as silent as possible on the floor. She passed the closed door of her teen’s room, the quiet disturbed only by the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the distant echo of a car engine on the street below.

She slipped out the front door with the easiness of habit, the chill of the morning air greeting her like an old friend. It smelled faintly of dew and asphalt, a scent that always seemed to signal the start of something. She inhaled deeply, letting the coolness clear the last traces of sleep from her mind.

She would run for exactly thirty-seven minutes—enough time to let her thoughts stretch out and settle, enough time to feel her body wake up and come alive again. She would be home before the clock struck seven, before the kettle started to whistle, before teenage feet padded into the kitchen demanding cereal.

But for now, in that space between night and day, the city belonged to her.

These quiet morning runs had become something important to Agatha, a ritual far richer than a mere physical exercise. They were her sanctuary, a daily gift of solitude amid the chaos of her life. In the soft hush of the city at dawn, when the streets were still empty and the world still held on to its sleepiness, Agatha found space to think, to breathe, to prepare herself for whatever the day would demand. It was during these moments of stillness that clarity often arrived—sometimes illuminating the tangled threads of a case, other times shedding light on the more complicated, private questions she rarely allowed herself to confront.

Today, however, her thoughts were heavier, tinged with an undercurrent of anticipation. Something was shifting beneath the surface at the Westview Police Department, and Agatha could feel it as keenly as the steady rhythm of her pounding feet against the pavement. She knew, deep down, that this day would mark a turning point, not just for her, but for the entire precinct.

A week ago, Wanda Maximoff, the department’s former criminal profiler, had left Westview behind, moving to New York City for a new job that promised not only fresh professional challenges but a much-needed clean slate. The decision had been more than career-driven. Only two months earlier, Wanda had married the man she’d rebuilt her life with—a kind, steady presence named Vision—and they had decided to move on to live closer to Vision’s aging parents.

Agatha had been among the select few who knew early on about Wanda’s successor. Rio Vidal was arriving with a reputation that preceded her—a criminologist whose intellect was matched by an unusual depth of empathy. Over the past years, Agatha had collaborated with Rio on several cases, witnessing firsthand how Rio’s analytical rigor blended seamlessly with her ability to read between the lines of human emotion and motivation, like she was an entity beyond them. It was a rare gift in their line of work, and one that promised to transform the precinct’s approach.

But what no one at the department knew—what Agatha concealed beneath her measured professionalism—was that Rio was more than just a colleague. They were not strangers, nor were they simply partners in investigation. They were partners in life. Married for over seven years, Agatha and Rio had built a world together quietly, weaving their shared years into a tapestry hidden from prying eyes and whispered speculation. Rio was the woman currently asleep in her bed, in their bed.

Their marriage was a refuge, a private truth that guided Agatha amid the unpredictability of her job. It was a bond forged through countless late nights, whispered conversations, and unshakable trust after painful pasts. And today, with Rio stepping fully into the spotlight at Westview police station, Agatha felt a surge of both pride and the familiar tension that came with change—the weight of knowing the delicate balance between their personal world and their professional lives would meet behind the precinct’s doors.

As her legs moved steadily beneath her, carrying her forward through the wakening city, Agatha allowed herself a bright moment of hope. Whatever the day held, she was ready. Because this time, she would not be facing it alone.

Today marked the beginning of something new. For the department. For Rio. And for Agatha.

On paper, Rio’s appointment was a seamless transition—efficient, merit-based, uncontroversial. But for Agatha, it carried more weight than any personnel change had a right to. She had spent years mastering the delicate balance between her personal life and professional responsibilities, building walls where needed, drawing lines that couldn’t be crossed. But now, with Rio entering the same workspace, those carefully constructed boundaries felt a little less certain. A little more vulnerable.

Her feet struck the cobblestones in a steady rhythm as she ran, the cold morning air burning pleasantly in her lungs. The world around her was just beginning to stir, streetlamps humming softly as their glow faded into the grey daylight. But Agatha’s thoughts were already racing ahead, tangled in the possibilities and questions that lay just hours away. Change was coming—and this time, it wore the face she loved most.

Wanda’s departure and benevolence had triggered the shift. When the profiler had made her plans public, she’d gone straight to Director Lilia Calderu to suggest her own successor: Rio. It wasn’t a casual recommendation. Wanda had worked alongside Rio on high-stakes cases before, had seen firsthand her intuition, her composure, the quiet way she could walk into chaos and untangle it with just the right words, the right pause, the right insight. Wanda trusted her. And that trust had weight.

Lilia hadn’t hesitated. Not only had she accepted the suggestion, she had championed it—praising Rio’s qualifications to the higher-ups with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. The transfer paperwork moved fast. Almost too fast. It felt, to Agatha, like the universe itself was conspiring to align the pieces, to bring Rio into Westview’s orbit as though she had always belonged there.

But long before the announcement was made, Agatha and Rio knew what this meant. And they’d made a decision. Quietly, they had requested a meeting with Lilia. Not as detective and recruit. Not as coworkers preparing for a transition. But as wives.

They had told her the truth: that they had been married for over seven years. That behind the composed exteriors and airtight professionalism, there existed a shared life built in the quiet hours between shifts, filled with morning coffees and late-night conversations, unspoken support and hard-won compromise. It hadn’t been a confession—it was a declaration of trust. A promise to uphold their duties with the same integrity they brought to their marriage.

Lilia had taken the revelation with characteristic calm. Lilia had known them both for a very long time and under different circumstances. There had been no dramatic pause, no raised eyebrow. Just a single condition, laid down with the steel that made her such a respected leader: “Your personal life stays outside these walls. Your work here will be judged on merit and conduct—nothing more.”

Both women had agreed without hesitation. They had always drawn that line themselves, long before it was drawn for them.

Still, they kept the rest of the department in the dark. Not out of secrecy born of shame—but out of a fierce, deliberate protectiveness. Their relationship was not a subject for gossip, nor an anecdote for breakroom chatter. It was something rare and quiet and deeply personal.

Until now, their overlap had been manageable—brief stretches of collaboration, Rio stepping in for joint cases or consulting on profiles. Those instances had gone smoothly, even beautifully. But full-time? Every day, every decision, every hallway encounter and team meeting? That was uncharted territory.

And it started today.

Agatha’s morning run was drawing to a close. Her breath had found its rhythm again, even as her muscles still hummed with exertion. She turned the final corner and slowed to a steady jog, the familiar façade of her house rising ahead like a quiet sentinel. The sky above had shifted from slate gray to lightish blue, the first lights brightening the pavement and glinting off the windows.

She ascended the front steps two at a time, the ache in her legs more satisfying than tiring. By the time she reached her door, her body was cooling, her mind already shifting gears.

The air inside the house was warmer, softer. The stillness she had left behind just under an hour ago had given way to life—gentle and domestic. Somewhere behind the bathroom door, water was running. The muted splash and hum of morning routines already in motion. From the kitchen came a faint clink of ceramic against marble, someone was handling coffee mugs.

Crossing the hallway, Agatha passed Señor Scratchy—massive, loyal, and so so fluffy. The big white dog had once belonged to Rio alone, but over time, he’d become a shared joy, a silent witness to everything between them, with a weird obsession for Agatha. He trotted over to her now with his usual bright-eyed excitement, nails tapping lightly on the floor, tail a blur.

“Hey, old man,” Agatha murmured, crouching to scratch behind his ears. He responded by licking her wrist with a love reserved only for her. She chuckled softly and kissed the top of his head before straightening again.

When Agatha stepped into the kitchen, Señor Scratchy trailing close behind, she was met with a sight that pulled the breath from her lungs in a way her run never could. No matter how many times she saw her like this, the warmth never dulled.

Rio was standing near the counter, just turning at the sound of Agatha’s footsteps. Her dark hair was swept up into a loose bun that looked both effortless and intentional, with a few loose strands brushing her cheekbones. She wore a simple pajama set—one of Agatha’s favorites. The soft cotton green shirt was a size too big, more covering than the one she had worn to bed and slightly rumpled, probably pulled from the bottom of their closet pile, and her boxers clung low on her hips, revealing a long stretch of thigh as she shifted her weight onto one foot.

In one hand, she held a steaming mug of coffee and she smiled when she saw Agatha—an expression so familiar, so intimate, it burned something inside her.

“You’re back early,” Rio said, voice low and slightly rough with sleep.

Agatha stepped forward and leaned her forehead lightly against Rio’s temple. “I missed you.”

Rio huffed a soft laugh, amused but fond. “You were gone for forty minutes.”

“Still too long,” Agatha replied.

They stood like that for a moment—Rio’s free hand drifting to rest on Agatha’s back, Agatha breathing her in, the smell of coffee and skin and warmth wrapping around her.

Then, the day called again.

Agatha pulled back slightly and accepted the second mug Rio offered, already prepared just the way she liked it. Their fingers brushed in the exchange, and Agatha caught the look in her wife’s eyes—so familiar.

Today wasn’t just another Monday. It wasn’t just another shift.

Today, they would walk into the precinct together—not just as professionals, not just as colleagues, but as two women with seven years of hidden marriage behind them, and now, the most delicate part of their life stepping closer to the light.

And for now, in the golden light of their kitchen, they were still just Agatha and Rio. Wives. Teammates. Partners.

Rio closed the short distance between them without a moment’s hesitation. She leaned in and pressed a kiss to Agatha’s lips, who met it with an ease triggered by years of knowing and loving someone in every season of life. For better and for worse.

This kitchen, with its chipped tile and overstuffed spice rack, had seen a thousand versions of their life together. It was their stage, their sanctuary, their commonplace magic.

Agatha turned toward the cupboards and retrieved three plates, setting them with care on the small table tucked against the kitchen wall. Rio moved with parallel precision, collecting the milk from the fridge and pouring it in three glasses, placing each one beside the plates like it was second nature. It was second nature. This routine was muscle memory by now.

As she passed by, Agatha reached out and caught Rio’s hand, stopping her mid-step. No words. Just a touch. And then, a spontaneous twirl—light and easy. Rio let out a quiet laugh, letting herself be spun in the middle of the kitchen. There was no music playing—just the hush of early morning traffic and the gentle creak of their old house warming up for the day. But in this silence, they danced.

When the motion stilled, Rio landed softly in Agatha’s arms, and Agatha held her there, close enough to feel the quiet tension that had bloomed just beneath her skin. Her fingertips brushed against Rio’s back, and she could feel it—the barely-there stiffness, the way Rio’s shoulders didn’t quite drop.

She was nervous. Of course she was.

Today wasn’t just another day on the calendar. It was the first. The beginning of something official. Rio’s first full day as a permanent member of the Westview precinct. No more temporary assignments, no more trial periods, no more blurred lines. From today forward, she wore the badge for real. She stood in full view.

Agatha wanted to tell her something—something supporting, something just for her. She wanted to whisper a reassurance. But before she could find the words, the spell broke.

“Morning,” came a voice from the hallway, low and still drowsy.

Nicky appeared in the doorway, his fifteen-year-old frame still lanky and catching up with itself. His damp longish brown hair clung to his forehead in uneven patches from the shower, and he wore one of Agatha’s old oversized band t-shirts that had shrunk in the wash and now fit him perfectly. He paused for only a second when he saw them, catching the tail end of their embrace.

A smile tugged at his lips—not teasing, not awkward, just soft. Mature.

“Don’t mind me,” he said as he crossed to the table, the corner of his mouth still curved in gentle amusement. “I’m just here for the sacred ritual of cereal and minimal conversation.”

Agatha chuckled, releasing Rio as they both turned their attention toward him. They exchanged a brief glance and a smile that said sth like, We’ll finish that moment later.

Rio ruffled Nicky’s hair on the way past him, and he made a show of ducking her hand, but not before grinning into his bowl.

He didn’t see Rio as his mother’s girlfriend anymore, or even as someone trying to fit into the edges of their life. She was part of the center. A second mom in all the ways that mattered—steady, consistent, present. His warmth toward her was quiet but deep, rooted not in obligation, but in experience. In love.

The three of them moved into place without effort. Rio sat beside Nicky, pouring milk into his cereal with the casual familiarity of a thousand other breakfasts. Agatha slid into the chair across from them, cradling her coffee cup between both hands.

Outside, the world was growing louder—cars passing, birds calling, the city coming to life. But in the small cocoon of their kitchen, they had carved out a pocket of calm. A family, sitting down together on the edge of something new.

And though the day ahead promised pressure, visibility, and the uncertainty of untested ground, this moment was still untouched.

Agatha nudged her son playfully, trying to get him to talk. He gave her a look, somewhere between amused and mock-annoyed, then turned his attention back to his cereal with the intense focus of a teenager pretending not to enjoy the attention.

Agatha took a sip from her glass before setting it down and leaning her arms on the table. “Big plans today?” she asked, her tone warm but probing. “Tough day ahead?”

“Science assignment’s due,” Nicky muttered between bites. “And an English presentation. Ten minutes of standing in front of people pretending I’m not dying inside.”

Rio reached for her own coffee. “You’ve got this,” she said, her voice calm and sure. “Just remember everything we went over. You’ve practiced it ten times. You know your points. Just go in there and be yourself—smart, prepared, and way more ready than you think.”

Nicky didn’t argue. He gave a noncommittal shrug, but the weight of Rio’s support had landed. Public speaking had never come easy for him. He could crack a joke in a crowd, sure, and he had his mother’s quick wit, but being seen, truly seen, under the spotlight of expectation—that was different. And terrifying.

Rio had spent the last week helping him chip away at the fear, turning it into something smaller, more manageable. Not by telling him to “just be confident,” but by showing him how to take the space, how to stand steady and speak with intention. They had rehearsed together after dinner, voices echoing through the living room as Agatha reviewed case files or prepped for the next day’s case load. These were the quiet victories that stitched a family together.

Agatha caught Rio’s eyes and they smiled. They weren’t just raising a teenager or managing jobs. They were building something resilient.

As if sensing the sudden emotional weight settling between his moms, Nicky did what any fifteen-year-old with social radar would do: he redirected.

“What about you?” he asked, not quite meeting Rio’s eyes but gesturing toward her with a tilt of his chin. “First day and all. Nervous?”

Rio paused, her fingers tapping lightly on her coffee mug. “Honestly?” she said, leaning back in her chair, her expression contemplative. “I’m okay so far. A little nervous, maybe—but more excited. And I won’t be completely lost.” Her eyes flicked to Agatha, who raised an eyebrow with quiet amusement. “Someone very capable gave me a pretty thorough orientation.”

“And everyone already knows you,” Agatha added, reaching out across the table to lay her hand over Rio’s. Her thumb traced a slow, reassuring arc along Rio’s knuckles and wedding ring. “You’ve been part of the team longer than they realize.”

At the touch, Rio turned her hand, lacing their fingers together. She squeezed gently. “Thanks,” she murmured. “For saying that. And for everything else.”

Agatha didn’t reply with words, just with a smile. 

The truth was, Rio wasn’t just ready. She was eager. The years she’d spent recovering from a traumatic childhood, consulting, floating from case to case, department to department, had taught her plenty. But none of it had felt like hers. It was Agatha who had first brought her in on a Westview case—almost on a whim, when a profiler had been needed. And it had sparked something in her. The cases were challenging. The precinct was tight-knit but open. The rhythm of the place matched her own.

And now, after all the years of side-doors and short assignments, she was walking through the front door to take a permanent place.

It felt different. It felt earned.

“I think it’s going to be a good day,” she said finally, her voice quiet but certain.

Nicky raised his spoon like a toast. “To surviving presentations and first days.”

Agatha clinked her glass lightly against his spoon. “And to whatever else the day throws our way.”

The moment between them dissolved gently as Agatha turned her attention fully toward her son.

“By the way, Nicky,” she began, her tone casual but laced with that instinctive maternal edge, “we might not be home early tonight. There’s a late briefing at the precinct, and if things run long, we’ll probably grab dinner near the station.”

Nicky shrugged with the nonchalance of someone who’d handled evenings on his own before. “No problem,” he replied, already mentally scrolling through frozen pizza options.

But then, something flickered behind his eyes—quick, cunning, so much like his mother. “Actually… since you’ll be out,” he added, drawing out the words as if carefully constructing a case, “can I crash at Leo’s tonight?”

He turned on the look--an expression perfected through years of trial, error, and selective charm. It was a hybrid of wide-eyed innocence and calculated persuasion. Agatha had seen it a thousand times before, and every time, it hit her like a nostalgic punch to the heart. The boy had grown tall overnight, it seemed, but he still knew how to play her like a violin.

Across the table, Rio took a slow sip of her milk and arched an eyebrow, a knowing smirk already blooming on her lips. She didn’t even need to say a word, she could predict the script from here.

Agatha exhaled a long-suffering sigh, but her smile betrayed her. “Okay,” she said slowly, pointing a mock-stern finger in his direction, “just for tonight. But don’t make this a regular thing, young man. I’m still your favorite person to eat dinner with, right?”

“Obviously,” Nicky grinned. “And I swear, no crazy antics. We’ll watch a movie or something. Maybe study. I’ll text you once I’m at Leo’s.”

Agatha chuckled, leaning back in her chair as he got up to leave. There was a softness in her chest that hadn’t faded with time—a constant awareness of how fast he was growing, how each of these little requests marked another quiet step into independence. It was bittersweet, watching him stretch his wings like this.

“Thanks, Mama,” Nicky added over his shoulder, his voice a little lighter now. “Can’t be late, don’t wanna get roasted by Mr. Klein again.”

And with that, he was off, disappearing down the hallway in a flurry of untamed curls and band t-shirt. His bedroom door closed a beat later, and the house fell into that familiar morning quiet once more.

Agatha stood and began clearing the table, her fingers brushing against Rio’s as they moved in tandem. It was a dance they knew well: stacking plates, rinsing glasses, returning things to their places with the ease of habit.

Rio dried a plate and handed it off, her shoulder brushing against Agatha’s. “He’s getting older,” she said softly, a half-smile playing at her lips. “More confident.”

Agatha nodded, drying her hands on a towel. “Too fast sometimes. I blink and he’s taller. Smarter. More… him.”

There was a wistfulness in her voice, not regret exactly, but something close to it—a quiet marveling at the way time unfolded, whether or not anyone was ready.

Rio leaned back against the counter, watching her wife for a long moment. “You’ve raised a good one,” she said. “Kind. Thoughtful. Even if he does try to weaponize that puppy-dog face.”

Agatha laughed, a soft, almost private sound. “You helped. And he gets that from you.”

“Absolutely,” Rio teased, bumping her shoulder against Agatha’s.

With the clock still firmly on their side—they weren’t due at the precinct until 9 a.m.—Agatha and Rio allowed themselves the rare luxury of moving at a leisurely pace. There was no rush to be out the door, no flurry of last-minute preparations.

Just as Agatha was about to slip toward the bathroom for a quick shower, the soft creak of the front door announced Nicky’s return. He reappeared in the doorway, his backpack casually slung over one shoulder, his damp hair still tousled and rebellious despite his best efforts to tame it. His eyes caught hers for a brief moment, and with a sincere, if still slightly sleepy, grin, he called out, “Have a good day!”

Agatha’s grin widened, and without hesitation, she reached out to ruffle his hair again—a familiar gesture she knew he secretly loved to hate.

“Mama, seriously…” Nicky groaned, swatting at her hand with mock annoyance, though the smile tugging at his lips betrayed his fondness for the ritual.

Rio stepped forward with soft, deliberate care. She pressed her lips to the side of his head, brushing a quick kiss there. He was as tall as she was now. She knew this simple affection wouldn’t last forever. One day soon, Nicky would likely pull away, wanting more space and independence. But for now, he still leaned into their warmth, even if he pretended not to.

“Be safe,” she murmured.

“I will,” Nicky promised before slipping quietly out the door, the soft click of the latch reverberating through the house as he left to catch the bus.

With the sound of his footsteps fading, Agatha turned toward the bathroom. The water was hot and refreshing, washing away the residue of her run and gathering resolve for the day ahead. When she emerged, her long brown hair still damp and towel-wrapped loosely, Rio was already standing in the bedroom doorway, dressed for the day.

She wore a deep green blouse tucked neatly into well-fitted black jeans, simple and elegant. Her dark hair cascaded over her shoulders in soft, natural waves, cut just below her shoulder blades. Agatha paused for a long moment, just looking. Even after all these years together, there was something endlessly captivating about Rio in these quiet, ordinary moments—the way she carried herself with calm assurance, the soft strength behind her eyes that hid the pain of all those painful years behind her.

Rio met her gaze and offered a small, knowing smile. No words passed between them. Mornings were never about conversation for Agatha and Rio. Their connection was woven through subtle glances, small touches, the rhythms of routine that required no explanation.

Agatha got dressed quickly, a white blouse tucked into tailored deep purple pants and quickly brushed her hair back.

As if on cue, Señor Scratchy’s soft, polite bark echoed from his spot by the door, a gentle reminder that time was slipping away faster than either of them wanted to admit. The big white dog sat patiently, eyes bright and expectant, tail thumping rhythmically against the floor, before standing and heading towards the hallway, followed by the two women who loved him like almost like another son. 

Rio knelt down beside him next to the front door without hesitation, her hands moving tenderly over his velvety ears and the top of his head. The dog leaned into her touch, his tail thudding louder as if thanking her for the affection. The quiet intimacy of the moment—the simple exchange of warmth between woman and dog—always tugged at Agatha’s heart.

She stepped closer, the soft scrape of her boots against the floor marking the space she closed between them. Her hand found its way to the top of Rio’s head, resting there with steady reassurance.

“Ready?” Agatha’s voice was calm but charged with meaning, a question that carried far more than its simple phrasing.

Rio rose smoothly to her feet, the movement fluid and graceful. She leaned in, brushing another quick, tender kiss against Agatha’s lips, then reached for her black leather jacket hanging on the coat rack, the cool texture of the leather a contrast to the warmth still lingering from their kiss.

Simultaneously, she grabbed Agatha’s blue coat and handed it over with a small smile that was both playful and knowing.

“If you are,” she replied, her voice low, sure, and threaded with quiet determination.

“Just one last thing before we go…” Agatha said, raising a hand gently to pause Rio mid-movement.

Rio turned toward her, curious, watching as Agatha took a small step to the right and opened a narrow drawer in the hallway cabinet. The soft scrape of wood on wood broke the quiet, and Agatha’s fingers emerged, holding a small, elegant velvet box. She extended it toward Rio with a mysterious, almost mischievous smile playing at the corners of her lips.

Rio accepted the box, her brow lifting in mild surprise and intrigue. Her eyes met Agatha’s with silent question—what was this?

“You know I already married you, right?”

Agatha chuckled. “Go ahead—open it,” she encouraged, voice soft but threaded with playful certainty.

With care, Rio flipped open the lid. Nestled inside was a delicate gold chain, simple yet exquisitely refined. There were no pendants or charms, no embellishments—just the pure elegance of the slender chain itself.

Rio’s gaze flicked up, puzzled. It was beautiful, yes—but the meaning still eluded her.

Agatha, as if reading her thoughts, didn’t say a word. Instead, she reached for Rio’s left hand and gently turned it palm-up. There, glinting softly, was the ring Rio always wore: the golden band on her wedding ring.

“It would be a shame if someone at the station found out about our marriage like this,” Agatha said quietly, nodding toward the ring with a knowing smile.

A slow realization settled over Rio’s face—a warmth blossoming deep in her chest. Of course. Agatha had thought of everything, as always.

Carefully, Rio slid the ring off her finger. The absence felt strange, like a small piece of herself had been momentarily lifted away. With deft fingers, she threaded it onto the gold chain, creating a makeshift pendant that held profound meaning despite its simplicity.

Handing the chain back to Agatha, she felt the soft clasp close securely at the nape of her neck, the rings now resting lightly over her heart. The length was perfect—subtle and discreet beneath the fabric of her blouse, hidden from curious eyes but close enough to be a quiet comfort.

Rio adjusted her collar with a glance down—and then noticed something else. Agatha’s hand, which had just fastened the chain, was bare. Her wedding ring was gone, too.

“You’re not wearing yours either?” Rio asked softly, eyes searching hers.

Agatha caught the glance and gave a small, almost amused shrug. “You know I never do at words. And I figured another necklace on me would be… less convincing, and everyone has already seen my regular one. I’m sure they would notice if a ring popped up on it overnight” she said with a smirk. “So I tucked mine into the drawer of the nightstand by our bed, like everyday. I’m counting on you to put it back on me tonight.”

Rio’s smile was tender, warm, and immediate. “Gladly,” she whispered, reaching up to trace her fingers along Agatha’s cheek. Agatha leaned into the touch, turning her head just enough to kiss Rio’s palm, eyes fluttering closed for a heartbeat as she savored the intimacy of the moment.

It struck Rio how something so small—a chain, two rings—could carry such weight, such quiet power. Symbols not just of their love, but of the lives they’d built together, the barriers they navigated, and the strength they drew from one another. And what they still hid from the world.

Finally, the moment passed. They were ready to leave.

But as Rio moved toward the door, she couldn’t shake the strange sensation at her hand—the absence of the comforting weight of the ring she’d worn every day for over seven years, except the rare moments where she was to work with Agatha’s team. It felt unfamiliar, even unsettling. Yet this was necessary. For discretion, for professionalism, for the delicate balance they maintained.

Still, knowing the ring hung close to her heart, hidden but present, brought a quiet reassurance. A tangible reminder of Agatha’s steadfast support—something Rio had sorely missed during past investigations when the ring stayed tucked away at home.

This time would be different.

This time, she would carry that strength with her, every step of the day.

Agatha gently guided Rio toward the front door, opening it before closing it quietly behind them. Señor Scratchy padded after them faithfully, his large paws making soft thuds on the polished floor. His tail swayed in a slow, steady rhythm, mirroring the cadence of their footsteps. 

They had agreed not to arrive at work together—at least not on the first day. Discretion was key. The precinct was a world of protocol and watchful eyes, and they wanted to avoid any unnecessary speculation or whispers. Agatha would take the car—a sleek black sedan that waited patiently outside—while Rio, whose morning stride was always a bit more deliberate, would walk with Scratchy. The station was just a short distance from their house, a blessing neither had taken for granted. It meant less time commuting and more stolen moments at home, but today those moments felt especially precious.

At the foot of the porch, they paused. Across the street, the faint creak of an old wooden chair heralded the arrival of their elderly neighbor, Mrs. Davies—the kind woman who had often cared for Nicky when he was smaller, a steady presence through the turbulence of those early years. Agatha smiled and exchanged a few joking words with her, a ritual that felt like a soft link to their past and the community that had quietly embraced them. For some reason, Agatha couldn’t ever remember her name.

Then, turning back to each other, Agatha and Rio shared one last lingering kiss—soft and slow, a whispered promise to carry strength and love through the day ahead. Their fingers entwined for a moment longer than necessary, a small rebellion against the practical need for separation. It was a touch full of meaning, a silent vow that despite the distance and the demands of their work, they were never truly apart.

With shared smiles and hearts quietly braced, they stepped into their separate paths—Agatha to the waiting car, Rio to the fresh morning air alongside Señor Scratchy.

As Rio walked through the calm, awakening streets of Westview, her thoughts began to turn inward. The air was crisp and cool, carrying the subtle sweetness of blooming magnolias and freshly cut grass. The city around her stirred gently—the distant hum of a bus engine, the soft clatter of café chairs being unstacked, the faint murmur of neighbors greeting the day. But beneath the surface of this serene morning, a flicker of doubt simmered quietly in her mind.

Had she truly made the right choice?

Excitement still thrummed beneath the nerves—the prospect of working alongside Agatha, the promise of immersing herself fully in the work she had longed for, gave her a sense of purpose that was almost intoxicating. It wasn’t just a job. It was a chance to claim the life she’d fought tooth and nail to build and rebuild. Years of study, grueling training, and painstaking recovery had led her here—to this fragile, hard-won moment of possibility.

In the beginning, criminology had been more than a career path. It had been her lifeline, a beacon of hope that helped her navigate through the darkest chapters of her life. After escaping captivity at nineteen, after spending eleven harrowing years trapped in the merciless control of a man who called himself “Thanos,” Rio had discovered investigation as both her shield and her sword. The pursuit of truth, the careful piecing together of clues and criminals’ psyches—it was how she fought back against the silence and the shadows.

She had survived, but the scars she bore were not only physical. Her twin sister, Naya, had not escaped with her. Naya and Thanos had vanished without a trace the day Rio ran. Since then, her absence had haunted Rio’s every waking moment—an ache as sharp and raw as the day they were taken.

They had been only eight years old, two halves of the same soul, playing in their backyard under the forgiving light of a summer afternoon. Their laughter had filled the air—pure, unguarded, bright as sunlight. And then—nothing. Silence. Darkness.

On their nineteenth birthday, the cruel twist of fate tore them apart. Rio had found the strength to flee, but Naya had remained behind. And in twleve years since, Rio’s mind had been a battleground of guilt, hope, and unrelenting questions. Where was Naya now? Was she even alive? Was she waiting for rescue? Or had the darkness swallowed her whole?

That unanswered question, that raw, relentless longing, had wrapped around Rio like iron chains in her first two years of freedom, binding her, pushing her deeper into research, into obsession, into the fragile hope—faint but persistent—that somehow, some way, she could find her again. Every details she read on her own file, every sliver of information she uncovered, was a step towards that hope.

And then… she had met Agatha.

It had happened almost by accident, a fragile intersection of two lives poised on the edge of change. After her release, Rio barely stepped beyond the walls of the house that had sheltered her recovery. The world outside felt foreign, heavy with ghosts she wasn’t ready to face. The news that her parents had perished in a devastating fire shortly before she was found had crushed any fragile hope of returning to a life she once knew. The loss was another weight pressing down, pushing her deeper into isolation.

So, she had retreated to her childhood village—a place frozen in time, wrapped in a comforting silence that spoke more than any words could. Here, in the small, quiet streets lined with weathered stone cottages and flowering window boxes, she had sought refuge. Her only constant companion had been Señor Scratchy, the big white dog she had found abandoned on the side of the road, whose unwavering loyalty anchored her to the present.

That day, though, Scratchy had vanished.

Perhaps bored of her grief, or desperate for freedom, the dog had slipped away. Rio’s heart had pounded fiercely as she stepped outside for what felt like the first time to search for him, each footfall echoing her rising panic. The village had been waking slowly, but the familiar comfort of home had been suddenly fractured by the absence of her companion. 

And then she had seen her.

A woman standing near the bakery, calm and composed, her presence a subtle disruption to the sleepy village morning. She had been asking for directions, her tone firm, and there was an unmistakable air of confidence about her that had made her stand out. She clearly wasn’t from there 

Rio’s voice had been rough from disuse and hesitant as she approached, “Have you seen a large white dog?” 

Agatha had nodded, her eyes meeting Rio’s with quiet understanding. She had sensed something behind the tightly controlled panic in Rio’s words, something unspoken. Without hesitation, she had offered to help.

 Rio’s response had been a brief refusal, her pride and wariness tightly wound. She had only asked for directions, refusing assistance. She hadn’t said thank you. Hadn’t looked back. 

But Agatha had followed anyway.

 It wasn’t long after that she had found Rio in the village square, sitting cross-legged on the cold stones of the fountain, Señor Scratchy resting his heavy head in her lap. The dog’s calm breathing was a steady rhythm against the fragile quiet between them. Their eyes had met in a silent communion, sharing the unspoken pain of loss and survival.

 Agatha had sat down beside her without a word. The moment had stretched, filled with an unexpected comfort. Normally, Rio would have fled the instant a stranger came near. Since escaping Thanos, trust had been shattered, replaced by a hardened shell of suspicion. But this woman… was different. There was no threat in her posture, no urgency in her presence—only a steady, calming stillness.

 They had talked—at first about nothing important: the weather, the small village, the dog’s antics. Each word had been a tentative thread, weaving a fragile connection. Rio had had to readapt herself to conversation, but in the end, she had managed.

 Before she had left, Agatha had slipped a card into Rio’s hand—a simple gesture, an offering of peace. “Just in case,” she had said softly, her voice warm and sincere.

 Rio had tucked the card away without looking, skepticism still clinging to her heart.

 But she had called. Eventually.

 They had met again. Same village. Same quiet square, bathed in the soft light of an early afternoon. This time, their encounter wasn’t accidental but tentative—an invitation to share a cautious coffee at the small café tucked into the corner of the square. The air between them had beeen tentative, careful, like two dancers feeling out the first steps of a new routine. Then another coffee followed. And another. Each meeting layered with soft questions and tentative hopes.

Gradually, something had began to form—not love, not yet even friendship, at least not in any conventional sense.

It was trust.

Trust before anything else.

A deep, unwavering trust—rare and precious, fragile yet fiercely resilient. A trust that didn’t demand explanations or reassurances but simply existed as a quiet, steady presence. It was the slender thread that tethered them together when everything else felt uncertain, a foundation upon which they could begin to rebuild their shattered worlds. 

Agatha with her loneliness and lack of love, Rio with her lost childhood and lost sister. 

In the years that followed, that bond never faltered. It grew quietly, imperceptibly, becoming a sanctuary amid chaos. That trust was still what gave Rio strength now, as she approached her first day in a new role, at a new station, surrounded by people who didn’t yet know who she truly was—or what she had been through. 

But Agatha knew. She always had. 

And that was all she needed. 

With Señor Scratchy still trotting faithfully beside her, his steady rhythm weirdly matching her heartbeat, Rio exhaled slowly. For the first time in a long time, she allowed herself to believe that this day—this new chapter—could be a good one. A day where she wouldn’t just survive, but perhaps even begin to thrive. 

The police station came into view, solid and reassuring as ever, its façade unchanged by time. Agatha’s car was parked neatly to the side—a small reminder that she wasn’t alone.

Glancing down at her phone, Rio noted the time: 8:54 a.m.

Right on time.

 

Chapter 2

 

Taking a steadying breath, Rio crossed the short distance from the sidewalk to the front entrance of the precinct. Her steps were slow but deliberate, each one a quiet affirmation to herself: you belong here now. Behind her, Señor Scratchy peeled off without a sound, making his way to a familiar shaded patch beneath a nearby bench. He circled once and lay down with the patience of a creature who had long since mastered the art of waiting.

Rio paused for a moment on the threshold. The early morning light glinted off the glass of the station doors, and in her reflection she saw something she hadn’t expected: someone who looked composed. Grounded. Someone new.

With one last inhale, she whistled for Scartchy to follow and pushed open the door and stepped inside. 

The cool air of the station wrapped around her like a second skin—sterile, familiar, and faintly tinged with coffee and printer toner. The hum of computers, the clatter of distant keyboards, and the low murmur of voices layered together into a soundscape she hadn’t realized she’d missed. It felt like stepping into a rhythm she hadn’t danced to in years, but one her body still remembered. 

Almost immediately, her eyes found the first person in the corridor: Billy.

She didn’t know much about him. Of everyone on the team, Billy was the one she’d exchanged the fewest words with. Young, fresh-faced, still trying to figure out how he fit into the intricate machinery of law enforcement. He had quickly developed a reputation for trailing Agatha like a quiet, eager shadow. Still, there was something about him—something reserved. But he was sharp. Observant. And there was something behind his quiet demeanor that reminded her of herself, once—cautious hope mixed with a desperate desire to prove he belonged, but in a less tragic way.

“Ah, Rio! You brought your dog!” Billy said brightly, stepping forward as he noticed her before kneeling to pet the dog. He straightened up and extended his hand. “I’m really glad you’re here. Harkness is already in one of her moods again. And… well, everyone’s been talking about you starting today. In a good way. Mostly.”

His words tumbled out in a rush, like he’d been practicing this greeting all morning and wasn’t sure if he was nailing it.

Rio accepted his outstretched hand. She allowed a small smile to curve at the corners of her mouth. “Thanks, Billy. And don’t worry, I’m used to her moods.”

 I married her, remember?

She said that last part only in her mind, of course. Out loud, she settled on: “I hope I’m not late.”

“Not at all,” he assured her, already turning toward the central bullpen. “They’re all in the office. This way—though I guess you already know where it is.”

She gave a polite nod, letting his nervous energy pass over her like a breeze. The two of them walked together toward the large office space where the rest of the team had already gathered.

Lilia sat perched on the edge of a desk, her sharp eyes scanning the room like she was cataloging everything—and everyone—for future reference. Jennifer Kale, multitasking as always, stood beside the copier flipping through a thick stack of reports, her brow furrowed in concentration. Alice Wu-Gulliver—the self-proclaimed “IT girly”—was already sprawled in her chair, booting up three monitors at once with a lazy, one-handed efficiency that belied her brilliance. Her red nails clicked rapidly over a keyboard, and she barely looked up as she muttered, “Newbie’s here. Place your bets, people.”

And then there was Agatha.

She stood near the whiteboard, half-turned toward Lilia, her arms crossed and her expression carefully neutral. Her voice—firm and direct—was wrapping up some detail about the day’s assignments, but she didn’t pause when Rio entered. She didn’t glance over. Not at first.

But Rio’s gaze had already locked on her.

And just before Agatha returned her attention to the board, their eyes met.

There was no outward change. No smile. No shift in posture. Not even a flicker of recognition, for the sake of discretion.

But Rio didn’t need any of that.

She felt it in the stillness of that glance. The acknowledgment.

I see you. I’m here. 

The warmth of the welcome that followed caught Rio slightly off guard—not because she hadn’t hoped for it, but because part of her still wasn’t sure she deserved it. 

Lilia was the first to step forward, offering a firm, no-nonsense handshake. “Welcome aboard,” she said simply, but there was a glint of something more in her eye—respect, maybe. Or cautious approval. “Officially.” 

Jennifer followed with a brief but sincere nod, her usual cool efficiency softened just enough to let kindness show through. “Good to have you finally permanently,” she said, already flipping open her tablet as she walked away. 

And then there was Alice. 

“Vidal,” Alice announced grandly, pushing up from her chair with a dramatic flourish. “Welcome to the kingdom of coffee stains and half-solved mysteries.” She held out a hand, then added with a smirk, “Your ceremonial mug is on backorder, but we do have passive-aggressive sticky notes and lukewarm sarcasm in abundance.” 

The joke was so precisely on-brand that even Lilia—their usually stoic head—let out a small, reluctant smirk. 

“Well then, Vidal,” Lilia said, straightening slightly with mock formality, “now that you’re officially our division’s new criminologist, it’s time for you to claim your territory.” She gestured toward an empty desk near the windows of the open space—modest, clean, with a sturdy chair and a few blank folders stacked neatly in a tray. “The rest of us are heading out to finalize the incident reports on our last case or follow a new lead. We should be back by late morning.” 

“Sounds good,” Rio replied, and carefully set her bag down on the desk. Her desk. Something about the act made her throat tighten. She hadn’t had a desk of her own in years—not one that didn’t feel borrowed or temporary. This one faced the main entrance, flanked by a filing cabinet on the left and, more significantly, positioned just to the left of Agatha’s. 

She reached out and brushed her fingers across its surface, taking it in.

Agatha was already slipping into her usual rhythm—coat on, tablet under her arm, voice smooth and composed. “It shouldn’t take long,” she said, glancing briefly toward Rio. There was no warmth in her tone, but there was nothing cold either—just precision. “Vidal, if you need anything in the meantime, ask Gulliver.” She nodded toward Alice, who gave an exaggerated wink. “She’s staying behind. Don’t slack off.”

Alice snapped a salute. “At my desk and at your service, ma’am.”

Agatha didn’t react, save for a quiet sigh and a brief arch of one brow. But Rio caught the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth—the tiniest suggestion of a smile that only someone who knew her well would notice.

Rio returned it with a genuine, if subtle, smile of her own.

Then, with a rustle of jackets and a soft clatter of footsteps, the others were gone—Billy trailing after Agatha like a loyal intern, Jennifer already making notes as she headed for the front, Lilia glancing over her shoulder to deliver a parting, “Don’t let Gulliver corrupt you.” 

The office quieted quickly. Jennifer returned to the front desk, barely visible beyond the frosted glass divider. Alice had retreated into her tech cave, the low hum of equipment and faint tap of keys the only evidence of her presence. Rio was alone—truly alone—for the first time that morning. 

She sat down. She opened one of the drawers. Inside were basic supplies—paper clips, highlighters, a still-wrapped notepad. It was, in its own quiet way, a welcome.

Her fingers brushed the edge of the desk. After all the years of chasing something—meaning, justice, answers—she had finally landed somewhere that felt solid. 

Yet what struck her wasn’t the silence. 

It was the memory of Agatha’s voice. Clipped. Professional. Measured. 

Rio had heard that tone before, during past collaborations—when they’d worked parallel to one another on joint investigations or in training sessions—but now it rang differently. More final. Like a line being redrawn. It shouldn’t have stung. She knew Agatha’s need for boundaries at work wasn’t personal. It was discipline. Safety and Protection. And Rio respected it. She even admired it.

Still, the contrast was jarring. 

It was strange to hear the same voice that whispered goodnight and told her she was loved, now delivering clear-cut instructions like she was just another officer. 

She told herself she’d get used to it. I have to. She was here because of her skill, her experience—because she had something to offer. And because the world didn’t need to know who they were to each other. That belonged only to them. 

She exhaled slowly, then opened her bag and began to unpack the few personal items she’d chosen to bring—small pieces of herself, tokens of memory and meaning. 

First came her leather-bound notebook, its cover soft from years of handling. The pages inside were filled with a mix of precise notes, scrawled thoughts, and half-finished sketches—breadcrumbs along the path of her healing. She set it down at the far corner of her desk. 

Next was a framed photograph: Señor Scratchy lying belly-up in a patch of clover in their backyard, his white fur dappled with sun. His tongue lolled sideways, one ear flopped over, utterly content and deeply ridiculous. The real one was quietly making his round around the office, searching for treats and pets. Rio smiled as she placed the frame beside the notebook, angling it slightly so she could see it while she worked.

Señor Scartchy made himself know again, nudging Rio’s thigh and disappearing beneath her desk, curling up, his nose lightly brushing against her knee.

Then came a small carved trinket—smooth, dark wood polished to a gentle shine. It was in the shape of a bird, mid-flight. Nicky had given it to two years ago, carved it himself during a summer when his hands had needed something to do. “For freedom,” he’d said, as if that explained everything. And maybe it did. Even thougn Nicky didn’t know the whole truth about Rio, he had always been a perceptive child.  She nestled the bird near her computer monitor like a sentinel.

Lastly, her collection of plastic skulls—seven in total, each various in size and colors. They’d started as a joke gift from Agatha, meant to be paperweights, but had somehow become something Rio kept at every desk she’d ever used. She arranged them in a loose semi-circle.

Morbid? Maybe. But to Rio, they were remainders of impermanence, of perspective, of the strange way humor had kept her going when nothing else could.

 As she reached to open another the desk drawers, her fingers touched something unexpected—a slim envelope tucked just inside, cream-colored and sealed with a single piece of clear tape. Her name was written in red ink across the front in looping script.

 Rio blinked. That handwriting was unmistakable.

 Wanda.

 

Dear Rio, 

I have no doubt that you will do an incredible job stepping into this role. You’ve earned it, and now it’s your turn to believe in yourself. You deserve to be here—never forget that.

I know life has made you strong, and that strength will serve you well. But don’t let it become your shield or your weakness. Don’t push away your emotions, your sensitivity—they are part of your power, too.

I know you, Rio. This won’t always be easy for you. You’ll want to retreat, to handle things alone. But I promise, it’s worth it to stay open. To trust. To let yourself feel.

Remember, I’m always just a call away—whether it’s for advice or simply to catch up. I’ll be thinking of you.

Until soon,

Wanda

 

 Her fingers trembled slightly as she lowered the letter to her lap. She read it once more, slower this time. Her lips curved into a quiet smile.

There had always been something about Wanda’s voice—on paper or in person. She had seen Rio clearly from the beginning, never shying away from the parts others tiptoed around. The mess. The pain. The jagged resilience.

Maybe because she herself was a profiler, a brilliant criminologist. But Wanda had seen and stayed.

 Agatha had been Rio’s anchor—unyielding and constant—but Wanda had been something else. A lighthouse. She had been there in those first few years. A second light, flickering in the dark on the days when even Agatha couldn’t reach the deepest parts of her fear. Wanda never demanded anything. She just became a safe space to return to when everything inside felt too tangled to speak aloud.

Carefully, Rio folded the letter back along its original creases and tucked it into the side pocket of her bag. Not hidden, just kept close—available for the moments when she’d need to remember that someone had believed in her long before she learned to believe in herself.

 With calm, she turned her attention back to the desk. She spent the next few minutes organizing her workspace—rearranging files, tucking stationery into drawers, and adjusting the angle of her chair, petting Scratchy.

 This was her space now. Her job. Her fresh start.

 And with the voices of both Agatha and Wanda still echoing in her mind, she felt more ready than she had in a long time.

 

---

  

When Agatha and Billy returned to the precinct, they found the tech analyst’s office alive with conversation. Alice was comfortably settled in her desk chair, one leg casually draped over the armrest, her eyes bright with amusement. Jen perched on the edge of the desk, while Rio leaned in over Alice’s shoulder, laughing as she gazed at the computer screen.

Billy paused in the doorway, a familiar discomfort tugging at him. He couldn’t quite place the source—whether it was the way they stood so close, the ease with which they laughed, or simply the growing sense that he was the outsider in a story that had started long before he arrived. Whatever it was, the feeling tightened slightly in his chest.

Jen was the first to notice them.

“Ah, Detective Harkness,” she said, smiling brightly. “We were just showing Rio the latest pictures of Lorna. She just turned two last month.” 

Lorna was Jen and Alice’s daughter. The two had been married for three years now, and their colleagues had long since learned to expect an abundance of toddler photos whenever they stopped by. And contrarily to Agatha and Rio, they were very open about their marriage.

Agatha offered a polite nod, her tone as neutral as always. “Lovely. Do we have a new case?”

Children, she’d learned early on, were rarely a source of personal emotion for her—except for the occasional softening when remainded of Nicky’s photos, carefully placed and cherished at home.

Jennifer shook her head. “Nothing pressing so far. It’s been a quiet morning.”

“Good,” Agatha said briskly. “Because we’ve got new developments in the Walker case.”

With that, she turned on her heel, her posture rigid with purpose as she strode toward the main office. The others rose smoothly and followed her.

As Agatha stepped into the bustling bullpen, her gaze instinctively settled on Rio’s desk. For a fleeting moment, something softer—a flicker of warmth and pride—passed over her usually composed expression. The desk, once Wanda’s, had been transformed. It was unmistakably Rio’s now. Neatly stacked criminology books occupied the right side, their worn spines hinting at late nights and deep study. Beside them, a small framed photo caught Agatha’s eye—a frame she instantly recognized from their home, though from this angle the image within remained a mystery.

A row of miniature skulls—her odd but endearing collection— lined the back edge of the desk, arranged by size and color like tiny sentinels watching over the workspace. Beneath the desk, contentedly on the floor, Señor Scratchy gnawed lazily on a well-loved toy Rio had brought from home, completely at ease in the precinct’s controlled chaos.

Agatha allowed herself a brief, almost imperceptible smile. It hadn’t taken long for Rio to settle in—to stake her claim and make this place not just a workplace, but a new kind of home.

Her attention was quickly drawn back to the task at hand when Alice spoke again.

“But weren’t you supposed to arrest the suspect this morning?”

“That was the plan,” Agatha replied, her tone shifting back into sharp professionalism. “When we arrived at his residence, though, we found him dead. Two stab wounds to the abdomen.”

She moved toward the evidence board in the center of the room and pinned up a new photo under the section marked Victims. The name beneath the image read Benjamin Walker. The image captured him in his mid-forties, his face frozen in a candid moment, eyes unaware of the fate that had befallen him.

“So,” Agatha continued, her voice edged with frustration, “we were wrong. He wasn’t the killer. Which means we’re back to square one.”

She turned slowly, meeting Rio’s eyes with a measured, cool gaze. Her voice shifted again, adopting the unmistakable cadence she used in the precinct—precise, professional, and detached from personal ties. It hit Rio like a sudden splash of cold water.

“We’ll need your expertise on this, Vidal.”

Once again, it wasn’t the request that unsettled her—it was the manner in which it was delivered. The subtle but clear boundry Agatha drew between them here. The woman she loved became the colleague she respected, and in that transformation, the warmth of their personal life was tucked away, behind a wall of formality and duty.

In this space, she wasn’t her wife. She was the department criminologist. And though she understood it, respected it even, the abruptness of the boundary always left her momentarily unsteady.

Rio forced herself to nod, steadying her breath and emotions alike. There would be time for those later. For now, the case demanded her full attention.

“Of course,” she said, stepping forward. “Let’s figure out who really killed Benjamin Walker.”

Rio stepped up to the evidence board, her posture straightening with purpose. Her eyes moved methodically across the collage of photographs, pinned documents, and timeline notes that now dominated the center of the bullpen wall. She’d spent most of the morning buried in the Walker case file, and her mind was already spinning through theories, carving out logical paths from fragments of chaos. Each piece of evidence whispered something, and she listened like a conductor parsing the dissonance of a complex symphony.

Her voice, when she finally spoke, cut cleanly through the quiet. “We’re looking at a different M.O. than the previous two murders.”

The others shifted their attention toward her. Alice leaned forward on the desk, Jennifer crossed her arms with interest, and Billy stopped scribbling in his notebook mid-sentence.

Rio pointed to the board. “Jenna McCann and Mary Lewis were both found posed—deliberately displayed. Their bodies were arranged post-mortem, almost ritualistically. No signs of struggle. Each had a single incision across the throat, clean and precise. Walker, on the other hand…” She gestured toward the newest photo, freshly pinned and still curling slightly at the edges. “Two stab wounds to the abdomen. No staging. No symbolism. Just violence. Messy. Reactive.”

“That suggests either a change in the killer’s behavior,” Jennifer offered, “or a different killer entirely.”

“Exactly,” Rio said. “Which leaves us with two main hypotheses: one, Benjamin Walker was the original killer, responsible for McCann and Lewis—and someone else murdered him. A vigilante, most likely. Someone emotionally connected to the victims who pieced it together before we did. The stabbing—two quick thrusts—was unrefined. Sudden. That kind of violence usually comes from personal rage, not calculated intent.”

Billy frowned, flipping back a few pages in his notes. “But if Walker was the killer… why wouldn’t he run? Or hide?

“He knew we were closing in,” Agtaha said, tapping on her desk.

“He might not have realized how close we were,” Rio replied, her tone even. “Or he thought he’d covered his tracks. Narcissistics like Walker sometimes believe they’re smarter than everyone else. Invincible. Until they’re not.”

“Or,” Agatha’s voice broke in, cool and composed, “we’re looking at a third option. The same killer, escalating—or adapting.”

Rio turned to her, understanding immediately where she was going.

“A smokescreen,” she said. “Kill Walker, make it look like vigilante justice. Redirect the investigation. And in the meantime, start lining up the next victim.”

Alice whistled under her breath. “That’s some next-level misdirection.”

“And there’s precedent,” Agatha added. “Killers planting false leads. Butchering their own crimes to confuse investigators. It’s been done before.”

Rio nodded. “So we follow both tracks. Reexamine Walker’s background for signs he was the killer, while also treating him as the third victim. If the same person’s behind all three murders, then there’s a deeper motive we haven’t uncovered yet. Has the coroner’s report come in yet?”

“Not yet,” Agatha replied. “It should be here within the hour. But when it comes in, we’ll know if Walker’s wounds were defensive or if he was caught by surprise. That’ll tell us a lot. Until then, keep digging. Find any potential links between the three murders. Connections, timelines, shared locations—anything.”

With that, Agatha turned from the board and returned to her desk.

As she sat, her gaze lingered briefly on Rio. Her wife stood just a few feet away, unmoving but far from still. She was already lost in thought again, her body tense with concentration. The furrow of her brow, the subtle shift of her jaw, the way her fingers curled and uncurled around one of those odd little plastic skulls she kept on her desk. It was a familiar rhythm, one Agatha had learned to read like a second language. That skull—the green one—was always the one Rio reached for when she was deep in the thick of a problem. A small, tactile anchor for a mind that never stopped turning.

Agatha watched as Rio’s gaze moved across the board again, slow and meticulous. There was an intensity in her expression that pulled at something inside Agatha—a mingling of awe and protectiveness. She knew that look. Knew how it meant Rio was narrowing in, connecting pieces others couldn’t even see. When she got like this, it wasn’t just intelligence—it was instinct. That rare, knife-edge brilliance that had always made her more than just good at her job.

It made her excepcional.

And yet, there was something else in that stillness too. The tension in her shoulders. The way her thumb worried at a raised edge on the skull’s cheekbone. Signs Agatha recognized as easily as her own reflection. Rio was holding something back—pushing emotion down in favor of logic, burying the weight of the case under the urgency to solve it. She always did that. Always carried too much alone.

A flicker of tenderness passed through Agatha then. But she didn’t move. Didn’t let it show in her face. But in her chest, it bloomed and ached all the same. For a heartbeat, the weight of the badge, the protocols, the professional boundaries—they all fell away. And she simply saw her wife: fierce, focused, already bracing against whatever truth the evidence would drag into the light.

Agatha’s hand hovered over her keyboard, then slowly lowered. Her eyes lingered a moment longer.

God, she wanted to say something. To reach out. To remind Rio that she wasn’t alone in this. That she didn’t have to wear this armor all the time. But now wasn’t the moment—not here, not with everyone watching. Instead, she exhaled slowly and gave a near-imperceptible shake of her head, chasing the thoughts away.

The world didn’t pause just because she was in love. There was a killer on the loose—calculating, violent, possibly evolving—and every hour they didn’t understand what connected the victims was another hour someone else might die.

So she straightened in her chair and pulled up the files on her screen, forcing herself to refocus.

Later, she promised herself. There would be time later to tell Rio everything she wanted.

But for now, the case came first.

As always.

 

---

 

The afternoon was well under way by the time the coroner’s report arrived, triggering a pivotal shift in the investigation. The results were stark, clinical, but they hit like a hammer: the same blade had been used in all three murders. Benjamin Walker, previously suspected of being the killer, was now confirmed as another victim. The notion of multiple perpetrators dissolved, leaving a new and chilling conclusion: they were hunting one murderer—methodical, escalating, and far more calculated than they had initially believed. Or panicking, which made him even more dangerous. Or sloppy. That could work in their favor.

It was Rio who caught the first breakthrough in the shifting tide of evidence.

She’d spent hours combing through transcripts—witness statements, old interviews, call logs, even the overlooked footnotes scribbled by exhausted patrol officers. She didn’t skim. She never skimmed. She read everything as if each line might contain the one info they needed.

That’s when she found it.

A single inconsistency in a neighbor’s testimony—barely perceptible, easy to dismiss. The witness claimed to have seen Jenna McCann arguing with a tall man outside her apartment two weeks before her death. But in earlier interviews, she’d described the man as stocky and balding, clearly Walker. Rio flagged it, puzzled, and then traced it back to an earlier 911 call made from the same street, involving a domestic disturbance between a woman --identified as Jenna McCann again—and someone matching a second description.

That led her to a different name entirely: Dr. Malcolm Graham.

He had been Jenna and Mary’s attending physician—routine follow-ups, prescriptions, nothing overtly suspicious. But Rio, digging deeper, found something the rest had missed: Jenna McCann had made three unscheduled visits to Dr. Graham’s private office after hours, none of which were logged in the hospital’s official records, her car visible on the hospital’s CCTV. The same pattern emerged with Mary Lewis on the days Jenna McCann wasn’t present. A rotation. And in the last two weeks before their deaths, another car—always the same one—was also present. She spotted it when she cross-referenced parking lot surveillance and the same car appeared—late at night, tucked just out of view—registered not to Dr. Graham, but to his wife, Margaret.

Three women. One wife, two… others.

Something clicked. And it was horrifying. And horrifyingly common.

Rio rose from her desk and crossed the bullpen in quick strides, her voice sharp with urgency. “It’s not Walker. It never was. It’s Margaret Graham.”

The room stilled. Agatha looked up from her desk, her expression unreadable but instantly alert.

“The knife used in all three murders,” Rio continued, rummaging through the case file on Agatha’s desk, finding a single sheet and reading it while pacing slightly now, adrenaline fueling her thoughts, “was part of a surgical-grade set. Not that hard to find when you know where to look for.” Rio knew a lot about knives. “I cheked the serial number, it comes from the nearby hospital, the one her husband works at. Graham had access, but there’s no evidence he ever left the hospital with one missing. Margaret did. She signed it out a month ago—for a charity demonstration she helped organize at the local community center. It was never returned.”

Agatha stood slowly, the weight of the revelation settling over her like armor. “So this was calculated.”

“And deeply personal,” Rio added. “Jenna and Mary weren’t random. They were lovers, mistresses. With the same man. Graham. He lied to both of them—said he was separated, that the marriage was over. He strung them along, until Margaret found out and snapped.”

Billy let out a low breath. “And Walker?”

“Walker was Graham’s business partner. We thought he was the killer because we found pictures of both women in his flat, but we were wrong. He must have figured it out,” Rio said, turning to him. “He found evidence—maybe notes, the photos or threats, I don’t know—and threatened to go to the police with his collected evidence. My guess is he confronted Margaret. She panicked. Had to shut him up before he blew everything open.”

 

---

 

By the time the dusk began to settle over the city skyline, Agatha and Billy were at the Graham residence. The house sat quietly in a polished suburb, all symmetrical hedges and carefully kept façades. But inside, the calm was unraveling.

 Dr. Graham answered the door, confused but polite. Margaret hovered in the background, composed, her eyes flicking between the visitors with barely masked apprehension. 

Agatha broke the news with the same even, precise voice she used to deliver verdicts in courtrooms and death notifications to loved ones. She didn’t flinch. “Mr. Graham, your wife is under investigation for the murders of Jenna McCann, Mary Lewis, and Benjamin Walker.” 

The doctor froze. “That’s—ridiculous. Margaret wouldn’t—” 

But Margaret was already bolting. 

Billy reacted first, sprinting down the hallway, cornering her before she reached the back door. She fought—clawed, screamed—but the desperation in her movements made it clear: she knew it was over.

She was handcuffed in silence.

Back at the precinct, the confession came in fragments—driven more by emotion than logic. Margaret spoke with a strange clarity, as though finally telling the truth freed her. She described the moment she discovered the affair, the way her world tilted sideways. The growing certainty that her husband had never intended to leave her, but that he had never loved her at all. Each murder, she said, was supposed to be justice. But Walker? Walker had been a mistake. Too dangerous to leave alive.

“He protected him,” she spat, jerking her chin toward her silent husband. “They were all protecting him. No one ever protected me from that cheating bastard.”

Agatha said nothing. There was no satisfaction in this one—only wreckage.

Dr. Graham sat crumpled in a chair across the room, staring down at his hands like they belonged to someone else. He didn’t cry. But the devastation on his face made tears seem redundant. Three lives gone, and all of it rooted in his choices. His silence. His cowardice. And his wife’s madness. 

As the confession ended and the paperwork began, Rio sat at her desk once more. The skull in her hand was still. She didn’t turn it this time. Just held it quietly, eyes distant.

Agatha passed by without a word, pausing briefly. Her fingers brushed gently across Rio’s shoulder. It was the only comfort they could afford each other in that moment.

The case was solved. But no one felt victorious.

Still, Rio had solved her first case on her very first day—and Agatha couldn’t have been prouder.

 

---

  

As the evening light dimmed outside, the secret wives made their way toward Lilia’s office before leaving for the day.

Inside the office, Director Calderu looked up from her paperwork, her sharp eyes brightening as she saw them approach. Lilia rarely smiled, especially in her role, but today was different.

“Congratulations, Rio. Excellent work for a first day,” she said, her voice carrying the rare warmth of genuine approval.

Rio’s cheeks flushed slightly at the unexpected praise. She lowered her gaze modestly, a small, respectful bow of the head acknowledging the compliment. “Thank you, Director Calderu. But I wasn’t the only one working the case. I was just the criminologist.”

Lilia’s lips twitched in what almost looked like a knowing smile, but she said nothing further. Instead, her gaze shifted briefly to Agatha, who lingered a step behind Rio. Agatha’s arms were crossed, her posture cool and measured, yet the subtle curve of her mouth betrayed a quiet pride.

“And how did your first day go?” Lilia asked, her tone softening, as if stepping beyond the bounds of official business for a moment.

Rio’s smile blossomed, warm and unguarded. “It went well. I’m really happy to finally be part of the team—officially.”

Lilia nodded approvingly, then turned her attention to Agatha, raising a brow with playful seriousness. “And you, Harkness? How are you handling this new, permanent addition to your squad?”

The question hung in the air, charged with both professional curiosity and personal undertones. Since Lilia was well aware of their relationship, Agatha allowed herself a rare smile—subtle but genuine. She stepped forward, her hand resting lightly on the small of Rio’s back, a quiet gesture of solidarity and affection.

“I have no complaints, Ma’am,” Agatha replied smoothly. “But if it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll take this fine lady home now.”

Lilia returned the smile, nodding. “Of course. I’ll see you both tomorrow. Get some rest—you’ve earned it.”

They exchanged quick thanks before turning toward the door. The precinct was quiet now. Billy had already left for the evening, and only a lone intern remained, hunched over by the photocopier in the back corner, lost in the soft purr of the machine. 

Agatha paused just inside the main office and gave Rio a subtle nod—an unspoken message conveyed in a glance: I’ll take the car ahead, meet you at the house.

Rio returned the nod, a small smile flickering at the corners of her mouth, and then Agatha slipped out without another word, the door closing softly behind her.

Left alone, Rio gathered her belongings, the weight of the day settling into a calm satisfaction.  Before leaving, Rio took a small detour to Alice’s office. Señor Scratchy—their loyal and slightly mischievous dog—had been sprawled across the floor there all afternoon, content to soak up the quiet energy of the room. The moment Rio appeared, the dog’s ears perked up and his eyes fluttered open. She knelt down and scratched gently behind his ears, smiling as he stirred fully awake and began wagging his tail with obvious pleasure.

“Hey, buddy,” she murmured softly, her fingers running through his thick fur. Scratchy leaned into her touch, nudging her hand with his nose before settling back comfortably, his tail still flicking in quiet rhythm.

While she lingered, Rio took the chance to say goodnight to Alice, who was still busy tapping away on her laptop, headphones around her neck. Alice glanced up, caught Rio’s eye, and gave a cheeky wink paired with a low, appreciative “Nice job, superstar.”

Rio laughed quietly, feeling the warmth of the camaraderie wrapping around her like a blanket. It was moments like these that reminded her just how much this team had already become a kind of family in the last few years.

With Señor Scratchy happily trotting beside her, Rio retraced her steps out of the precinct. The city was beginning to transform as evening settled—streetlights flickered on, clighting the darkening sidewalks, while a gentle, cool breeze softened the day’s lingering warmth. The hum of distant traffic and the occasional murmur of late-night conversations wrapped the city in soft sounds, grounding her in the rhythm of life beyond the precinct walls.

The walk home was brief, but it gave her time to exhale, to shed the day’s tension, and to prepare for the quiet that awaited. It didn’t take her long to get home, where Agatha was already waiting, the front light on, the door unlocked, and the promise of comfort lingering in the quiet hallway.

When Rio stepped through the front door, the soft, rhythmic clinking of dishes reached her ears, drawing her deeper into the house. Curious, she followed the sound to the kitchen, where the warm glow of the overhead light revealed a table already set with meticulous care. Plates gleamed under the soft light, cutlery arranged with precision, and the rich aroma of a home-cooked meal filled the air—spiced with herbs and something roasted, comforting and familiar.

Agatha stood by the counter, a bottle of red wine in one hand, the other resting lightly on the edge of the wooden surface. The way she turned at the sound of Rio’s footsteps was effortless, her sharp eyes softening into something tender.

Rio smiled, a wave of warmth blooming inside her. She shrugged off her leather jacket, letting it fall over the back of a nearby chair, and stepped closer to Agatha.

“And what exactly are we celebrating tonight?” Rio asked, her voice teasing but gentle.

Agatha’s lips curved into a rare, genuine smile as she poured wine into two glasses, handing one to Rio. “Your first day officially working with us,” she said simply.

“Well then, thank you, dear wife, for this thoughtful gesture,” Rio replied with a soft laugh, lifting her glass to clink gently against Agatha’s.

Agatha didn’t respond in words. Instead, she closed the small distance between them, her kiss tender and loving. It was a simple touch but filled with the unspoken reassurance of shared strength, of home.

Pulling Rio gently toward the table, Agatha reached for a chair and slid it out, gesturing for Rio to sit with a look full of quiet affection.

As Agatha began to serve the meal—each movement deliberate,—Rio took in the moment with a sense of gratitude. The troubles of the precinct, the weight of cases and protocols, seemed to melt away beneath the warm domesticity.

Just as they were about to dig in, Rio’s eyes clouded over with sudden thoughtfulness. She set her fork down, rising quickly enough to catch Agatha’s attention.

“I’ll be right back,” she said softly, already moving toward the hallway before Agatha could question her.

True to her word, Rio returned moments later, carrying a small, simple box cradled carefully in her hands. With a soft sigh, she opened it, revealing Agatha’s wedding ring—the one Agatha had slipped off that morning before leaving for work. The unspoken rule had always been clear: professionalism during office hours, but put it back on me as soon as you’re home.

Without a word, Agatha extended her left hand. Rio took it gently, sliding the ring back onto her finger with the same tenderness she had seven years ago.

“Right where it should always be,” Rio whispered, her voice thick with something more than just words.

Agatha’s eyes softened as she replied, “It’s much better this way,” a small, almost shy smile lifting her lips.

The ritual repeated itself as Agatha then took Rio’s necklace then her hand, carefully sliding her rings back onto her fingers where it belonged. The delicate chain Rio was clasped back onto her neck—a small, practical compromise, a tangible reminder of the balance they maintained between their personal and professional worlds and to not forget to put them back on the enxt day.

With their rings returned, and hearts a little fuller, they finally settled back at the table. The food awaited, but for a moment, neither reached for it. Instead, they simply sat together, the silence between them speaking of love and resilience.

the conversation started to meander naturally, flowing from one topic to another like an easy river.

“So,” Agatha began, reaching for a piece of roasted potato, “how does it feel, finally being part of the team in an official capacity? No more ‘temporary consultant,’ no more uncertainty.”

Rio smiled, savoring the taste before answering. “Honestly? It feels like I’ve been waiting for this without realizing it. Like a puzzle piece sliding into place.”

Agatha’s eyes softened. “I know the feeling. You’ve been here in spirit for a long time, but now it’s official. And I’m glad everyone else finally gets to see what I’ve known all along.”

Rio chuckled. “Flatterer.”

The kept eating in silence for a while.

“Did you see Billy’s face when he noticed Scratchy would be there all day?” Rio teased.

Agatha laughed softly. “Priceless. Like a kid who just found out the new kid at school is also the star quarterback. That boy doesn’t know what hit him.”

Rio shook her head, her grin widening. “Billy or Scartchy?”

“Both.”

They laughed softly and went silent again. The pauses between their words were never awkward. Sometimes they just looked at each other, sharing a silence that spoke louder than any conversation.

“Do you remember our first case together?” Rio asked suddenly, her voice low.

Agatha nodded, eyes distant. “How could I forget? “The night everything changed. Wanda couldn’t make it, and I was terrified to come find you… when you were still hiding away in that tiny village, like some ghost no one could touch.”

“I almost didn’t come out ,” Rio confessed, voice barely above breath. “I thought it was safer to stay buried.”

“But you didn’t,” Agatha said softly, her hand reaching out, fingers curling around Rio’s with a possessive tenderness.

“I didn’t.” Rio met her eyes, and in that look was everything—the fear, the hope, and something far more dangerous: desire. Her gaze softened, melting against Agatha’s like warm silk against cold steel.

“There were moments,” Rio continued, voice thick with the weight of what they’d survived, “when I thought we’d break under the pressure. When the darkness felt too deep, too suffocating.”

“But we didn’t,” Agatha whispered, tightening her grip, nails grazing just enough to spark a thrill. “Because we had each other. Because no matter what, I would never let you fall.”

The room grew quieter as they finished their meal. The clatter of dishes being cleared away was gentle and unhurried, like the closing notes of a favorite song.

As the soft light dimmed, they moved together toward the bedroom. The air between them was thick with anticipation, every step a silent drumbeat of something fierce and urgent. Agatha’s eyes never left Rio’s, blue and smoldering, lips curving into a slow, wicked smile that promised no boundaries tonight.

They reached the bed, but Agatha didn’t let go. Instead, she turned abruptly to face Rio, stepping close enough that their breaths mingled, hot and charged. Her voice dropped to a low, almost teasing whisper. “Nicky’s not here tonight…”

Rio’s smile deepened, a slow, knowing curve of lips that held a promise of her own. “I know,” she said, her voice velvet soft, already feeling the heat coil inside her.

Agatha’s gaze darkened, the desire burning through her like wildfire. “And we have your first day to celebrate, some more” she said, her fingers inching up Rio’s arm, trailing along the soft curve beneath her sleeve.

“Oh? Is that so?” Rio teased, her pulse quickening, every nerve alive.

Agatha shook her head, a low chuckle vibrating from deep in her throat as her hand slipped beneath the hem of Rio’s green blouse, fingertips tracing slow, deliberate circles against bare skin, igniting a trail of fire. “Uh-uh,” she murmured. “I want to show you exactly how proud I am. To mark this night… to remind you how much I want you.”

Her fingers curled possessively around the fabric, tugging it open just enough to reveal the warmth beneath—the delicate, flushed swell of Rio’s skin, soft and inviting under the fading light. Agatha’s lips followed the path her hand traced, pressing heated kisses along every inch of her wife’s exposed skin. Each kiss a promise, a claim, a silent declaration that sent shivers rippling through Rio’s body like a wildfire racing beneath her skin.

Rio’s breath hitched sharply, her fingers tangling greedily in Agatha’s hair as she pulled her closer. Their bodies pressed together, lips against skin, the heat between them thickening and intensifying with every heartbeat. Agatha’s hands roamed with a mix of tenderness and desperate urgency, tracing lines that sparked a fire deep inside Rio, igniting a hunger so fierce it burned straight to her core.

“I’ve wanted this all day,” Agatha murmured against the skin of Rio’s neck, her voice husky, thick with need and fierce affection. “Wanted you like this, so badly. Tonight, I’m going to show you everything I’ve been holding back. Every hidden desire, every secret craving.”

Rio closed her eyes, surrendering to the moment, to the softness of Agatha’s touch and the promise lingering in every whispered word. Outside, the world disappeared, fading into shadows as if it never existed—leaving only the two of them, tangled together in a dance of breath and touch, of rediscovery and unrestrained desire. 

Agatha’s lips brushed lightly along Rio’s jawline, leaving a trail of love with every soft kiss, then traveled lower, down the hollow of her throat. Their movements were slow, deliberate—each touch savored like a secret, every gasp and shiver one more connection. Their bodies fit together perfectly, as if made to complete one another in this moment.

With so much care, Agatha began to undress Rio, sliding her green blouse off her shoulders and letting it fall away. Her hands were gentle but hungry as she unclasped Rio’s bra, freeing her soft breasts beneath. Agatha’s mouth traced the delicate scars and marks she could see on Rio’s back, each one a story, each one a map she worshiped. Rio’s head fell back at the tender, almost worshipful attention, breath catching in a delicious gasp. She reached out, tugging urgently at Agatha’s clothes, desperate to return the favor, her fingers slick with heat.

Soon, they were both bare—vulnerable and radiant beneath the dim glow of the fading light. Agatha pressed forward, pushing her wife gently but insistently toward the bed. Her mouth never left Rio’s as the back of Rio’s knees hit the mattress, and they tumbled back in a tangle of laughter and raw, hungry desire.

Agatha was on Rio immediately, her mouth exploring with fierce devotion—soft, demanding, claiming. Rio responded in kind, hands tracing every curve, every line, memorizing the feel of Agatha’s skin beneath her fingertips.

Agatha’s lips moved with a slow, deliberate hunger—tracing, tasting, claiming—each kiss a silent vow etched on Rio’s skin. Her hands slid beneath Rio’s ribs, fingers pressing and exploring with a reverence that made Rio’s breath catch again and again. The world shrank to the warmth of their bodies pressed close, the soft rustle of sheets, and the rapid drum of their hearts.

Rio’s hands roamed over Agatha’s back, pulling her even closer, as if she could merge their bodies and souls into one. Every touch was electric, every sigh a spark that kindled the fire burning hotter between them. Agatha’s breath fanned over Rio’s collarbone, her voice a low, intoxicating murmur. “You’re mine tonight—completely. Only mine.”

Rio’s pulse quickened, the weight of those words settling deep inside her, raw and thrilling. She arched into Agatha’s touch, craving more, needing more—everything Agatha had to give and more.

Agatha’s hands slid down, caressing the curve of Rio’s hips, pulling her even closer. Her lips brushed over Rio’s ear, sending shivers racing down her spine. “I want to feel every inch of you,” she whispered, voice thick with longing. “To show you how much I’ve waited for this.”

Rio responded with a soft, breathless laugh, the sound raw with emotion. “Then stop talking,” she challenged, her fingers tangling in Agatha’s hair as she drew her face down for another searing kiss.

Agatha’s mouth lingered against Rio’s skin, her kisses growing bolder, more possessive—claiming every inch with a desire that made Rio’s breath tremble. Her fingers traced fevered patterns along Rio’s bare stomach, pulling her impossibly closer at the hips, in a desperate need shared between two bodies intertwined.

Agatha’s hands moved with urgent intent, slipping beneath Rio’s hips, her touch igniting sparks that left no part of Rio untouched by fire. “I’m going to show you just how much you drive me wild… how much I need you. No holding back. No reservations.”

Rio’s fingers wove tighter into Agatha’s hair, her nails grazing gently as she urged her closer. “Don’t stop,” she whispered, voice thick with want, every word a silent plea.

Agatha’s gaze locked with hers, eyes dark and fierce, the hunger undeniable, before trailing lower and lower until she reached her breast. “I won’t,” she promised, voice low and heavy with need. “I’m yours in every way.”

The way Agatha’s hands moved against her skin, parting her legs and reaching in between, her mouth still on her breast was a perfect storm of tenderness and urgency, each touch sending ripples of heat flooding Rio’s veins. Every gasp, every soft moan that escaped her lips fed the fire burning in Agatha’s eyes, driving her deeper into the beautiful chaos of desire.

Their bodies pressed so close it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. Agatha’s hands moved faster, exploring with an intimate knowing that left Rio trembling. The thrill of being so exposed, so wanted, had never grown old, and it felt like it never would.

Agatha’s voice, rough with longing, broke through the charged silence. “You’re everything I’ve ever craved—more than I dared to hope for.”

Rio’s breath caught. “Show me,” she breathed.

Agatha smiled, a slow, wicked curve of her lips as she deepened her kisses, tracing a path towards her hand still buried deep inside Rio. 

Agatha’s voice was low and rough, a husky growl that sent shivers down Rio’s spine. “You make me insane, my love.”

Rio’s fingers tangled in the thick waves of Agatha’s hair, tugging her down where she wanted her. “Then take me,” she whispered, “all of me.”

Agatha only smiled before finally lowering her head where Rio needed her the most, where mouth, tongue and fingers moving in a rhythm that left Rio breathless and aching for more. And Agatha was giving her everything.

Every sigh, every gasp, every whisper of her name made Agatha’s pace quicken, her touch growing more intense, desperate to see Rio let go. Agatha’s hands gripped Rio’s hips, anchoring her close, while her eyes—turned almost black under desire—never left Rio’s face now thrown back in ecstasy as she shattered with her wife’s name of her tongue, giving it to the night and to Agatha who helped her come down afterwards, with gentle fingers as her mouth trailed its way up her body.

Agatha’s eyes, dark and shining with unspoken promises, locked onto Rio’s. “You are mine,” she breathed, her voice thick with yearning and something fierce—possessive.

“Only yours,” Rio whispered, still panting before her eyes turned clearer and even predatory. Once her breath had stabilized, without any warning, Rio flipped them over as she settled her body weight over her wife’s, her mouth instantly finding her right breast, while her hand took care of the other, her free arm snaking around Agatha’s torso to lift her slightly, molding her to her own body. Agatha gasped loudly as Rio’s hand found her center, settling there and never leaving, setting a rhythm that drove the detective crazy with need, with want, with desire.

“Rio…” she panted, her voice barely recognizable. “More.”

Rio smirked as she quickened her pace, adding a finger, her mouth redoubling its effort on Agatah’s chest, leaving no inch unattended, igniting a fire in Agatha’s body that only Rio seemed to be able to put out.

Not that she wanted to.

  

---

 

Once totally spent, and beneath the covers, Rio burrowed her head against Agatha’s chest, feeling the steady, reassuring beat of her heart under the slight screen of sweat still clinging to her wife’s body. Agatha’s arm wrapped securely around Rio’s back, pulling her close, tracing patterns over Rio’s back—stars and suns—nestled among Rio’s scars, tracing the present among the past, love where hurt was. 

“Goodnight, my love,” Agatha whispered. 

“Goodnight,” Rio breathed, eyes closing. “Thank you—for everything.” 

Agatha’s fingers didn’t stop their ministrations. “Always.” 

Sleep came gently, wrapped in warmth and safety, only found when you’re exaclty where you’re meant to be.

 

 

Chapter 3

Notes:

Happy Pride Month!

 

The morning started innocently enough.

A groggy stretch. A shared smile. The slow, golden silence that blooms after a night of being thoroughly, shamelessly ruined.

But then Agatha rolled over, and the sheet slipped from her naked shoulder like a sigh. The bruises caught the light—faint, tender purples and pinks blooming along her hips, her collarbone, the soft swell of her breast, in the shape of lips and teeth. Marks of worship. Marks of ownership.

Rio stared.

There was a glint in her eyes, wicked and amazed all at once. A look that made Agatha’s stomach drop and heat coil low in her belly as soon as she opened her eyes.

She didn’t speak at first. Just let her eyes roam down her wife’s body like a slow, aching touch—memorizing, devouring.

Agatha raised a brow, smirking faintly despite herself. “Don’t even think about it,” she warned, voice rough with sleep and sex, every word soaked in last night’s wreckage.

Rio was already climbing out of bed, gloriously nude, her legs long and limber, her skin kissed with bite-marks and scratches and past scars. She didn’t bother with a reply. Just tossed a look over her shoulder, all wicked grin and promise.

“Too late.”

The bathroom door swung open. The sound of water hissed into the air, thick steam spilling out like an invitation.

Agatha tried to resist. She really did.

But five seconds later, she was on her feet, body still aching in all the best places, her thighs trembling from too much and not nearly enough.

“You are insufferable,” she muttered, stepping into the steam.

And Rio was waiting for her—dripping, glowing, unholy.

The moment Agatha stepped under the spray, Rio backed her up against the tiled wall, mouth already on her neck, hands sliding over her slick, sensitive skin like she had every right. And she did have every right. God, she did.

“Yesterday was for me, today’s for you, my love.”

The water was hot. But Rio—Rio was molten.

Her tongue found the hollow of Agatha’s throat and dragged slowly downward, chasing a drop of water across the line of her chest. One hand came up to cup her breast, thumb flicking over a nipple until Agatha gasped—sharp, breathless, needy.

“This isn’t even hygienic,” Agatha said again, except now it sounded more like a moan.

Rio just laughed, low and rough, mouth hot against her sternum. “Oh, but Detective,  I plan to get you very clean.”

Then she dropped to her knees.

Water streamed over her shoulders, her dark hair flattened to her skin, and she looked up—eyes wicked, mouth already parting. Her hands were firm on Agatha’s thighs, guiding her wider, anchoring her. There was no teasing this time. No slow build.

She dove in.

Agatha’s head slammed back against the wall with a cry—raw, stunned, absolutely wrecked. Her hand shot into Rio’s hair, gripping tight, dragging her closer.

Rio devoured her like it was holy work—like Agatha was a prayer only she knew how to speak. Tongue firm and relentless, lips pulling her apart with obscene, filthy precision. She sucked. She licked. She fucked her with her mouth like she’d been starving for it all night.

And Agatha—god, Agatha fell apart.

She was shaking, already so close it was criminal, her moans echoing shamelessly off the tile walls, loud and gasping and desperate. “Don’t stop,” she choked out, wrecked. “Don’t you fucking stop—”

And Rio didn’t. Of course she didn’t.

Agatha came with a cry that might’ve shattered glass, her legs threatening to collapse. Her whole body tensed, then dissolved—a wave crashing, flooding, taking her with it.

Rio held her through it, mouthing her softly through the aftershocks until Agatha dragged her up by the hair and kissed her—deep, messy, needy. She could taste herself on her wife’s tongue and didn’t care.

Didn’t care at all.

They pressed against each other, slick with water and sweat and the kind of unbearable want that never truly fades. Agatha’s hands slid down to cup Rio’s ass, dragging her in close, rolling her hips forward with filthy intent.

“You,” she panted against her lips, “are going to sit right there against the wall, and I’m going to return the favor. Twice.”

And Rio—smirking, cocky, wrecked—just leaned back against the tile and said, “Happy birthday to me.”

“It’s not even your birthday,” Agatha whispered, breathless, her hands tangled in Rio’s hair.

The rest was steam and heat and filth.

The shower curtain half-ripped. Conditioner forgotten. The water long gone cold before either of them could stop.

When they finally stumbled out, dripping and breathless and covered in bruises that had nothing to do with clumsiness, Agatha wrapped herself in a towel, looked at the mess they’d made, and muttered:

“You are never allowed near plumbing again.”

Rio just licked her lips and tugged her towel tight. “You’re welcome.”

 

---

 

Rio arrived at the station on foot once more, the crisp, biting cold of early winter cutting through her leather jacket and waking her more effectively from her dream of a morning. Señor Scratchy trotted faithfully at her heels, his ears perked and tail wagging slightly, perfectly attuned to her pace and mood. The familiar weight of the leash in her hand grounded her as she navigated the quiet city streets toward the precinct.

As they rounded the corner, Rio spotted Agatha and Alice standing on the wide stone steps outside the station, their bodies angled toward each other in deep conversation. A smile tugged at Rio’s lips, the sight comforting in its quiet normalcy, and she quickened her pace to join the small gathering.

“Morning,” Rio said smoothly, sliding effortlessly into the circle they’d formed. She glanced down at Scratchy and bent slightly, issuing a gentle command. “Sit, boy.”

The dog obediently lowered himself to the ground, eyes bright and alert as always, as usual her silent guardian.

“Good boy,” Rio murmured.

The three women exchanged nods and smiles. The conversation shifted easily to lighthearted subjects—the latest escapades of Alice and Jen’s toddler, Lorna, who was rapidly growing into a spirited little whirlwind. Alice’s eyes sparkled as she recounted how Lorna had recently declared a firm preference for broccoli, much to her parents’ amusement and mild disbelief.

Then Alice turned to Agatha, pride unmistakable in her voice. “Is Nicky still doing great in school ? Straight A’s as always ? You must be proud.”

Agatha’s lips curled into a rare, subtle smile and nodded. “He’s working hard. I expect nothing less.”

Rio’s heart tightened imperceptibly. Her connection to Nicky was one she guarded closely, a precious secret. While Alice and Agatha got to share these proud moments openly, Rio remained quiet, a silent participant to the proud mothers’ words, keeping her distance for now. But she too wanted to brag about Nicky, tell the world how proud she was of the boy she considered her son. 

The conversation drifted naturally toward the looming Christmas holidays. Alice animatedly described their plans to decorate the house with homemade ornaments and the anticipation of snow, while Jen had promised a holiday cookie exchange that Lorna was already excited to “help” with—mostly by eating the dough.

But Rio and Agatha exchanged a brief, almost imperceptible glance. Despite their usual candidness with Alice, this was a topic they quietly skirted around, each acutely aware of the layers they still had to protect. The two of them had already made their own private plans—just the three of them, quietly embracing their little family away from prying eyes. It was a small sanctuary from the world, a promise they held sacred, their marriage hidden but no less real.

Alice, perceptive as ever, noticed the subtle tension and steered the conversation back to other topics with a playful jab at the city’s notoriously unpredictable weather. “If it snows too much, I might just have to hire a reindeer for the commute,” she joked, prompting genuine laughter from all three.

Then the three women and Señor Scratchy stepped through the precinct’s heavy glass doors together, instantly swallowed by the familiar hum of the morning rush—the footsteps on linoleum, the murmur of voices exchanging urgent updates, the intermittent ring of phones. The air smelled faintly of stale coffee and paper, a scent Rio had come to associate with both exhaustion and determination.

As they approached the entrance to the main office, Rio’s eyes caught a sudden glint—a quick flash of metal against Agatha’s hand. Her heart tightened, an unexpected pang lancing through her chest.

Agatha was still wearing her wedding ring.

The same delicate band Rio had carefully slipped back onto Agatha’s finger just the night before, resealing a quiet promise between them in the sanctuary of their home. It looked beautiful there—right where it belonged. But here, in the precinct’s relentless scrutiny, it was dangerously conspicuous.

Rio’s breath hitched imperceptibly. She tilted her head just enough to catch Agatha’s eye, raising a single eyebrow and subtly pointing to her own empty ring finger, silently signaling the risk. For a heartbeat, Agatha’s face remained composed, but then a flicker of panic crossed her.

Without a word, Agatha shifted her stance, angling her hand slightly behind her back. In a fluid, practiced motion, she slipped the ring free and carefully cupped it in her palm, folding her fingers around it protectively.

The moment was fragile, a delicate secret exchanged in the chaos of the precinct’s morning tide.

As the group dispersed into the main office to greet colleagues and settle into the day’s routine, Rio moved with casual ease. She brushed past Agatha, their shoulders grazing briefly. In that subtle exchange, Agatha slipped the ring into Rio’s waiting hand.

Rio’s smile was effortless, but inside, her pulse raced. Ducking behind her desk with the facility of someone used to hiding more than just paperwork, she rifled through the bottom drawer, pretending to search for a file. In that stolen moment, her fingers closed around the ring, slipping it onto the slender chain that rested beneath her shirt, now carrying two small bands beneath her shirt instead of one close to her heart.

Agatha moved off toward the Director's office to receive the day’s assignments. When she returned, files in hand, Rio gave her a tiny nod and tugged on the chain around her neck. Just enough to show Agatha that the ring was safe, tucked close to her heart. Agatha gave a soft, private smile and handed her the case file.

 

---

 

The day unfolded with steady, determined focus. The precinct buzzed with its usual controled chaos, but in the midst of it, the team worked like a finely tuned machine, each member methodically chipping away at the puzzle before them. The current case remained stubbornly complex. The crime scene had been meticulously staged, almost theatrically so, as if the killer had carefully arranged every element to send a message. Yet beneath the surface, subtle inconsistencies began to surface, small details that didn’t quite fit the narrative.

Rio sat at her desk, eyes narrowed in concentration as she pored over photographs and reports. Finger tapping thoughtfully against her lips, she traced connections invisible to most, her mind locked into that familiar, almost meditative rhythm of analysis. A misplaced item here, an unlikely timeline there—each anomaly a thread pulling her deeper into the truth. Was it an error on the perpetrator’s part? Or an intentional misdirection designed to throw investigators off the scent? The line between the two blurred, sharpening the stakes.

Around her, the room hummed with quiet intensity. Agatha consulted with Billy over a suspect’s alibi, while Alice coordinated with the tech analysts for any new digital leads. The air was thick with anticipation, everyone sensing that the breakthrough was close but still just out of reach.

Just as Rio was sketching out a new timeline in her notebook, the precinct’s door swung open with brisk urgency. Director Calderu entered, her presence commanding immediate attention. Clutching a folder, she called out, “We have a new situation. A body’s been found in the industrial district. Possible homicide. Details are sketchy, but I want a team assembled ASAP.”

Heads turned. the familiar rush of adrenaline flooded the room. Rio exchanged a quick glance with Agatha. There was no rest for the weary.

Agatha nodded, already shifting gears. “Alright, let’s get ready. Vidal, I want your expertise on the scene. This one might be linked.”

Rio rose smoothly, her earlier case momentarily set aside. The rhythm of her day had just changed—another puzzle to solve, another voice seeking answers.

As they gathered their gear and prepared to head out, Rio felt the weight of the unknown settle over her—but also the fierce determination that had always driven her.

The game was on once again.

 

---

 

That evening, Agatha left the precinct first, exhaustion tugging at her limbs like weights. The day had felt endless, a blur of dead leads and quiet frustrations. Rio had stayed behind, of course—relentlessly combing through the case files one more time, unwilling to let even the smallest inconsistency go unchecked. The day had left them clueless and the case still remained a mystery. Agatha admired her wife’s discipline, even as she worried about the toll it quietly took.

Outside, the sky had deepened into a violet-gray dusk, the wind sharp with the bite of impending winter. By the time she reached their quiet street, the porch light was already glowing softly against the growing dark. She steped into the house and was greeted by the familiar warmth of home—the subtle scent of cinnamon from the candle Rio loved, the soft hum of music from the living room speaker, and the rhythmic scribble of pencil on paper.

In the kitchen, Nicky sat hunched over the table, one socked foot tucked under his leg, pencil tapping idly against his cheek as he stared down a page of equations like it had personally wronged him.

“How was your day, champ?” Agatha asked, shedding her coat and hanging it by the door.

He looked up, eyes lighting when he saw her. “Good. Well… normal, I guess. Nothing major.”

Agatha smiled as she crossed to the counter, setting her keys in their usual bowl. “And yesterday? How’d the presentation go? And your night at Leo’s?”

Nicky brightened a little more. “I did what Rio told me to do—y’know, breathe before I spoke, keep my hands outta my pockets. I think I did pretty well.”

There was a quiet pride in his voice that made Agatha’s heart swell a little. “And Leo’s?”

He grinned, sheepish but unrepentant. “It was fun. Promise, Mama—we didn’t stay up too late. We watched that old sci-fi movie Rio showed us, the one with the creepy puppets.”

Agatha laughed under her breath. “Of course she did.”

She came to stand behind him, resting a hand on his shoulder and leaning down to glance at the page in front of him. “What are you working on now?”

“Maths,” he groaned. “But I’ve got science and lit too. Loads. It’s like they want us to cry before the holidays.”

“Cruel,” Agatha agreed with mock solemnity, squeezing his shoulder affectionately. “Need any help?”

“I think I’ve got the maths bit,” Nicky replied, then added, “but I might wait for Rio for the rest. You’re not exactly the biology type.”

Agatha raised both hands in surrender. “Guilty. My brain shuts down the moment someone mentions osmosis.”

Nicky chuckled and returned to his worksheet, pencil scratching against the paper once more.

Agatha stood for a moment, watching him work. It was a welcome contrast to the chaos of the day, to the knot of the still-unsolved case that clung stubbornly to the back of her mind.

She stepped toward the stove and put the kettle on, half-listening to the familiar, domestic sounds of Nicky’s soft muttering and the scratch of graphite. But even in the calm, her thoughts flicked back to Rio—still at her desk, no doubt, still chasing the phantom outline of a killer who was always just out of reach.

She sighed, rubbing at her temple, and whispered under her breath, “Come home soon, love.”

Outside, the wind picked up. Inside, the kettle began to hiss.

Behind her, Nicky let out a long, dramatic sigh, pencil falling limp in his hand as he slumped forward on the table, forehead nearly grazing the page. Math wasn’t the problem—it rarely was. What tripped him up was everything else: balancing formulas with poetry analysis, retaining chemical equations while decoding metaphors. He felt stretched thin, like a piece of paper barely holding together under too many scribbles.

And yet, if Rio had been there, he wouldn’t have worried. Not even a little. Because Rio could help with anything.

To him, she wasn’t just smart—she was something closer to mythical. A walking encyclopedia, a master of all trades. She made sense of things the world had long since given up on explaining.

He’d once asked, over cocoa and toast on a snowy morning, how she managed it—how she could speak five languages fluently, plus two dead ones, and still know every single one of Shakespeare’s plays by heart. How she could dissect a poem as easily as she could rewire a lamp, or trace a fingerprint back to its pattern group like she’d been born doing it. He had only recently discovered she could also embroider, paint, and quote Latin battle strategy. And, of course, there was the piano—how she played it like the keys had always been an extension of her fingers, like music had been braided into her soul.

When he’d asked her that day how she knew all of it, she had paused in the act of buttering toast, looked at him with those quiet, earth-colored eyes, and simply said, “I had to learn a lot. Early.”

Before he could ask more, his Mama had stepped in. Her tone hadn’t been sharp, but it was final. “Some answers come with time, baby,” she had said softly, running a hand over his head. “And some aren’t ours to ask for.”

He had understood—sort of. Understood enough to let it go, to tuck his curiosity away like a folded note in the back of his notebook. He didn’t want to make Rio uncomfortable. He never did. He’d felt the silence that followed her shrug.

Still, the questions didn’t disappear. Not really.

He had always known there was something different about her. Not just the way she knew things, but the way she carried herself—like someone who had come through something, like someone who had been lost and found and rebuilt all at once. There were moments, rare but real, when shadows crossed her features during certain conversations—names that made her flinch, topics she neatly sidestepped, days when she was quieter than usual without ever saying why.

And Nicky noticed. He noticed everything, even when the adults in his life thought he was too young to.

Now, as he grew older, those folded notes in his mind began to unfold again. His understanding of people and the world was expanding, and so was his awareness of Rio’s silences—the ones that weren’t accidental. He didn’t resent them. He just wanted to understand. He wanted to know who she had been before she became part of their family. He wanted to know what had shaped her into the person who sat beside him during homework and explained the stars.

He didn’t want her to hurt. He just wanted to see her, fully.

His train of thought was broken by the familiar jingle of keys turning in the front door lock, followed by a cheerful voice echoing through the house.

“We’re home! Come on, Scratchy—inside, boy!”

Nicky’s head shot up, and his eyes lit up in that instant, a spark of excitement chasing away the fog of homework frustration.

A beat later, Señor Scratchy came barreling into the hallway like a fur-covered comet, nails clicking wildly against the hardwood. His tail wagged in ecstatic looops, ears flopping as he launched himself toward the kitchen. Nicky barely had time to stand before the dog tackled him in an affectionate blur of fur and slobber, sending the chair skidding a few inches backward.

“Scratchy!” Nicky laughed, collapsing into a crouch as the dog buried him in licks and joyful whining, wriggling like he’d just been reunited with his long-lost twin. “Okay, okay—down, buddy, you big baby!”

Rio stepped into the kitchen moments later, pausing in the doorway with her jacket draped over one arm, her bag slung low across her side. She took in the scene with a soft, exhausted but contented smile. Her dark hair was slightly windblown, and her cheeks still pink from the chill outside.

“He missed you,” she said. “You’d think he hadn’t seen you in years.”

“He missed me?” Nicky said, pushing Scratchy gently off his chest and grinning as he ruffled the dog’s ears. “I missed him too. And you.”

Rio’s expression softened even further, something flickering in her eyes—something fond and aching all at once. She crossed the room and reached out to ruffle Nicky’s hair, her fingers gentle as they brushed his curls aside.

“I missed you too, big guy,” she said, settling down into the chair beside him. “What’ve you been up to while I’ve been off chasing bad guys and writing reports?”

Nicky gave a small shrug, trying to play it cool, but the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth betrayed him.

“Nothing exciting. School. Homework. Oh—Mama grilled me about my presentation.”

“Did she?” Rio raised an eyebrow. “And how’d you do?”

“I remembered what you said—about taking my time, talking to one person at a time. I wasn’t even nervous. Okay, maybe a little.” He puffed out his chest. “But I crushed it.”

“Of course you did.” She bumped his shoulder lightly with her own. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

He ducked his head, embarrassed and proud all at once.

“Anyway,” he muttered, trying to sound casual, “I’ve got math done, but I still have English and literature. Mama says that’s your department.”

Rio leaned back with a dramatic sigh, one hand over her forehead. “Finally. My moment to shine.”

Nicky snorted.

“I mean it,” she added, grinning. “I’ve been waiting all week for an excuse to talk about metaphor and theme and narrative structure.”

“You’re such a nerd.”

“I take that as a compliment, you know,” she replied smoothly.

Scratchy had since sprawled across Nicky’s feet like a small bear rug, tongue lolling and one ear twitching contentedly in his sleep. Nicky reached down and gave him one last affectionate pat on the head before turning back to Rio.

“So,” Nicky asked, a curious smile playing at his lips as he stretched out his legs beneath the table, “how were your first two days working with Mama?”

Rio chuckled softly, walking over to the kitchen counter and pouring herself a glass of water. She took a slow sip before answering, her tone light but thoughtful.

“It went well,” she said, setting the glass down. “Honestly, it felt…right. Like slipping into something I already knew how to do. And it’s not exactly brand new, you know,” she added with a sideways glance and a teasing lift of her eyebrows. “Just a new title. Lots of sneaking around. Kinda fun.”

“I know,” Nicky said, flopping back into his chair and dragging his pencil across the edge of his notebook. “But it’s still kind of a change. You’re, like, official now. Part of the team.”

Rio smirked and came to sit beside him at the table, folding one leg beneath her as she settled into the chair with casual ease. “Guess I am. Does that make me cooler, or scarier?”

Nicky made a face. “Cooler. Definitely cooler. But you already kind of maxed out on that.”

“I’ll take that as a win.”

Just then, Agatha entered the kitchen. She moved behind Rio’s chair without a word, resting her hands gently on her wife’s shoulders, her thumbs instinctively finding the knots of tension beneath Rio’s shirt. Rio leaned back into the touch, her body responding before her mind could even catch up. Agatha dipped down and placed a kiss on the crown of Rio’s head—tender, grounding.

“I believe our resident high schooler here might need your wisdom to survive the rest of his homework,” Agatha said, her voice laced with amusement as she glanced at Nicky, who offered a sheepish shrug in return.

“I know,” Rio said, setting her water down. She turned her attention back to the boy. “He told me. What’s the verdict?”

Nicky exhaled like he’d been holding it in all evening. “It’s mostly literature. We have to write a commentary on this poem, but I’ve never done one before—not for poetry—and I don’t even understand the text. It’s like… written in another language. Like someone forgot to translate it from ‘cursive English’ or something.”

Agatha chuckled under her breath as she moved to the stove, checking the kettle she’d put on earlier. “You get that dramatic flair from your other mother.”

Rio smiled, recognizing the overwhelmed crease in Nicky’s brow. She reached out and gently tapped the top of his pencil.

“You remember how nervous you were about that Shakespeare passage last month? And you absolutely nailed it. This is no different. Same steps, just a new rhythm.”

“But only because you helped me,” Nicky said, like it was obvious. “You made it make sense.”

“And I’ll keep helping you until you don’t need me anymore,” Rio replied, her voice softening. “That’s the deal. We learn things in layers. You’re not supposed to know how to do everything right away.”

She paused, watching him closely. There was a tightness in his shoulders she recognized all too well—one she carried herself at his age, though for far different reasons.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me, Nicky,” she added more quietly. “Struggling doesn’t mean you’re not smart. It just means you’re learning.”

Nicky looked up at her, something unspoken flickering behind his eyes. The intensity of her sincerity wasn’t something he always knew how to hold, but he felt it—really felt it—and he gave her a small nod. Rio spoke like she meant it, but it always felt deeper, like something he hadn’t been told.

“Okay,” he said after a beat.

“Now, come on. Hand over the poem and let me give it a read first.”

Nicky reached down into the bag by his feet and pulled out a thick, slightly worn binder. He opened it with care, flipping past a few plastic sleeves of loose papers before selecting a single, neatly printed sheet. Without fanfare, he slid the paper across the table toward Rio, who accepted it with her usual calm.

At first, her expression remained neutral, eyes flicking casually over the page. But then she saw the title.

She stilled.

Her fingers froze mid-grip, pressing slightly into the paper as her gaze locked onto the words at the top.

Robert Frost – The Road Not Taken

Behind her, Agatha still stood at her back, her hands still resting lightly on Rio’s shoulders,. But in the next breath, she felt it—the shift. The subtle stiffening beneath her palms, as if Rio had flinched without moving. As if something inside her had suddenly snapped taut.

Alarmed, Agatha bent forward slightly, peering over Rio’s shoulder to see what had caused the reaction.

It didn’t ring any bell to her but she didn’t need context or backstory or spoken words. She recognized the pain in her wife’s posture—the way her shoulders tensed, the color drained from her face, her breath caught just a fraction too long. It wasn’t just recognition. It was memory.

Across the table, oblivious to the tremor he had unleashed, Nicky was already hunched back over his notebook, scribbling something in the margins of another page. He didn’t notice the way Rio’s eyes had gone glassy. He didn’t see the ghosts rising behind them, unaware of the emotional landmine he had just unknowingly triggered.

Rio slowly baxled the page in her hand, her fingers clenching around it with a tremble that only Agatha could feel. Then, without a word, she stood. Her chair scraped sharply against the wooden floor and she turned and walked briskly out of the kitchen.

Agatha’s hands dropped from her shoulders, reaching after her, but too late.

Rio disappeared down the hall, her footsteps retreating with measured urgency. The soft click of the bedroom door closing echoed faintly in the silence she left behind.

Nicky looked up, startled, his brow furrowing. “Wait—what just happened? Is Rio okay?”

Agatha turned back toward him slowly, her features schooled into calm. But behind her eyes, concern burned hot and fierce.

“She’s fine, sweetheart,” she said gently, her voice the soft kind of steady people use when they’re trying to soothe more than they’re sure. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Just keep working on your assignment. I’ll go check on her.”

Agatha left the kitchen, her pace measured but purposeful. When she reached their bedroom, the door was shut. She paused, pressing her palm gently against the wood before knocking once, twice—soft enough not to startle.

“Rio?” she called, her voice warm but tentative.

No reply.

She waited a beat, then slowly turned the knob and stepped inside.

The room was cloaked in shadows, its only illumination the faint amber glow leaking in from the hallway—long slashes of warm light cutting across the hardwood floor and catching on the edge of the bed. Everything else sat in hush and stillness. The bedspread lay untouched. The air felt thick, like it was holding its breath.

For a moment, Agatha thought she was alone.

Then her eyes adjusted, and she saw Rio, folded into herself in the far corner of the room, her back pressed against the side of the bed frame. Her knees were drawn to her chest, arms wrapped around them in a posture not just of protection but containment, as if she was holding in something too heavy to release. Beside her on the floor lay a single sheet of paper. The poem.

It looked fragile there. Like a shard of glass, or an old wound reopened.

Agatha moved slowly, not wanting to startle her, and crossed the room without a word. She sank down onto the floor beside her, close but not intruding. She didn’t speak. She just reached out, gently, and let her fingers find Rio’s.

At the touch, Rio flinched. It was slight—just a breath of motion—but enough to say the contact frightened her. Still, she didn’t withdraw. Her hand stayed beneath Agatha’s, cool and tense. Her body was rigid, but her presence said: stay.

A moment passed. Then another.

And then, quietly, Rio lifted the page from the floor and passed it to her. Not looking at it. Not looking at her. Just handing it over like something she needed to be rid of—like it burned in her hand.

Agatha took it gently.

Rio’s voice came next, small and hoarse, rough around the edges like it had scraped its way up from a well of silence.

“It was the first poem we learned… Naya and I. That first night…”

She didn’t finish. She couldn’t. She didn’t need to.

Agatha’s heart clenched. She lowered the paper to her lap and let her eyes close, steadying herself against the ache that bloomed at Rio’s side. She knew. Of course she knew. She had read the files. Sat through the classified debriefings. Held Rio through enough nightmares to know exactly what “that first night” meant.

It was the night everything changed.

The night two eight-year-old girls—full of curiosity and energy and dreams—were taken.

For eleven years, they had been prisoners in the home of a man named Thanos. Not a guardian. Not a mentor. A captor. A manipulator. A monster who cloaked himself in civility and scholarship, who called himself an educator but operated like a cultist with a private curriculum. He didn’t raise them. He remade them.

They were projects to him. Possessions. Girls to sculpt into what he deemed exceptional—no matter the cost.

The “education” had been relentless. Not a gift, but a gauntlet. The kind of knowledge admired in salons and lecture halls became, for Rio, instruments of control. Ancient and modern languages, advanced mathematics, literature, history, philosophy, ballet, fencing, piano, poetry. They mastered everything he demanded. Mastered it because failure meant punishment—measured, clinical, and merciless. Food and reunions between twins were conditioned to their progress. Hesitation was corrected. Emotion was suppressed. Their humanity, slowly, starved.

“The Road Not Taken” was a lie, Agatha thought bitterly. There was no choice. There had never been a road. Just a cell disguised as a study, and two children forced to walk a path carved by someone else.

The knowledge had stayed. The trauma had, too.

Rio never talked about those years unless she had to. Nobody knew about them. She used her skills when necessary, but avoided them when she could. They were reminders of what had been taken from her. What had been done to her.

Agatha turned to Rio, her eyes soft with grief, her voice a hush. “You never have to read it again,” she whispered. “You never have to explain. Not to me. Not ever.”

Rio didn’t respond at first. Her eyes were distant, unfocused—lost in some corner of her past she didn’t like returning to. But slowly, she blinked, then shifted her weight just enough to let her shoulder rest lightly against Agatha’s.

She exhaled, shaky but deliberate. “I hate that it’s beautiful,” she said quietly. “I hate that I remember every line. That part of me still hears him reciting it like it was some kind of—of blessing. As if that night was the beginning of something noble.”

Agatha slid her hand from Rio’s to her back, wrapping her arm around her shoulders and pulling her in gently.

“No. It wasn’t noble,” she murmured. “It was theft. And cruelty. And you survived it. You and Naya—even if she’s not here, you held on to yourselves when most people wouldn’t have made it. That is what I see. That’s what matters.”

Rio leaned into her, eyes finally closing. The tension in her frame eased slightly, and the brittle edges of her pain softened in Agatha’s arms.

They sat like that for a long time.

Agatha’s heart ached as she folded the poem with careful hands, each motion deliberate, like she was handling a wound made of paper. She placed it on the nightstand and turned it over, tucking it out of sight as if the words could no longer hurt if they weren’t visible. Then she reached for Rio again—this time without hesitation—and drew her close, enveloping her in an embrace that was both shield and anchor.

Her fingers wove into Rio’s hair as she whispered, “You don’t have to help him with that one. Not tonight. I’ll tell him you needed a break.”

Rio exhaled shakily against her neck but shook her head. “No… No, I want to. I don’t want him to be afraid of learning just because I was. He shouldn’t have to carry that.”

Agatha eased back, just enough to look into her wife’s face. The dim light revealed the weariness clinging to her features, the trace of old ghosts still flickering in her eyes.

“You’re allowed to have boundaries,” Agatha said gently. “Even the strongest people need them. Especially for good reasons.”

Rio nodded, but her voice was quiet steel. “I know. But this one matters. If I avoid it, it wins. He wins.”

Agatha didn’t have to ask who she meant. The shadow of Thanos still lingered, even more than a decade later, like smoke in an old room—present even when invisible. He was the kind of memory that didn’t need a name to be recognized.

“You know, Nicky would understand,” Agatha said softly, her thumb brushing across Rio’s knuckles. “He’s a smart kid. He’d never want to push you.”

The mention of his name seemed to pull Rio back from the edge. Her gaze cleared, just slightly, sharpening with purpose.

“I know,” she murmured. “But I want to help him. I need to. I want to show him that learning can be safe. That it can be beautiful. That it can belong to him, not to someone else’s power. That poetry can mean more than control or pain.”

Agatha felt something deep shift in her chest—a mix of awe and ache. Rio, who had once been broken and buried under years of cruelty, had risen from it not just intact, but radiant. She didn’t want revenge. She wanted reclamation.

“You don’t have to be the one to heal everything,” Agatha said softly, cupping her cheek. “You already do so much for him. You love him. That’s enough.”

Rio’s hand came up to hold hers. “But I think this is something I need to do—for me, too. I need to create new memories. I need that room, that table, that poem—to mean something else. Something better. I want to remember tonight not because it hurt, but because it helped.”

Agatha stared at her for a long moment, her throat tight. She never stopped being astonished by this woman—the way she bore her scars with such honesty, the way she let light back into the spaces that had once been sealed shut.

She brushed her lips to Rio’s forehead, her voice barely above a breath. “As you wish.”

Rio closed her eyes at the contact, letting the warmth of Agatha’s presence steady her. Then, slowly, she pulled away and stood. Her movements were deliberate now, her spine straightening, her expression composed.

 She took a deep breath. Then another. Squared her shoulders.

Outside Agatha’s embrace, Rio became something else—not colder, not harder, but more contained. The softness didn’t leave her; she simply wrapped it in an armor. Only in this room, only in Agatha’s arms, did she allow herself to unspool completly. Everywhere else, she held herself with quiet precision—stitched together by will and memory and the quiet, defiant work of healing.

 Agatha watched as she crossed the room, pausing briefly at the door.

Rio glanced back. Her voice was steadier now. “You coming?”

Agatha rose and walked to her side. “Always.”

 They stepped back into the kitchen as if nothing had happened, the quiet hum of the evening settling around them. Rio’s voice was calm, almost casual, carefully measured.

 “Okay, Nicky. Ready to dive into some poetry?”

 Nicky looked up from his notebook, his fifteen-year-old face a mixture of curiosity and concern. The faint furrow in his brow betrayed the subtle shift in the room’s atmosphere—he sensed something had changed, though he couldn’t quite place it. He studied Rio for a moment. Her smile was there, but faint, almost hesitant. Her eyes, usually so bright and alive with that quiet, knowing spark, seemed softer, almost dulled by an invisible weight.

 Still, he said nothing. He had learned, over time, when to hold his questions. If Rio wanted to share, she would. For now, he simply nodded and slid the second copy of the poem across the table toward her.

 “Yeah. Let’s get started.”

 They leaned in together, heads close, voices dropping to a gentle murmur as Rio began guiding him through the poem’s subtle rhythms and layered meanings. Her fingers traced the lines on the page like a delicate map, pausing to explain how metaphor weaves between words, how interpretation lives in the spaces left unsaid. She spoke softly, deliberately, her voice steady but touched with a tenderness that suggested something deeper was stirring beneath the surface.

 Agatha lingered just inside the doorway, arms folded loosely across her chest, her posture relaxed but attentive. Her gaze never left Rio—not because she doubted her strength, but because she cared too much. She watched for the telltale signs: the way Rio’s shoulders might tighten just a fraction, the slight hesitation in her tone, the fleeting shadow crossing her face when old memories threatened to resurface.

 But Rio held firm.

 She was quieter than usual, her pace a little slower, her breath measured, but she was fully present. Fully here. With Nicky. Helping him weave something new and beautiful from the tangled threads of her past pain.

 And in that moment, Agatha saw it clearly—without words, without explanation. Rio wasn’t just sharing knowledge; she was reclaiming her power. The power to choose how her story would be told, how her pain would be transformed. She was reshaping the narrative, piece by piece, one stanza at a time.

 Thanks to Rio’s patient guidance and clear explanations, Nicky grasped the assignment quickly. What had initially seemed daunting turned out to be surprisingly manageable, and they wrapped up the exercise in no time.

 With a triumphant smile, Nicky packed away his books and notebooks. Relieved to finally be done with his homework, he bounded off to his room to do something—anything—that didn’t involve literature or poetry analysis.

 Rio was just about to rise from her chair, feeling the familiar satisfaction of having helped someone she cared about, when Agatha moved first. she slid into the chair across from Rio—the very one Nicky had just vacated. The simple act made Rio’s body tense ever so slightly, a reflex born from the evening’s earlier moment of raw vulnerability. She braced herself, half-expecting Agatha to bring up what had happened—her sudden departure from the kitchen, the poem that had stirred memories too heavy to voice.

 But Agatha surprised her.

 Instead of probing, she leaned forward with a warm, easy smile, her voice light and inviting.

 “Alright. We really need to start planning our vacation.”

 The words were like a gentle bridge back to normalcy, an unspoken remainder that life still held moments of joy and anticipation beyond shadows of the past. Rio looked up, meeting Agatha’s steady, caring gaze. There was no pressure there, no hint of expectation or judgment, just a quiet lifeline extended with love.

 Slowly, the tightness in Rio’s shoulders began to ease, the tension she hadn’t realized she was carrying melting away like morning mist. A grateful smile softened her lips.

 “Gladly,” she replied softly, her voice threaded with warmth and affection.

 Seizing the moment, Agatha leaned in and pressed a quickkiss on the tip of Rio’s nose. The small gesture drew a spontaneous, lighthearted laugh from Rio.

 They launched into planning with the ease that came from years of shared life. It didn’t take long before they landed on a destination, familiar, but no less welcome. They’d spend the holidays at the home of Agatha’s father, Leonard Harkness, on the West Coast. It had been too long since they’d visited him, and Agatha knew he missed Nicky deeply. Though she didn’t say it out loud, she missed him too.

Every time they visited, Agatha noticed something shift in Rio—something subtle but beautiful. There was a kind of peace that settled over her wife during those days, a quiet happiness that seemed to wash over her like sunlight. Perhaps it was the feeling of family, something Rio had lost long ago, but found echoes of in Leonard’s quiet kindness.

 From the very first visit, Leonard had embraced Rio as if she were his own daughter. He never forgot her birthday, calling just to hear her voice or to share a joke. He sent little gifts that spoke of his attentiveness—books he thought she’d enjoy, postcards from his travels, or a simple hand-knitted scarf when the weather turned cold. Sometimes, Agatha would learn afterwards that the two of them had spend hours on the phone, lost in conversation that ranged from the mundane to the profound. Each time she found out, her heart swelled with a quiet, fierce love. There was nothing more comforting than knowing the people she cherished had forged their own independant bonds.

 The same could not be said for Evanora—Agatha’s mother, and Nicky’s grandmother.

 Evanora had never hidden her disdain for Agatha. And Agatha, in turn, had learnt early not to expect love where there was only bitterness. Her parents had separated at her birth, and Agatha had always dreaded the mandatory weeks spent at her mother’s cold, immaculate house. Those visits had been less like holidays and more like punishments. When Agatha came of age, she made the difficult but necessary choice to sever ties, limiting contact to a handful of unavoidable encounters that left her drained.

 So, whenever they had the choice, they chose Leonard. They chose warmth, laughter, and ease. They chose the kind of love that came without conditions or wounds. Nicky agreed wholeheartedly—he adored his grandfather and never once complained about spending a few days in Leonard’s sun-drenched, cozy home by the sea, where the scent of salt air mingled with pine and fresh coffee.

 Once the departure date was chosen and the last of the travel details sorted, Rio and Agatha moved together into the kitchen to start prepare dinner. Their movements were quiet and seamless—choreographed by years of shared routines and soft intimacy. One would pass the other a knife, stir a sauce, open a cabinet, all without needing to speak. It was the quiet language of people who knew how to be together.

 There were ghosts in their pasts, yes—but there were also new memories to be made, new joy to carve into the days ahead.

 

 

 

Chapter 4

Notes:

Well, it's been a minute, but i'm fully back with looooots of ideas.

 

The next morning, the precinct carried the hum of a day not yet decided. Phones rang in a low chorus, the clatter of keyboards punctuated the air, and the faint smell of burnt coffee clung to the walls like a permanent resident. Agatha was halfway through her first cup when the intercom crackled to life, summoning her team to Director Calderu’s office. The message was brief and clipped, without the courtesy of explanation.

“Guess recess is over,” Agatha muttered, setting her mug down with a faint sigh. She exchanged a glance with Rio, who arched an eyebrow, her expression curious but calm. Alice and Billy looked more openly intrigued, their heads swiveling toward Jen, who only gestured with a sharp tilt of her chin toward Lilia’s door. Whatever this was, it wasn’t routine.

They filed in together, a practiced unit, and found Director Lilia Calderu standing behind her desk, papers spread out like a storm she hadn’t yet tamed. She didn’t bother with pleasantries. Her eyes swept over them, sharp and assessing, before she cut straight to the point.

“You’re dropping the current case,” she said.

The words landed with an audible thud. Rio stiffened beside Agatha, Alice frowned, and Billy looked as if someone had just told him the world’s worst punchline.

“Excuse me?” Agatha asked, her voice low, though not disrespectful.

“I’m assigning it to another unit,” Lilia clarified, her tone brooking no argument. “We have something new. Something urgent.”

That got their attention. Jen leaned forward slightly, folding her arms, her eyes narrowing. “What kind of urgent are we talking about?”

Lilia exhaled, then reached for the top file in the stack before her. “At eight thirty this morning, a call came in from a civilian. They’d just received an Amazon delivery. They opened the box expecting a vacuum cleaner.” She paused, her gaze holding each of them in turn. “Instead, they found a severed human hand.”

The room went dead quiet. Even Alice, who usually found gallows humor in the strangest places, had nothing to offer.

Billy made a small choking sound before managing, “A… hand? Like—an actual hand?”

“An actual human hand,” Lilia confirmed grimly. “Female, by the initial look of it, though forensics will need to verify.”

Rio’s expression was unreadable, though Agatha could tell her mind was already racing, cataloging possibilities, pulling threads no one else could see yet. For her part, Agatha felt the familiar spark of determination flare up, that hard-edged certainty that came with the scent of violence.

“If there’s a hand,” Agatha said, her voice steady but sharp as glass, “then there are other parts.”

Alice grimaced. “So we’re looking at a body cut into pieces and shipped out like… like Amazon Prime?”

Before Lilia could answer, her phone rang. The shrill tone cut through the room. She snatched it up, listening in silence for several seconds before her jaw clenched.

“Understood,” she said finally, and ended the call. She set the receiver down with more force than necessary and looked back at her team. “Another package just turned up. Different recipient, different address. This time it contained a human foot.”

The collective inhale was sharp. Even Rio’s composure cracked slightly, her eyes narrowing with something dark and dangerous glinting there.

“That confirms it then,” Agatha said, more to herself than anyone else. “This isn’t random. Somebody wants the body parts scattered, seen, noticed. And if they’re shipping them through Amazon, that means they’re using a warehouse as a hub.”

“Exactly.” Lilia slid the file across her desk. “Both deliveries originated from the same fulfillment center—an Amazon warehouse just outside of the city limits. That’s where you’re going. We need answers. Now.”

Alice leaned forward, flipping through the documents, her fingers moving fast. “If it’s inside the warehouse system, I can track the movement of every suspicious package in their database. But we’ll need direct access to their logistics servers.”

“Which they won’t hand over easily,” Jen added flatly. “Amazon guards its data like a dragon hoarding gold.”

“That’s why you’re going in person,” Lilia said. “You’ll get more cooperation face-to-face than we’ll ever get over the phone. Someone in there knows how these packages slipped through. Whether they’re complicit or just incompetent, we’ll find out.”

Rio finally spoke, her voice low and precise. “If this is intentional, then it’s deliberate staging. Someone wanted the recipients to find those packages, to call the police, to cause panic. It’s theatrical.”

Agatha’s lips curled into a humorless half-smile. “Staging a body like a puzzle. Makes sense. We’re not just looking for a murderer. We’re looking for someone who wants an audience.”

Billy shifted uneasily in his chair, his youthful features drawn tight. “So what’s the play here? Someone at the warehouse carving up corpses between shifts?”

“Or,” Rio countered softly, “someone using the system itself—embedding the crime inside a supply chain too vast and fast-moving for anyone to notice until it’s too late.”

The room fell silent again, the weight of her words settling heavily in the air.

Director Calderu looked at them one by one, her expression firm, her tone absolute. “Whatever this is, it’s more than just a homicide. It’s calculated. And if there are more packages waiting to be delivered, we don’t have time to waste. Get to the warehouse. Start digging. Don’t come back without leads.”

 

---

 

Agatha slid behind the wheel of her car, the leather creaking as she settled in. Rio followed, her hand brushing lightly against Agatha’s arm as she closed the passenger door. Outside, Jen and Alice were already pulling away in their own vehicle, Billy squeezed into the back seat behind them, chatter muffled by rolled-up windows.

For the first time all morning, the noise of the precinct was replaced with a rare pocket of silence. The world outside blurred into motion as Agatha steered them into traffic, the city waking up around them in a patchwork of honking horns and impatient commuters.

Rio leaned back in her seat, exhaling slowly, her gaze fixed on the stream of buildings rushing past. “A hand and a foot,” she murmured, almost to herself. “It’s grotesque. And deliberate.”

Agatha flicked her eyes toward her for a moment, then back to the road. “It’s also exactly our kind of mess.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, but softer than usual, tinged with something reserved only for Rio. “I could see your gears turning back there. What’s your first read?”

Rio’s lips curved faintly, though it wasn’t a smile. “Whoever did this isn’t careless. They’re making statements, carving the body into symbols. A hand, a foot… they’ll keep going until the entire body is accounted for. And we’re supposed to chase it like breadcrumbs.”

Agatha’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “Which means time isn’t on our side. If more packages are out there, people are about to get the delivery from hell.”

Silence stretched between them again, filled only by the hum of the engine. But it wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it was the kind of quiet that came from knowing each other too well, from having had these conversations in darker places, on darker nights.

Rio finally turned her head, studying Agatha with that calm, piercing gaze that always saw more than Agatha intended to show. “You were sharp in Lilia’s office. The way you jumped straight to the rest of the body… you don’t miss much. It’s hot.”

Agatha smirked. “You should know by now—I don’t miss you either.”

That earned her a small laugh, soft and low, but real. Rio shook her head, amused, though her hand drifted across the console, fingers brushing over Agatha’s free hand.

“You know,” Rio said quietly, her thumb tracing along Agatha’s knuckles, “sometimes I hate that we can only have these moments in stolen pockets like this. A drive to a crime scene. A breath between interrogations.”

Agatha’s jaw clenched, but she didn’t pull her hand away. “We knew what it meant when we decided to keep it hidden. The work, the risks… Lilia’s the only one who knows, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

“I know.” Rio’s voice softened, not with resignation, but with acceptance. “But it doesn’t mean I don’t want more.”

Agatha glanced at her again, just for a second longer than was safe, and the look they shared held layers: longing, frustfration, devotion. A look that could’ve unraveled them both if they weren’t so practiced at restraint.

“After this case,” Agatha murmured, her voice rougher now, “we’ll carve out time. Just us. No badges. No corpses in cardboard boxes.”

Rio’s lips quirked, this time closer to a smile. “Hold you to that, detective.”

The moment passed as quickly as it came, the looming shadow of the warehouse already visible on the horizon, its massive structure rising like a monolith against the sky. Agatha shifted gears, her focus snapping back to the job, but she carried Rio’s touch with her, tucked away like an armor hidden under her skin.

They were almost at the heart of the storm.

 

---

 

The warehouse loomed before them like a cavern of steel and shadows, the air inside tinged with the smell of cardboard, machine oil, and dust. Rows upon rows of towering shelves stretched into the distance, stacked high with packages in every shape and size. Conveyor belts rattled in the background, ferrying parcels from one end of the facility to the other.

Agatha, Rio, Jen, and Alice stood with the floor manager, a wiry man named Frank who wore an ill-fitting safety vest and had the jittery air of someone already overwhelmed. Billy trailed behind, notepad in hand, eyes darting around the space as though the sheer volume of boxes might swallow him whole.

“We need a full list of all employees who were on shift during the last seventy-two hours,” Agatha said briskly, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Frank nodded, fumbling with the tablet he carried. “Of course, of course. I’ll print it for you right now. But… I’ve already checked. Everyone accounted for. No unusual callouts, no one new brought in.” He wiped his brow with a trembling hand. “We’ve run like clockwork.”

Agatha took the tablet, skimming the neat rows of names. Nothing leapt out at her—no sudden hirings, no suspicious absences. She handed it back to Billy with a curt nod. “Cross-reference that with the precinct’s records. Just because they look clean here doesn’t mean they are clean.”

Billy nodded quickly and began typing notes.

Rio, meanwhile, had fixed her gaze on Frank. “You said something about a break-in?”

The man shifted uncomfortably, tugging at his vest. “Two nights ago. Alarm tripped around 2 a.m. Police came, did their sweep, but… nothing was gone. No broken locks, no busted cameras. They chalked it up to a glitch in the system, maybe a door left ajar.”

Rio tilted her head, her dark eyes sharpening as though she were dissecting his words. “Nothing stolen. Nothing broken. No sign of forced entry.” She let the facts hang in the air, then spoke with quiet certainty. “That means the break-in wasn’t about theft. It was about addition.”

Frank blinked. “Addition?”

“They weren’t here to take anything,” Rio explained, her tone calm, methodical. “They were here to leave something behind. The body parts.”

Billy stopped scribbling, his pen hanging midair. Alice muttered something under her breath that sounded a lot like “gross,” while Jen gave a low whistle, rubbing the back of her neck.

Frank’s face paled. “You—you’re saying this is my warehouse’s problem? That somebody stashed—”

“Somebody used your warehouse,” Agatha corrected sharply, cutting him off before his panic could spiral. “Your job now is to help us figure out where and how.”

Jen crouched slightly, scanning the scuffed floor near the loading bays. Dust, shoe prints, the occasional smear of dirt—nothing out of place. Whoever had come in had been careful. Too careful.

Agatha straightened, turning back to Frank. “I want your CCTV footage. Every camera. Every angle. Start with the night of the break-in and give us everything since.”

“Yes, ma’am. Right away.” Frank fumbled again, his fingers trembling against the tablet screen.

Agatha stepped closer, impatience etched in the tight line of her jaw. She adjusted the strap of her holster, exhaling slowly. And then—

Plop.

A wet sound.

Agatha froze. Something cold and slick had landed on her shoulder. Slowly, she looked down. A dark crimson drop spread across the crisp fabric of her white button-up, soaking into the cotton.

For half a heartbeat, she didn’t move.

“Uh… Agatha?” Alice’s voice cracked, unsteady. “Don’t freak out but…”

Rio’s hand twitched at her side, like she was resisting the urge to yank Agatha out of the way. “Don’t move,” she said softly.

Agatha lifted her eyes. The rest of the team followed her gaze.

High above them, balanced precariously on one of the upper shelves, sat a large cardboard box. At first glance, it looked like any other package—but from one corner, a thick line of blood seeped through the seams, glistening under the fluorescent lights. It trickled down in slow, sticky drips, spattering the concrete floor below.

Another package.

Another part.

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the steady pat… pat… pat of blood hitting the ground.

“Christ,” Jen muttered, running a hand over her mouth.

“Please tell me that’s not what I think it is,” Frank whispered, his voice hoarse.

Agatha’s expression hardened, even as her stomach turned. “It’s exactly what you think it is.”

Rio took a deliberate step forward, her sharp gaze never leaving the box. “They wanted us to find it. Or at least, they didn’t care if we did.”

Alice had already pulled her tablet free, swiping rapidly as she muttered to herself. “Okay, okay… if I can get into their internal tracking system, I can tell you exactly when that box arrived and where it was supposed to go.”

Billy swallowed hard, eyes locked on the slow drip of blood. “What do we do about it? Get it down?”

Agatha shook her head. “Not yet. Crime scene techs will handle it. We don’t contaminate anything.” She looked back at Frank, her tone sharp as a blade. “Shut down this entire section. Nobody touches a thing until forensics gets here.”

Frank nodded weakly, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he stumbled off to relay the order.

Rio, meanwhile, lingered beside Agatha, her voice pitched low enough for only her to hear. “This isn’t random anymore. The packages… the staging… they’re playing with us.”

Agatha’s jaw tightened, her eyes still fixed on the bleeding box above them. “Then let’s play back.”

For a moment, the team simply stood there, the air heavy with the coppery tang of fresh blood. The warehouse didn’t feel like a warehouse anymore. It felt like a trap—one carefully constructed, one waiting to be sprung.

And above them, the box dripped its gruesome secret, each drop marking the seconds until they were forced to climb higher into the nightmare.

 

---

 

Back at the precinct, the forensics team had already secured the bleeding package in one of the high-containment labs. The transparent plexiglass chamber gleamed under harsh fluorescent lights as techs in protective suits sliced open the box with surgical precision. The rest of the team watched from behind reinforced glass, their reflections floating ghostlike on the barrier.

Inside the box, layer after layer of packaging was peeled back—plastic wrap, foam, cardboard inserts—until finally the grisly contents were revealed. Even through the glass, the stench was unmistakable: copper and rot. The tech carefully lifted a human torso—clearly female—, no head nor limbs, its skin pale and waxy. A hush fell over the observation room.

Director Calderu, standing with her arms crossed, broke the silence. “We’ll get the full autopsy results soon enough. For now, we work with what we know: body parts distributed in random packages. Someone is playing a very dangerous game.”

As Lilia turned, her sharp eyes landed on Agatha, who was still wearing her blood-stained white shirt. The crimson blotch on her shoulder had darkened to a deep, ugly brown. “Detective Harkness,” she said crisply, “go change. You’re distracting everyone.”

Agatha raised an eyebrow, her usual brand of sardonic humor hovering on her tongue, but she wisely kept it to herself. Instead, she gave a curt nod and left the observation room.

The precinct gym was quiet at this hour, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly as she stepped inside. Lockers lined the far wall, their paint chipped from years of use. Agatha yanked her own open, rummaging through. Empty, save for her emergency gun-cleaning kit and an old granola bar she didn’t trust anymore. She let out a sharp curse.

“Of course. The one time I don’t pack a spare.” She muttered to herself, tugging at her ruined shirt in irritation. It wasn’t the first time her clothes had met a messy end on the job—just a few weeks earlier she’d been forced into the lake during a chase, waterlogged and freezing, her shirt sticking to her skin until she’d shivered her way through the paperwork. She should have remembered.

But then she paused, tapping her finger against the metal door of her locker.

Rio.

Her wife always carried spares, alwas cautious, always prepared. And Rio’s locker wasn’t far. Agatha hesitated for the barest moment before her mouth curved into a sly half-smile. She walked down the row, stopping in front of the familiar metal door. Her hand moved automatically to the keypad. Four digits. Their wedding date.

The locker clicked open with a soft metallic snap. Inside was a neatly folded spare shirt—dark green plaid, sleeves rolled tight. Agatha smirked. “Perfect.”

She peeled off her ruined shirt with little ceremony, tossing it into a plastic bag for evidence later, and tugged Rio’s over her shoulders. The fabric was cold from the locker, soft with the faintest trace of Rio’s perfume clinging to it—subtle, woodsy, with a touch of spice. As she buttoned it up, Agatha caught herself inhaling a little too deeply, a little too long. For a fleeting second, it was almost like Rio was standing behind her, arms circling her waist.

She shook the thought away, tugging the last button closed, rolling the sleeves up her forearms. A glance in the mirror nailed it: casual, professional enough, no one would question it. She could pass this off as just another borrowed shirt from the precinct’s emergency stash.

Ten minutes later, Agatha reappeared in the open space, striding back with her usual commanding presence. The green plaid fit her like it had been made for her, the dark tones contrasting with her pale skin, her dark hair falling around her sharp jawline.

Nobody batted an eye. Alice was too busy typing furiously at her workstation. Jen was murmuring to Billy over a stack of printouts. Director Calderu was on the phone, her voice clipped and precise.

But Rio…

Rio looked up from the case notes in her lap, and for the briefest moment, time stuttered. Her eyes caught the familiar pattern of the plaid, her breath catching in her throat. That was her shirt, one she’d worn countless times on late nights at home, one Agatha had tugged off her more than once in moments that had nothing to do with work.

Seeing her wife in it now—out in the open, unknowing eyes all around—was a quiet, devastating intimacy. She melted, warmth flooding her chest, her throat tightening around words she couldn’t say. Her lips curved into the faintest of smiles, subtle, controlled, hidden behind a carefully neutral expression.

Agatha didn’t look at her directly, but when she passed by Rio’s chair, her hand brushed the edge of Rio’s desk, a gesture so small, so casual that no one else noticed. But Rio did. The silent message was clear. I’m wearing your shirt. Our secret.

And just like that, the grimness of severed limbs and bloodied evidence lifted for a heartbeat, replaced with something softer. Something only they shared.

Rio’s quiet awe, her chest still humming at the sight of Agatha in her shirt, was abruptly broken when the director's brisk footsteps cut through the hum of the open space. Lilia’s heels struck the linoleum floor with a commanding rhythm, her expression a mask of grim purpose.

“Listen up,” Lilia announced, her voice sharp enough to slice through the low buzz of the precinct. All chatter and typing stilled instantly. “We received three more calls. Other police stations in the area reported receiving packages—each containing body parts. One contained the other foot, another a thigh, and a third an arm. All shipped to random civilians. All packaged like ordinary deliveries.”

The room’s silence deepened. Even hardened detectives shifted uneasily at the director's words. The sheer brutality of it all—the randomness, the casual cruelty—seemed to crawl under their skin.

Rio closed the file she had been holding and set it aside. Her brows knit together as her mind leapt ahead, forming hypotheses, connections. She didn’t need to look at Agatha to know her wife was thinking the same thing: the scope of this case had just widened exponentially.

Lilia went on, folding her arms tightly. “The only consistent detail is the warehouse of origin. Every package traces back to that same distribution center you just came from. So, we have a link. But until we find out who the victim is, we’re working blind. No head. No usable fingerprints. No prior matches in our systems. The only thing forensics has been able to determine so far is that the victim is female.”

A heavy weight settled across the team. The absence of a face—of an identity—hung like a shadow over the evidence. Without that, the woman was just pieces in boxes.

A ghost with no name.

Billy, standing near Alice’s desk with a file clutched in his too-tight grip, paled noticeably. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, trying to keep composure, but his cheeks had gone blotchy with a sickly green tinge.

Agatha’s sharp eyes caught it instantly. She arched an eyebrow, her voice dropping low, controlled but carrying enough authority to make him listen. “Billy.”

Billy snapped his head toward her, wide-eyed, trying to look tougher than he felt.

“Outside. Fresh air. Now,” Agatha ordered, but her tone carried the faintest undercurrent of care. She didn’t need him passing out or throwing up in the bullpen.

Billy hesitated a beat too long, until Agatha gave him one of her pointed looks—the one that said don’t test me, kid. He finally nodded, setting the file down with fumbling hands before hurrying toward the glass doors that led to the front steps of the precinct. His shoulders hunched, his pace just shy of a jog.

Rio, who had watched the exchange quietly, leaned down and gave a subtle snap of her fingers. “Scratchy,” she called softly.

From his usual sprawl under Rio’s desk, Señor Scratchy perked up, his shaggy head tilting.

“Keep him company,” Rio murmured under her breath, more to herself than to anyone else.

The massive, fluffy dog lumbered to his feet, stretching luxuriously before padding after Billy with surprising grace for his size. His big paws clicked against the floor as he followed the young man out the doors.

Several sets of eyes tracked the retreating dog, but nobody commented. At this point, Señor Scratchy’s presence in the precinct was as natural as the coffee machine sputtering in the corner.

The silence that followed was dense. Each member of the team was processing in their own way: Jen, her lips pressed thin, already tapping notes into her tablet; Alice, rubbing her temple as she thought through logistics; Rio, playing with one of her plastic skulls absentmindedly; Agatha, hands in her pockets, gaze flinty and restless.

Director Calderu, however, remained a steady pillar at the center of the storm. “The public doesn’t know about the extent of this yet, and I intend to keep it that way until we have answers. Media control will be tight. Our priority is to identify this victim, track how those body parts ended up in distribution, and—”

“—and stop whoever’s playing butcher before another package gets delivered,” Agatha finished flatly, her jaw set.

Lilia’s eyes flicked to her, a brief acknowledgment before she nodded. “Exactly.”

Rio’s fingers drummed lightly against the table. “Without a head or usable fingerprints, we’ll have to lean on DNA testing. But until we have matches, it could take days, maybe weeks. Whoever planned this knew exactly how to delay us.”

Jen glanced up from her notes, her expression pinched. “So we don’t know who the victim is, and we don’t know where the rest of her is. But we do know the killer wants the body scattered, piece by piece, with the world as the delivery system.”

The words lingered, chilling in their accuracy.

Alice finally broke the tension with a sigh. “I’ll start pulling full logs from the warehouse. Every shipment, every scanner entry, every unusual timestamp. If someone tampered with the system, there’s a trail.”

Director Calderu gave a single nod. “Good. That’s the first step. Everyone else—prepare for a long night. This is no longer a simple homicide. It’s a dismemberment case with a deliberate public angle. That makes it personal. That makes it urgent.”

The gravity of the case hit them all at once. But through the glass doors, in the corner of her vision, Rio caught a glimpse of Billy on the steps outside, sitting with his hands in his hair while Señor Scratchy pressed his giant head into the boy’s lap. A small, grounding comfort amidst the horror.

And for a moment, that was enough to remind her why they fought so hard to bring light to the darkest places.

 

---

 

The afternoon dragged under a low ceiling of gray clouuds. A knock at the glass partition pulled Agatha from her restless pacing. One of the forensics officers stepped in, a thick envelope in hand, sealed with the lab’s stamp.

“Preliminary medical report,” he said. His tone was clipped, neutral, but the slight tightening at the corners of his eyes betrayed that he’d read enough of it already.

Agatha accepted it with a curt nod, the weight of the file suddenly heavier than paper had any right to be. The officer left without another word, and the bullpen grew still as everyone’s attention turned toward her.

She slit it open and scanned the neat, clinical typewritten lines. Her face, usually an iron mask, softened only enough to show concentration. She read aloud so the others wouldn’t have to hover.

“Victim is a woman between twenty and twenty-five years old. Appears healthy—no chronic conditions, no sign of long-term illness. No traces of sexual trauma.” Her voice was steady, but the absence of such brutality didn’t make the crime less terrible; if anything, it sharpened the mystery.

She flipped a page, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Body dismembered post-mortem. Cause of death listed as cervical trauma—two fractured vertebrae near the top of the torso, suggesting either a fall or, more likely, a violent blow to the back of the neck.”

“Christ,” muttered Jen, shaking her head. She crossed her arms, looking down at the floor.

Alice, seated at her desk with her laptop balanced on her knees, spoke up. “So, they’re sure about the cause of death? Not strangulation, not poisoning, nothing else?”

Agatha glanced at the report again. “Nothing else indicated. Just the vertebral fracture. Instantaneous, most likely.”

That was when Rio leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers laced for a moment before she absently stretched one hand down to stroke Señor Scratchy’s thick fur under the desk. The dog leaned into the touch with a low, pleased huff. Her dark eyes gleamed—not with satisfaction, but with the deep, burning pull of focus.

“At first glance,” Rio began, her voice low but quickening as her mind latched onto the pieces, “a violent blow like that suggests rage. An impulsive move. Someone loses control, lashes out, kills in a fit of temper. The fractured vertebrae could point to that—an act without foresight, the kind of strike you don’t calculate, you just… do.”

Her hand moved absently along Señor Scratchy’s head as if stroking thought itself into coherence. “But then,” she continued, tone sharpening, “it doesn’t match. The dismemberment was deliberate. The distribution of the body parts—sending them across the state, one package after another—that’s not rage. That’s staging. That’s purposeful. It takes time. It takes a plan. It’s careful.”

The room was silent but for the click of Alice’s keyboard, the hum of the ceiling lights, the faint shifting of papers. Everyone listened as Rio’s words gathered momentum, spiraling into a criminological orbit only she seemed able to follow.

“If you look at it symbolically,” she pressed on, “it could be punishment. Not just killing her, but exposing her. Turning her into an object, a message. Every delivery becomes a grotesque reminder: look at her, see what she’s been reduced to. It’s humiliation extended beyond death. Parading her body, forcing strangers to be witnesses.”

Her gaze grew distant, lost somewhere inside the patterns her mind was weaving, but Agatha was watching her intently from where she leaned against the corner of a desk. She knew this look, this rhythm—her wife caught in a current of thought, brilliant and relentless, words spilling out like she just couldn’t stop them. Rio was in her element. Focused, brilliant, fierce.

Jen broke the silence, tapping her pen against her notebook. “Usually when a body is dismembered, the intention is the opposite. Hide it. Destroy the evidence. Make it harder to trace back to the killer.”

Rio blinked, snapping back just enough to nod quickly. “Yes, exactly. Which is why this doesn’t make sense. Dismemberment as concealment, scattering as exposure—they’re contradictory symbols. One hides, the other flaunts. Whoever did this… they’re sending a double message. Or they don’t know what message they’re sending at all.”

Her voice faltered, just a fraction. She pressed her hand more firmly against the dog’s fur, grounding herself. “And that contradiction is—wrong. It’s messy. It doesn’t align with the psychology of most staged killings. It leaves me…” She exhaled, frustrated. “A little at a loss, frankly.”

For a moment, the team sat in the weight of her words. The case wasn’t just gruesome—it was incoherent, almost mocking their attempts to categorize it.

Then Alice looked up from her laptop, pushing her red-streaked hair behind her ears. “I’ve been digging while you were all talking,” she said. “Cross-referencing databases, social media, missing persons boards. I’ve found around twelve cases of missing women that could match our victim’s age and physical profile. But without DNA or dental records, I can’t narrow it further. Not yet.”

Twelve. The number dropped into the air like a stone into water.

Rio leaned back, rubbing her temple, murmuring more to herself than the room. “Twelve faces. Twelce lives paused in time. And only one belongs to her. The rest are just… waiting.”

Agatha pushed away from the desk, pacing slowly across the room, the file still clutched in her hand. “Then we start with those twelve. One of them is ours. We find her name, we find her story. And once we do, maybe the rest of this starts making sense.”

The resolve in her voice cut through the uncertainty, steadied the tremor left by Rio’s half-frustrated tangent. Even so, in the corner, Rio’s fingers threaded through Señor Scratchy’s fur again, her mind refusing to let go of the contradiction that gnawed at her.

Because contradictions, she knew, always meant something. And she intended to find out what.

 

---

 

By the time the clock ticked past eight, the precinct’s usual buzz had dulled into a strained quiet. The case files were still spread across the desks, the whiteboard filled with disconnected scribbles and theories that circled themselves like vultures. Nothing fit. Nothing aligned. Every angle they tried led to another dead end.

Lilia appeared in the doorway of the bullpen, her arms folded, her expression stern but laced with the fatigue of someone who had been doing this job too long. “That’s enough for today,” she announced, cutting through the heavy silence. “We’re not going to solve this standing around staring at the same pages until our eyes bleed. Go home. Rest. Clear your heads.”

Jen opened her mouth to protest, but Lilia raised a hand. “I mean it. You’ve all done what you can for now. Go home, be with your families. But keep your phones on—if forensics calls, or if another package turns up, I’ll want you reachable.”

The words dropped like a gavel, and there was no point arguing further. Chairs scraped, papers shuffled. Everyone moved reluctantly, as though admitting defeat. Billy lingered the longest, still pale from the day’s revelations, but eventually even he slung his backpack over his shoulder and followed Jen and Alice toward the door.

Rio had been uncharacteristically quiet for the last hour. She gathered her things with a certain mechanical precision, sliding her notebook into her satchel, clicking her pen closed and calling her dog quietly. Señor Scratchy rose from where he’d been sprawled faithfully under Agatha’s desk and stretched, his fluffy tail wagging just enough to send a few papers fluttering. She clipped his leash with a distracted hand, her mind clearly elsewhere.

“Night,” she murmured absently to no one in particular, and before Agatha could catch her eye, she was already heading out the glass doors, dog trotting obediently at her side.

Agatha watched her go, heart tugging with the familiar ache she always felt when she couldn’t quite reach her wife in those moments of hyperfocus. She let Rio have the head start. She didn’t want to make it obvious—not with Jen and Alice still gathering their coats nearby, not with Billy hovering uncertainly in the hall.

Only when the others had gone did Agatha grab her keys and follow. The night air outside was sharp, biting with the cool dampness of the late hour. Streetlights threw golden pools on the pavement and in the distance, she spotted Rio’s slender silhouette, dark hair falling loose across her shoulders, walking with her head bowed in thought. Señor Scratchy padded beside her like a fluffy guardian, ears perked, nose twitching.

Agatha slowed the car as she approached, hesitated just long enough to check the street—no familiar faces around, no colleagues within sight. Then she gave the horn a quick tap.

Rio startled, jumping slightly, her head snapping up. When her eyes landed on the car, recognition softened her features into something brighter. Agatha lifted a hand, motioning with a subtle tilt of her head toward the passenger seat.

Rio’s laugh bubbled up. She shook her head, amused at herself for being startled, and stepped toward the curb. “You scared me,” she admitted as she opened the back door first. ‘Up, boy,” she told Señor Scratchy, who was still by her side.

“Sorry, love,” Agatha said, voice gentler than she would have used inside the precinct. “Come on, get in. It’s late.”

Señor Scratchy hopped eagerly into the backseat, tail thumping against the leather, clearly pleased by this turn of events. Rio slid into the passenger seat, smoothing her pants as she settled beside her wife. For a fleeting moment, the weight of the day lifted, replaced by the quiet safety of being side by side again.

Agatha glanced over as she pulled back into traffic, taking in the profile she knew better than her own—Rio’s sharp jawline, the shadow beneath her eyes from exhaustion, the way her fingers rested lightly on her lap but tapped ever so faintly, betraying the storm still brewing in her head.

“You were a million miles away,” Agatha murmured.

Rio sighed, leaning back against the headrest. “I can’t stop turning it over. The contradiction doesn’t make sense. It’s like—” She stopped, shaking her head. “Sorry. I know I should let it go for tonight.”

“Or,” Agatha countered softly, eyes still on the road, “you could talk it through with me. At least until we’re home. Nicky must be waiting.”

Rio turned her head, studying her wife’s profile in the glow of the streetlamps. The hard detective façade Agatha wore at the station had slipped away now, leaving only the woman she trusted with every unspoken thought. Her lips curved faintly. “I forget how you do that. Pull me back without even trying.”

Agatha’s mouth twitched into a small smile. “Perks of seven years’ practice.”

The car hummed smoothly through the streets, the city rolling past in shadow and light. It wasn’t far to their home, to the warmth waiting with Nicky inside. She needed this—this stolen slice of normalcy, this secret space carved out of the night where they could simply be two wives driving home together, their dog sprawled happily in the backseat.

 

 

Notes:

I would really love to hear your thoughts!

Chapter 5

Notes:

The advantage of taking a long break is that, when you come back, you have most of the story written.
So enjoy two updates in two days.

 

The morning was still wraped in darkness, the city outside their window hushed under the pale blue haze before dawn. Inside, the bedroom was warm and quiet. Agatha lay on her side, one arm tucked around Rio’s waist, her face buried in the dark silk of her wife’s hair. Rio, nestled against her chest, breathed with the slow rhythm of deep sleep. Even Señor Scratchy was subdued, curled at the foot of the bed like a shaggy guardian, only his ears twitching occasionally.

The peace shattered when Agatha’s phone buzzed insistently against the nightstand, the harsh vibration rattling through the quiet. Agatha stirred, groaning softly. She reached out, careful not to jostle Rio, and grabbed the phone.

“...Harkness,” she answered, her voice rough with sleep.

On the other end came Lilia’s familiar, firm tone. “Sorry to wake you at this ungodly hour, Detective, but I figured you’d rather hear this sooner than later. We’ve got a development. A hiker found the head in a wildflower field. It’s being brought in now.”

Agatha’s grogginess vanished at once, her spine straightening. “The head?”

“That’s right. You and Vidal need to get here. Now.”

Agatha glanced at the sleeping figure in her arms. “Understood. We’ll be there soon.”

Before she could hang up, Lilia added, her voice lighter, almost teasing, “And look on the bright side—I only had to make one call. Perks of being the only one in on your little secret. Saves me a few minutes at least.”

Agatha smirked despite the heaviness of the news. “I’ll be sure to add that to the list of reasons you’re our favorite director.”

Lilia chuckled. “Just get here. And quietly, I imagine. Don’t wake your boy.”

The call ended. Agatha placed the phone down, then turned her attention back to Rio. She pressed a gentle kiss to her shoulder. “Darling,” she whispered. “Wake up.”

Rio stirred, mumbling something incoherent before blinking her eyes open. She squinted against the dim light. “What time is it?”

“Too early,” Agatha said softly. “Lilia called. They found the head. We need to go in.”

Rio’s sleep-fogged brain caught up quickly, and she sat up, her expression shifting to focus. “The head?” she repeated, brushing hair from her face.

Agatha nodded. “Yes. In a field. It’s being delivered to the precinct.”

Rio sighed, already climbing out of bed. She reached down to rub Señor Scratchy’s ears, the dog blinking awake with a soft whine, sensing their urgency. “All right. Let’s get ready.”

They moved quickly but quietly, dressing in near silence so as not to wake Nicky down the hall. Rio pulled her hair back into a sleek ponytail, tugged on her dark blazer, and slipped her notebook into her bag. Agatha fastened her belt, adjusted her holster, then glanced toward the door of her son’s bedroom as she walked towards the kitchen. She hesitated a moment before grabbing a pad of paper from the counter.

She scribbled a quick note in her sharp, hurried handwriting:

Got called in early. Don’t worry. Breakfast is in the fridge. Be good at school. Love you, Mama .

Rio leaned over her shoulder, then added beneath it in her neater hand:

And from me: We took Scratchy so you don’t need to walk him this morning. Sorry to steal your best friend . Love you, baby .

They left the note propped on the kitchen table, somewhere Nicky would easily see it when he woke.

Señor Scratchy bounded around their feet, sensing an outing, his tail thumping the cabinets as they put on their coats. Rio crouched to fasten his leash, whispering, “Quiet, Señor. Nicky’s still sleeping.” The dog tilted his head as if in perfect understanding, then wagged once more, a silent promise to behave.

By the time they slipped out the door, the sky was only just beginning to lighten, the first pink threads of dawn stretching above the rooftops. The air was cold, sharp in their lungs. Agatha opened the car door for Rio, a small gesture of habit, before ushering Señor Scratchy into the backseat.

Inside the car, the silence stretched for a few beats, filled only by the sound of the engine and the faint jingling of the dog’s tags. Agatha rubbed at her temple with her free hand, still processing. “The head changes everything,” she murmured finally. “It means we might be able to identify her. A face… teeth records… something concrete.”

Rio kept her eyes ahead. “It also means the killer wanted us to have it. He didn’t hide it well, Agatha. Leaving it like that in a field while the rest was shipped off? Among flowers? Why? It’s almost like the killer laid it down to rest. It’s the closest they got to bury the body. It doesn’t make sense.”

Rio went silent, staring out the window. Her mind was already churning, layering theory upon theory. Agatha let her think, but reached across the console, brushing her wife’s knuckles with her own.

Rio’s lips softened into a faint smile. She curled her fingers around Agatha’s for a moment before pulling away, sitting straighter as the precinct came into view.

By the time they were three blocks away, Agatha stopped the car to let Rio and their dog get out, their secret always in the back of their minds, both women were fully in detective mode again, their private world folded neatly away. Señor Scratchy shook his fur and padded dutifully behind his owner as they walked the remaining blocks, ready to face whatever waited for them today.

 

---

 

The precinct felt strangely alive despite the early hour, the corridors humming with the low murmur of voices and the distant crackle of telephones. The news that the head had been found had spread quickly, rippling through the building with a sort of tense urgency that always accompanied such grisly developpments.

Alice had claimed her office as the temporary war room, her computer screens filled with multiple open files, search windows, and databases scrolling rapidly under her fingers. The rest of the team trickled in—Agatha first, followed by Rio with Señor Scratchy, then Jennifer with a stack of fresh reports under her arm, and finally Billy, still pale but determined, clutching his notebook like a lifeline.

Alice didn’t waste time with preamble. She pushed her rarely-used glasses up the bridge of her nose, eyes flicking from one monitor to the other as the screens glowed against her tired face. “All right, we’ve got an ID,” she said, her voice cutting through the room. “The head matched dental records we had from missing persons. Her name is Lavender Grimes. Twenty-four years old.”

The name hung in the air for a moment, fragile and strange, like the ghost of someone they hadn’t yet met.

“Lavender,” Billy repeated softly, almost as if testing the weight of it on his tongue.

Alice nodded, swiveling one screen toward them. A photograph appeared—an ID shot from her driver’s license. The woman was striking, with pale skin, delicate features, and a cascade of dark curls that framed her face. Her eyes—bright, green, and brimming with an unguarded warmth—seemed to look out at them across the gulf of death.

“She lived in Eastview,” Alice continued, her fingers dancing across the keys again. “Worked as a waitress in a café not far from her apartment. Colleague reported her missing three days ago when she didn’t show up for her shift.”

Rio tilted her head slightly. Her fingers absently stroked the top of Señor Scratchy’s head, anchoringg herself in the familiar softness of fur as her mind spun. “Family?” she asked finally.

Alice tapped a few more times, her brow furrowing as she pulled up the file. “Mother and a younger sister. No father listed anywhere, at least not in the official records.”

The air thickened at that. There was something especially cruel about knowing there was a family—people waiting, hoping, dreading—that they would have to face with the truth.

Agatha exhaled slowly through her nose, pushing her chair back. “Billy,” she said, her tone gentle but firm, “I want you to reach out to the mother. Tell her we may have found her daughter and that we’ll need her to come in for identification.”

Billy swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Me?”

“Yes, you,” Agatha said, her eyes softening. “It’s difficult work, but it needs compassion, and you’re good at that. Keep it short, keep it respectful, and if she has questions you can’t answer, tell her we’ll speak with her in person.”

Billy gave a shaky nod, scribbling the instructions in his notebook.

Agatha turned then to Alice. “I’ll need Lavender’s address. If she was killed at home, we’ll want to see the scene before it’s too compromised.”

Alice nodded briskly, already typing. “Got it. Apartment complex on Willow Street. Eastview district.” She pulled the details up on the main monitor, the screen showing a nondescript red-brick building with peeling paint and a worn-out front stoop.

Agatha rose from her chair, already sliding her coat back on. “Jen, Rio—grab your things. We’re heading out.”

Jennifer tucked the reports under her arm and followed, her professional mask firmly in place, though her eyes betrayed the tightness of emotion just beneath.

Rio stood, tucking her pen into her bag, her mind still circling around Lavender’s picture on the screen. She couldn’t shake the vibrant life in those green eyes, now extinguished. Her hand found Agatha’s briefly, a fleeting squeeze hidden in the shuffle of movement.

Señor Scratchy, sensing the shift, wagged his tail and trotted to the door, his nails clicking against the floor.

As they left Alice’s office, the team splintered into their respective tasks. Billy stayed behind, pale but determined, phone already in hand as he prepared himself for the call that would break a mother’s heart. Alice returned to her screen, chasing down the threads that might lead them to Lavender’s last movements, promising to take good care of the dog who was now settling comfortably under her desk.

Meanwhile, Agatha, Rio, and Jen stepped out into the cold morning air, the city sprawling before them. The case, once fragmented and faceless, had now taken on a name, a history, a family.

Lavender Grimes.

 

---

 

The building on Willow Street had a tired, sun-faded look that hinted of years of neglect. The paint on the banisters peeled in long areas, and the hallway reeked faintly of mildew and stale cigarette smoke. Apartment 3B was at the far end of the corridor, its door a dull brown, looking untouched.

Jennifer fished out the spare key the superintendent had given them and glanced at Agatha. The two exchanged a quick nod. Rio, standing behind them, wrapped her coat more tightly around herself, a knot of unease forming in her chest.

Jen slid the key in and pushed the door open.

The apartment was quiet—eerily so. Sunlight leaked through thin curtains, dust motes swirling in the beam like silent confetti. The air smelled faintly of baby powder and old takeout containers. Nothing screamed of violence, but Agatha’s trained eyes swept across the living room with precision, taking in every detail: an abandoned coffee mug on the counter, a blanket crumpled on the couch, shoes kicked off near the door.

Life, interrupted.

They spread out cautiously, boots muffled against the worn carpet. Jen made a beeline for the small kitchen, Agatha checked the living room more closely, while Rio lingered near the entrance, her hands in her pockets, looking around.

Then, a soft, almost imperceptible noise.

A creak. The shift of weight on floorboards. From the back of the apartment.

All three froze.

Agatha’s gaze cut instantly to Jen’s, and without a word, they moved. Both women reached for their sidearms, years of instinct kicking in. Agatha extended her arm slightly, signaling for Rio to stay back. The criminologist obeyed, though tension rippled across her shoulders. She hated standing idle, but she knew Agatha well enough to recognize the protective sharpness in her wife’s eyes.

The noise came again, faint, from the bedroom down the hall.

Agatha led the way, weapon raised, Jen just a step behind. They advanced slowly, carefully, their boots rolling heel-to-toe against the carpet. The hallway seemed to stretch endlessly, the silence pressing in, punctuated only by the muffled rhythm of their breaths.

Agatha reached the doorframe first. She glanced inside—and what she saw made her chest seize.

Not a threat.

Not an intruder.

A young woman sat inside, her back pressed against the wall, arms curled protectively around a small bundle. Her eyes—wide, wild, terrified—locked on the two armed detectives in the doorway. She clutched the baby tighter, as if they might take him away.

“Clear,” Agatha said softly, lowering her weapon but not holstering it just yet.

Jen mirrored her movements, tension melting only slightly from her posture.

Rio, hearing Agatha’s voice, stepped forward quickly. The moment she saw the girl—barely more than a child herself, hair disheveled, face pale with fear—Rio’s instincts flared. She crossed the threshold without hesitation, crouching down low to make herself smaller, less threatening.

“Hey,” Rio murmured gently, her voice calming in the charged air. “It’s okay. You’re safe. My name’s Rio. I work with the police.”

The young woman’s eyes darted between them, panic shimmering there. The baby gave a soft cry, rooting against her chest, and she rocked him automatically, her movements clumsy but protective.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” Rio continued, still crouched. Her hand reached out slightly, palm open, but she kept her distance. “We’re not here to hurt you. We just want to talk. What’s your name?”

For a long moment, silence. The girl’s throat bobbed, her lips trembling. Finally, in a voice so quiet it was almost swallowed by the room, she whispered, “Rose.”

Rio smiled gently, nodding as if they were simply having a conversation over tea. “Rose. That’s a beautiful name. And who’s this little one?”

Rose hesitated again, then glanced down at the bundle in her arms. “Elio,” she murmured. “He’s… he’s my son.”

“Hi, Elio,” Rio whispered softly, her heart tightening at the sight of the tiny hand peeking from the blanket. “You’re doing such a good job taking care of him, Rose.”

Agatha, still standing guard by the door, lowered her weapon fully now, holstering it at her hip. Her eyes flicked to Jen, who gave a small nod—silent agreement that Rio had this under control.

Rio leaned just a little closer, her voice still calm, warm. “Rose, can you tell me—do you live here with Lavender?”

At the mention of the name, Rose’s eyes brightened briefly. Relief flickered there, fragile and desperate. “My sister?” she asked, hope trembling in her tone.

Rio’s heart sank. She glanced briefly at Agatha, who gave the faintest shake of her head. The burden of truth, as always, would fall gently but firmly on Rio’s shoulders.

“Yes,” Rio said carefully. “Your sister, Lavender.”

Rose clutched Elio closer, eyes searching Rio’s face as though waiting for reassurance. “She—she’s not here right now. She said she’d be back, but…” Her voice cracked. “I’ve been waiting. I thought maybe she just… I don’t know.”

Rio took a steadying breath, her chest tightening with the weight of what she had to say. She inched closer, lowering herself until she was sitting cross-legged on the floor, her gaze level with Rose’s.

“Rose,” she said softly, her words deliberate, tender. “I need you to listen to me very carefully. Lavender… she’s not coming back.”

Rose blinked rapidly, confusion flickering. “What do you mean? Of course she’s—she wouldn’t just—”

Rio reached out again, this time letting her hand hover just above Rose’s arm, not touching but offering comfort through presence. “I’m so sorry, Rose. Lavender… she’s gone. She died.”

The words hit like a physical blow. Rose’s entire body jolted, a strangled sound tearing from her throat. “No,” she whispered, shaking her head violently. “No, that’s not true. You’re lying—she promised me—she said she’d be back—”

The baby stirred at the sound, beginning to cry louder now. Rose rocked him desperately, her own sobs mingling with his wails.

Rio leaned closer, finally resting her hand gently on Rose’s arm. “I wish I were lying. I really do. But I’m not. I’m so sorry, Rose. Lavender’s gone.”

Agatha’s chest constricted at the sight. She wanted nothing more than to pull Rio into her arms, to shield her from the sharp edges of such moments—but she knew this was Rio’s gift. To sit with grief, to cradle it, to help it take its first fragile breaths.

Rose buried her face into Elio’s blanket, sobs wracking her thin frame. The baby cried louder, overwhelmed by the storm of emotions around him. Rio simply stayed there on the floor, murmuring soft reassurances, her presence a steady anchor amid the chaos.

Agatha finally stepped further into the room, her voice low but steady. “We’ll help you, Rose. We’ll find out what happened to your sister..”

Rose’s sobs eventually softened into hiccuping breaths, her face pressed against Elio’s downy hair. The baby had quieted too, pacified by the rhythm of his mother’s rocking and the steady presence of Rio crouched in front of them.

Rio brushed a strand of dark hair from Rose’s damp cheek, her tone low and soothing. “That’s it. Just breathe. You’re safe now, Rose. We’ll take care of you and Elio, I promise.”

Rose sniffled, nodding weakly though her wide eyes remained haunted.

It was then that Agatha stepped forward, her boots quiet against the worn carpet. She holstered her weapon completely and came down to the floor beside Rio, lowering herself with the ease of someone trying not to startle the fragile calm. For a moment she didn’t speak, just let her presence be felt. Her gaze flicked between Rose’s trembling form and Elio’s tiny fists.

When she did speak, her voice was soft but firm—the voice she used on victims’ families, tempered with compassion but steady as bedrock. “Rose,” she began, “Do you want us to contact anyone for you? The baby’s father, maybe? Or your mother?”

The reaction was immediate and jarring. Rose stiffened, her grip on Elio tightening until the baby let out a small whine. Her head jerked up, eyes wide with alarm. “No!” she blurted, panic threading through her tone. “No, don’t—don’t call them. Please.”

Agatha blinked at the intensity, her brows drawing together. She tilted her head slightly, studying the girl. “All right,” she said evenly, palms open to show she wasn’t pushing. “But why not? If they can support you—”

“I said no!” Rose snapped, her voice breaking halfway through. Her face flushed with fear and something else, something brittle and desperate. “You don’t understand. Just—just don’t.”

Elio began fussing louder again, picking up on his mother’s distress. Rose pressed her lips together, bouncing him slightly, her gaze darting to the door as though expecting someone to burst through it any second.

Rio felt the tension sharpen in the room. She placed a calming hand on Rose’s knee. “Hey, it’s okay. You don’t have to explain right now if you’re not ready. We’ll respect that. But you’re safe with us. Do you believe me?”

Rose’s lip trembled, but after a long pause she gave the faintest nod.

Agatha caught Rio’s eye then. Something’s not right. She’s hiding something—or someone. And she’s terrified.

Before Agatha could press further, the sound of footsteps in the hall announced Jen’s return. She entered the bedroom, rubbing her palms on her jeans, her sharp eyes taking in the scne—the baby, Rose’s tearstained face, the way Agatha and Rio were crouched close.

“Nothing,” Jen reported flatly. “No signs of struggle, no blood, no forced entry. Apartment’s a mess but in the everyday way, not the crime scene way. Whoever killed Lavender, it didn’t happen here.”

Agatha straightened slowly, brushing invisible dust from her knees. She glanced at Rose, whose eyes remained downcast, fixed on her son as though he were her only tether to the world.

“Then we’re done here for now,” Agatha said quietly. “Rose, we’d like you to come back to the station with us. You’re not in trouble, and you’re not a suspect. But you can help us understand more about your sister—what her life was like, who she spent time with. Anything you remember could be important.”

Rose’s head jerked up again, fear flickering. “The station? I don’t—I can’t—”

Rio leaned closer, her voice gentle. “It’s not a punishment, Rose. Think of it as a safe place where we can talk, where no one can bother you or Elio. We’ll make sure you’re both comfortable. Okay?”

Rose’s throat bobbed. She clutched Elio tighter but finally gave a small nod, her gaze darting between the three women. “If… if you promise…”

“We promise,” Agatha said firmly. “You have my word.”

Jen stepped further inside, crossing her arms. “We’ll get you both there safely. No one’s going to hurt you.” Her tone was practical, no-nonsense, but still soft enough not to frighten more.

Rose drew in a shaky breath, nodded again, and stood slowly, balancing Elio against her shoulder. Rio rose with her, staying close in case the girl faltered. Agatha moved to the door, leading the way, her eyes scanning automatically for threats as they prepared to leave.

That was a new development—Lavender’s murder was one thing, but now they had her younger sister clutching secrets too heavy for her trembling hands. Whatever Rose was hiding, Agatha and Rio could feel it humming beneath her fear like a live wire.

And they both knew that answers would only come once Rose felt safe enough to speak.

 

---

 

The precinct’s interrogation room felt heavier than usual that morning as  Iris Grimes sat across from Agatha and Rio, her hands clenched in her lap so tightly the knuckles had gone white. Lavender’s mother skin was pallid, her eyes rimmed in red, and the faint tremor in her shoulders betrayed the storm of grief she was trying—and failing—to keep contained.

Rio couldn’t help but notice, as she often did with victims’ families, the small things first: the floral pattern of Iris’s faded blouse, the way her hair had been twisted back in a style practical but hasty, as though she’d barely managed to hold herself together enough to appear here. Her name struck Rio immediately—Iris. Another flower. Lavender, Rose, Iris. She found herself mentally noting the pattern, filing it away the way she always did with small peculiarities. But then she remembered her own story—how both she and Naya bore names related to water, how those names had come to define them in ways she could never have anticipated. The thought of her sister, still lost to a darkness Rio could not reach anymore, made her chest tighten, and she had to blink hard to bring herself back to the moment.

Agatha led the questioning. Her voice carried both authority and compassion. “Mrs. Grimes, thank you for coming in this morning. We know how difficult this is, and we’re very sorry for your loss.”

Iris gave a jerky nod, her lips pressed together, as though she feared that opening her mouth would undo what composure she had left.

“Can you confirm,” Agatha continued, carefully sliding a photograph across the table, “that this is your daughter, Lavender Grimes?”

Iris’s eyes fell on the image, and for a long moment she didn’t breathe. Then, with a strangled sound that was half-sob, half-sigh, she covered her mouth with one hand and nodded, her tears spilling over. “Yes,” she whispered hoarsely. “That’s my Lavender. My baby girl.”

Rio leaned forward. “We know this is painful. Take your time. If you need to stop, just tell us. But anything you can share about Lavender’s life will help us understand what happened to her.”

Iris dabbed her eyes with a crumpled tissue, her movements stiff. “Lavender… she was different. Always was. She wanted more than the farm. More than the plants. She wanted the world. She loved people. She loved… noise.” Her mouth twisted as though the word were foreign. “She left as soon as she could, the first chance she had. She said she’d come back to visit, but… she didn’t. Not once. »

Agatha’s gaze softened, but her pen moved silently across her notepad. “You mentioned a farm. That’s where the rest of your family still lives?”

“Yes. We’ve always lived there. All of us. It’s… isolated. Just us. We grow, we study, we sell sometimes. Botany is our business. Flowers, herbs, things like that. It’s been that way for generations.”

Rio tilted her head, her curiosity sharpening. “So mostly self-sufficient. Not much outside contact?”

“That’s right.”

“What about Rose?” Agatha asked. “Why did she leave?”

Something flickered across Iris’s expression, gone so quickly Rio almost doubted she’d seen it. But she had.

“She was different too,” Iris admitted, her voice low. “Not in the same way, but… after she got pregnant, she changed. She wasn’t herself. She didn’t smile as much. She said she couldn’t stay at the farm anymore. She left four months before the baby came. Said she’d join her sister. She barely told us anything more than that.”

Rio kept her tone deliberately gentle. “And the baby’s father? Do you know who he is?”

That was when Iris faltered. Her eyes darted, just briefly, before she shook her head. “No. She wouldn’t say. But it’s his fault. All of it. But I don’t know him. I never met him.”

Agatha and Rio exchanged a look—brief, but telling. Years of partnership had trained them both to recognize the subtle signals. She’s lying.

But neither pressed it. Not yet.

“Thank you, Mrs. Grimes,” Agatha said, closing her notebook. “That’s all the questions we have for now. You’ve been very helpful, and again, we’re deeply sorry for your loss.”

Iris nodded, her tears still glistening on her cheeks. She rose slowly, her movements mechanical, and let Agatha guide her toward the door. They didn’t tell her Rose was in the building too, didn’t suggest a reunion.

It was Rose’s request, and for now, they honored it.

When Iris finally left the precinct, her perfume—a faint, earthy floral—seemed to linger in the air long after her footsteps faded.

Rio exhaled, rubbing her temples. “She’s lying,” she said softly.

“Yeah,” Agatha replied, her jaw tight. “About the father, at least.”

“And maybe more,” Rio murmured.

They were about to move on when Alice poked her head into the room. “Hey. Weird thing—found this on the chair Iris was sitting on.” She held up a plain kraft envelope, unmarked, unsealed.

Agatha frowned. “You’re sure she left it?”

“Positive. It wasn’t there before.”

Rio reached out, taking the envelope carefully in her hands. It was light, but something stiff and bulky shifted inside. She glanced at Agatha, her pulse quickening.

“Looks like she wanted us to find it,” Rio said quietly.

It was meant for them.

« Let’s give it to Billy, I’ll put him on research, » Agatha said before leaving the room.

 

---

 

After lunch, the precinct had settled into its usual rhythm again—the clatter of keyboards in the open space, phones ringing, voices carrying across the room. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, a artificial hum that always made Rio feel just a little claustrophobic. But today, her mind was elsewhere entirely.

Alice plopped down in her chair first, cradling a mug of coffee.

“Alright, ladies,” she began, sweeping a hand dramatically over her laptop screen, “your resident IT specialist-slash-researcher-slash-newly-botany enthusiast has done her homework. And when I say homework, I mean I spent my lunch break falling into a rabbit hole of flower porn.”

Rio raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching despite the grimness of the case. “Flower porn?”

“Yeah, don’t Google it,” Alice deadpanned, before breaking into a grin. “Anyway—Grimes family business. I pulled tax records, old research articles, even some agricultural grant stuff. Their farm is technically a commercial business, but it’s not your usual lavender-scented gift shop, no pun intended. Oliver Grimes, Iris’ father and Lavender and Rose’s grandfather, is the mastermind. Guy’s practically an evil botanist out of a sci-fi movie. He specializes in—get this—engineering genetically ‘perfect’ flowers. His whole schtick is stripping away centuries of crossbreeding until he gets down to the purest, most original genetic coding of a species. Like hitting the reset button on nature.”

Jen leaned back in her chair, skeptical. “That… sounds both genius and terrifying.”

“Bingo,” Alice said, snapping her fingers. “He claims he’s restoring natural purity, but critics call it genetic vandalism. Either way, it’s complicated science, and it’s not your average backyard gardening. We’re talking labs, equipment, high-level stuff.”

Agatha crossed her arms, her expression darkening. “And Lavender grew up in that environment. So did Rose.”

Before anyone could reply, the door to the open space burst open and Billy came flying in, nearly tripping over Señor Scratchy who had made himself comfortable by Rio’s chair. The young intern was flushed with excitement, waving the kraft envelope high.

“Guys, you’re not gonna believe this,” Billy said, practically out of breath. “I went through the envelope Iris left behind. It’s not just some random clue. Look.”

He reached inside and carefully pulled out a slim, metallic object wrapped in tissue paper. He laid it on the table, and everyone leaned in.

It looked like a syringe, but the needle was shorter, wider, not quite what one would expect in a medical context. The steel gleamed faintly under the fluorescent light.

“I did some digging,” Billy continued, his words tumbling out quickly, “and this thing? It’s a very specific type of syringe used in botany. You don’t inject people with it—you use it to extract samples from plants, or sometimes to graft cuttings. Think of it like a very precise scalpel-meets-syringe hybrid.”

Alice, eyes sparkling, nearly clapped her hands. “Yes! I was just reading about that. These are called micrografting syringes. Totally niche. They’re used to keep a cutting sterile while transferring it to a new host plant. Iris didn’t just drop this accidentally—she wanted us to know something.”

Jen frowned, studying the instrument. “So the grieving mother leaves us a syringe used in botanical experiments. That’s not exactly a sentimental keepsake.”

“Exactly,” Alice said, grinning wryly. “It’s not like she left us a pressed flower or a lock of hair. She left us lab gear. That’s the equivalent of me leaving behind a USB drive labeled Not A Virus.”

Rio couldn’t help a soft chuckle at Alice’s delivery. The humor was a thin veil, but it helped ease the tension in the room.

Agatha, however, was less amused. She was pacing now, her mind already moving several steps ahead. “So the question is: is she trying to help us? Or is she trying to throw us off? Because Iris was cagey in the interview. She hid things. She lied about knowing the father of Rose’s baby. But then she leaves us… this.”

Rio tapped her chin thoughtfully, her gaze fixed on the syringe. “It could be a warning. Maybe she’s trying to tell us her father is dangerous. Or maybe this is about something Lavender found out—something that connects her death to Oliver’s work.”

“Or,” Alice added cheerfully, “it could just mean the woman cleans out her purse in very suspicious ways. But hey, let’s assume it’s relevant.”

Billy looked between them all, frowning. “So… what now? What do we do with it?”

The room fell quiet for a beat, each of them considering the possibilities.

Finally, Agatha stopped pacing and planted her hands on the table. Her voice full of a a no-nonsense weight that meant she’d made up her mind. “Everything points to the farm. Lavender’s roots are there. Rose’s story doesn’t add up. Iris is hiding things. And now we’ve got a literal tool from Oliver’s lab sitting in front of us. Whatever answers there are, they’re not here in Westview—they’re at that farm.”

Jen exhaled, rubbing the back of her neck. “So we pay the Grimes family a visit.”

Alice gave a mock salute, pushing her chair back. “Field trip! Let me just pack my botany jokes. Did you guys know plants can do math? No? Don’t worry, I’ll save that one for Oliver Grimes.”

“Darling, please,” Jen muttered, but a faint smile tugged at her lips despite herself.

Rio leaned closer to Agatha, her voice low enough only she could hear. “If Iris is trying to warn us, then the farm might not just hold answers. It might hold danger too.”

Agatha’s jaw tightened, but her eyes flicked briefly toward Rio’s, reassuring. “That’s why we’ll go in ready.”

The syringe gleamed silently between them all, like a sign that whatever secrets the Grimes family had buried among their perfect flowers, the team was about to dig them up.

 

 

Notes:

I would love love to hear your thoughts 🤍

Chapter 6

Notes:

It's getting creepy...

 

The drive out to the Grimes farm stretched on longer than expected, the roads narrowing until they were little more than lanes carved between hedgerows and rolling fields. Agatha, Rio, Jen and Billy had all taken Agatha’s car, and Alice had stayed behind to look more into the Grimes family, promising to take good care of Scratchy.

By the time Agatha slowed the car and turned onto the gravel path leading to the farm, the world around them had grown quiet—eerily so. No other houses in sight, just acres of land dotted with the occasional shed, barns, and fields that swayed under the afternoon sun.

Jen leaned forward from the back seat, peering through the windshield. “Well. If isolation was their goal, they succeeded.”

Rio said nothing, her eyes fixed on the wrought-iron gates that loomed ahead. They were tall and ornate, vines of rust curling along the bars. A weather-beaten intercom sat crookedly on one post, and Agatha rolled down her window to press the button.

The four of them waited. The only sound was the crunch of the gravel under the tires as the car idled. No buzz of response, no crackle of static.

Agatha pressed it again. Still nothing.

Jen frowned. “No one?”

Rio scanned the gates. The heavy gates were already ajar, just enough for a vehicle to slip through. “They didn’t shut it,” she murmured. “That’s odd.”

Agatha’s jaw tightened. “Could be an oversight. Or it could mean something’s wrong.” She put the car into gear and nudged them forward. “We’re not turning back.”

The gravel road carried them deeper into the property until the first structure appeared ahead: a massive greenhouse that shimmered like a jewel in the sunlight. Its glass panes stretched high and long, catching reflections of the sky and surrounding fields. Even from the outside, they could see flashes of color—flowers blooming in every shade imaginable, a living kaleidoscope trapped under glass.

The four of them stepped out of the car. The air here was thick with the sweet, almost dizzying perfume of blossoms. Agatha moved first, her shoulders squared, scanning the area like she expected trouble to leap out from behind the flowerbeds. Jen followed, her eyes darting between the greenhouse and the fields beyond, and Billy trailed behind, clutching his bag like a shield.

Rio lingered a second longer, taking in the surreal beauty of it all. She had grown up in confinement too, though hers had been walls and books and rules, not flowers. But still, something about this carefully curated world, designed to look natural but in truth meticulously controlled, made her uneasy.

They approached the greenhouse doors, and Agatha pushed one open. Immediately, warmth and humidity wrapped around them. The scent intensified—orchids, roses, lilies, jasmine. Every breath felt heavy with it. The light through the glass was fractured, filtered by petals and leaves, painting them in shifting shades of green and gold.

Rio couldn’t help but marvel despite herself. Row after row of rare, exotic flowers stretched before them, many of which she recognized from her reading on toxic plants, others she couldn’t name at all. Orchids with petals like ink stains, lilies that glowed faintly in the filtered light, roses so perfect they almost seemed unreal. It was breathtaking—and unsettling.

They wandered slowly, the silence broken only by the squeak of their shoes on the damp floor and the faint buzz of insects.

Then they turned down one aisle—orchids, delicate and strange—and froze.

Two little girls stood among the flowers.

They couldn’t have been older than six or seven, dressed in matching floral dresses that made them look like they’d stepped straight out of a painting. They were mirror images of one another, with the same light hair falling in loose curls, the same wide eyes fixed curiously on the intruders.

Rio’s heart clenched so hard she had to bite the inside of her cheek to steady herself. Twins. Every time she saw twins, it dragged her straight back to her own childhood, to the missing half of her life. Naya. Always Naya.

Beside her, Agatha’s hand brushed against her arm, the touch fleeting but deliberate. Discreet comfort. Just enough for Rio to know she was seen, understood.

The little girls blinked at them, then spoke in near unison, their voices lilting, sing-song.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Agatha crouched slightly, softening her voice. “Hello. We’re—”

But the children didn’t let her finish. One of them—the one in the yellow dress—piped up, “Strangers aren’t allowed. You’ll get in trouble.”

The other giggled, the sound bright and strange in the heavy air. “Big trouble. Me and Lily are allowed because we’re flowers too.”

The yellow twin nodded, her smile bright. “Yes. Poppy and me are always allowed. Because we’re pretty flowers.”

Rio narrowed her eyes. More flower names.

Before the team could ask anything else, the twins turned on their heels and darted down the aisle, laughter trailing behind them like ribbons. Within seconds, they vanished into the maze of blossoms, leaving nothing but the sway of orchids in their wake.

Jen exhaled slowly. “Well. That was… creepy.”

Rio’s pulse was still racing, her chest tight. She forced her voice steady. “Children, playing in a greenhouse. Maybe it’s innocent.”

“Or maybe it’s exactly what they said,” Agatha murmured, her gaze still fixed on where the twins had disappeared. “We’re somewhere we’re not supposed to be.”

The three women and the boy stood there, surrounded by rare and impossible flowers, the air almost too sweet to breathe, the twins’ laughter still echoing faintly through the greenhouse. And though the sun outside was still bright, Rio couldn’t shake the feeling they’d just stepped into something darker than any of them had anticipated.

Billy’s hand hovered just above the curve of an orchid unlike any he had ever seen. Its petals were a luminous shade of violet, their edges tipped with what looked like silver, almost metallic in the light. His eyes shone with wonder. “Whoa,” he whispered. “This is—”

“Don’t touch that.”

The voice came like a whipcrack, low but laced with sharp authority. Billy jerked his hand back as if burned, spinning around, while the rest of the team did the same.

An older woman stood at the end of the aisle, framed by a cascade of towering orchids. She wore a soil-stained apron over a faded dress, her arms thick and strong from years of manual labor. Lines marked her face deeply, but her eyes were alive, sharp, and far from welcoming. She was not merely a gardener, Rio thought instantly—there was something about the way she stood, legs braced, chin tilted, that radiated threat.

“You’re not allowed in here,” the woman said, her voice a hiss that slithered between the rows of flowers. “These greenhouses aren’t for visitors. You shouldn’t be wandering.”

Billy swallowed hard and stepped back toward the others, his youthful curiosity evaporating into a nervous laugh. “Sorry, I wasn’t—uh—I didn’t mean—”

“Enough,” the woman cut in, dismissing him with a flick of her hand. Her gaze snapped to Agatha, narrowing as she took in the group. “You need to leave. Now.”

Agatha, unruffled, reached inside her coat and drew out her badge in a smooth, practiced motion. She flipped it open, her voice calm but firm. “Detective Harkness, Westview Police. We’re looking for Oliver Grimes. Is he here?”

The woman’s expression shifted, though only slightly. A shadow of recognition flickered across her face. “That’s my father. He’s working,” she said after a beat, her tone softer, though it carried no warmth.

Rio’s eyebrows rose. Father. That detail slid into place with a faint click. She glanced briefly at Agatha, who was already deducing the same thing—this woman had to be Iris’s sister. That would make her Lavender and Rose’s aunt.

To test the pattern, Rio tilted her head slightly, her voice measured but curious. “And you are…?”

The woman drew herself up straighter, squaring her shoulders with a pride that filled the greenhouse like a toxic bloom. “Dahlia. Dahlia Grimes.”

The name hung in the air between them. Dahlia. Another flower.

Rio felt a cold knot tighten in her chest, not fear but recognition of a design, a deliberate pattern threaded through this family. Lavender, Rose, Iris, Poppy, Lily, now Dahlia. It wasn’t whimsy, wasn’t chance—it was legacy, maybe even ideology. She nodded slowly, forcing her face neutral, though her mind whirred. “Of course,” she said softly.

Dahlia’s gaze flicked over them again, resting briefly on Rio, then Agatha, then Jen, before finally settling on Billy, who seemed to shrink under her scrutiny. Her lips thinned. “Children should know better than to meddle with things they don’t understand,” she muttered, more to herself than them. Then louder, pointedly, “You shouldn’t have come.”

Agatha’s jaw set. “We’re here because a member of your family is dead, Ms. Grimes. Lavender. We need to speak to your father. It’s urgent.”

For the first time, Dahlia’s composure cracked. A flicker of grief—or perhaps anger—passed through her features. Her hands tightened around the folds of her apron. She inhaled sharply, then turned her head as if to gather herself before facing them again.

“You’ll find no answers here,” she said flatly. “And you won’t find my father. He doesn’t meet with outsiders. Not anymore.”

Jen’s eyes narrowed. “Not even when the police are investigating his own granddaughter’s death?”

Dahlia’s mouth twisted. “Especially not then.”

Her words struck the air with finality. But there was something else underneath. Dahlia wasn’t just trying to get rid of them; she was protecting something. Whether it was her father, the family business, or something darker still, Rio couldn’t yet tell.

Agatha stepped closer, the badge still in hand, her voice edged with steel. “We’re not leaving until we speak to him.”

The orchids swayed faintly as though stirred by an unseen wind, their colors too vivid, their shapes too sharp, as though even the flowers themselves held their breath. Dahlia didn’t back down, but her jaw tightened further.

For the first time since entering the farm, Rio had the distinct feeling that they weren’t intruding on a greenhouse at all. They had walked straight into the lion’s den, and Dahlia Grimes was the lioness standing guard.

For a moment, it seemed she might hold her ground and refuse them again. But Agatha didn’t waver, her badge a gleam of authority in the greenhouse’s filtered light. Jen’s stance was equally unyielding, and Rio’s quiet stare carried its own gravity. Dahlia’s nostrils flared. Finally, with a sharp exhale, she turned on her heel.

“Fine,” she muttered. “Follow me. But don’t touch anything.”

The command cracked like a whip behind her. Billy stuck close to Agatha, clearly unnerved, while Rio walked at her wife’s other side, her expression unreadable but her body tense. They moved through rows of flowers that grew stranger with every step—petals in colors that shimmered unnaturally, stems that twisted into patterns like deliberate art, leaves veined with metallic hues. It felt less like a greenhouse and more like a gallery of botanical experiments.

At the far end, Dahlia pushed open a heavy glass door, revealing a long hallway that led to another building. This one was made of steel and glass, more clinical than rustic, humming faintly with electricity. A keypad-controlled door slid open after she punched in a code, and they stepped into a laboratory that smelled faintly of antiseptic and something sharper—like sap and chemicals mingling.

And there he was.

Oliver Grimes.

He was bent over a workstation beneath a harsh white lamp, hands steady as he adjusted the delicate roots of a hybrid flower in a tray of nutrient solution. His back was broad, posture erect despite his age. He wore a spotless lab coat that gleamed against the stark surfaces of the lab. His hair was thick, though streaked entirely silver, and tied back neatly at the nape of his neck. When he finally turned his head slightly, his profile was sharp, aristocratic, every line of his face carved with control. He radiated authority the way some men radiated warmth—but here it was the opposite. His presence chilled the air.

“Father,” Dahlia said softly. “The police are here. They—”

“Dismissed,” Oliver cut in, his voice smooth, commanding, and utterly indifferent. He did not turn toward her. His eyes remained fixed on the flower trembling beneath his fingers.

Dahlia’s jaw clenched. But she obeyed, bowing her head slightly before slipping back through the door. It sealed shut behind her, leaving the detectives alone with the patriarch of the Grimes family.

Agatha was the first to break the silence. Her tone was sharp but edged with a touch of incredulity. “You’re able to work here, calmly, after what happened to your granddaughter?”

Oliver did not look up. His hands moved with surgical precision, trimming a vein-thin root, setting it aside as though the act was sacred. “Death,” he said at last, “is part of the process. There is never a day in this laboratory where I am not confronted with the mortality of living things. Life demands perfection. Everything else withers.”

The words might have been meant for his plants, but the sterile detachment in his tone seeped under their skin. Billy shivered audibly, his eyes darting between the man and the strange flowers that glowed under the lamp. Agatha’s eyes narrowed, while Rio instinctively shifted closer to her wife, her shoulder brushing against Agatha’s arm.

 “Except this wasn’t a plant who died. This was your granddaughter.”

That finally made him pause. His gloved hands stilled over the flower. For a long moment, the only sound in the lab was the faint buzz of electricity. Then Oliver exhaled, not weary nor broken, but resigned, like a teacher disappointed by a pupil’s failure.

“Lavender,” he said, tasting the name with faint disdain. “She was a bad seed. From the beginning. She broke her mother’s heart. She rejected what was offered to her here—the safety, the purity, the devotion of her family. She turned her back and sought her own path. Out there.” He gestured vaguely, a flick of his wrist that encompassed the entire outside world.

Jen’s jaw tightened. “She was a young woman. She had the right to live her life.”

Oliver’s lips curled in the faintest of smirks. “And where did it bring her? To an early grave. The world beyond these walls is wild, ungoverned, brutal. She knew it. She chose it. That choice was hers. So the consequence was hers as well.”

The words fell like stones in the room. Cold. Final.

Billy’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. “You talk about her like she’s some… experiment that failed,” he blurted out, anger rising in his young voice.

Oliver finally looked up. His eyes, pale gray and cold as steel, pinned Billy with a weight that made the boy swallow hard and retreat a step closer to Agatha. “Every living thing is an experiment,” Oliver said softly. “Some thrive. Some don’t. Lavender made her choice.”

Agatha’s jaw flexed, but she held his gaze evenly. “And you don’t mourn her?”

“Mourning,” Oliver replied, turning back to his flowers, “is a distraction from progress. A waste of energy.”

The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. The hum of machines and the faint drip of water from some unseen irrigation system only made the stillness worse. Rio felt her stomach twist  from the sheer alienness of the man before them. A grandfather who spoke of his granddaughter’s death with the same clinical detachment as pruning a root.

Agatha reached into the inner pocket of her coat with slow, deliberate movements. When her hand emerged, it was holding the small syringe encased in a protective evidence sleeve. She turned it between her fingers, letting the sterile light of the lab lamps glint off the metal.

“I found this in your greenhouse,” she said coolly, her expression unreadable. “Care to tell me what it is?”

The lie slid smoothly off her tongue—she would not throw Iris under the bus yet, not when so much about the family dynamic remained obscured. For now, better to test the patriarch directly.

Oliver’s eyes, pale as frost, darted immediately to the syringe. His composure didn’t crack, but something sharpened in his gaze, the faintest narrowing of his lids. He set aside the flower he had been handling and straightened to his full height.

“Where,” he demanded softly, “did you say you found that?”

“In the greenhouse,” Agatha repeated without hesitation, her tone flat, deliberately unbothered. “Near the orchids.”

Oliver’s lips pressed into a line. Then, with slow precision, he removed his gloves, folding them neatly on the worktable, and stepped closer. He did not reach for the syringe, but the weight of his gaze made it feel as though he had already claimed it.

“That,” he said, his voice smoothing into something lofty, “is not something you are equipped to understand, Detective.”

“Try me,” Agatha replied, steady.

Oliver’s chest expanded with a breath, as though savoring the opportunity to lecture. He clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace before them, his steps measured, deliberate.

“It is a vessel,” he explained, his words rolling out with practiced grandeur, “for precision. A calibrated instrument designed to deliver balance, harmony, perfection at the molecular level. What you hold in your hand is not a crude needle, not some common syringe—it is the brushstroke of God Himself, translated into science.”

Billy frowned. “It looks like something you’d use in a hospital.”

Oliver turned his head toward him with a faint, patronizing smile. “Of course it does. All great works of innovation begin with tools the uninitiated believe they recognize. Medicine is a crude cousin to what I do here. Hospitals treat symptoms. Doctors fight entropy for a few fleeting years. But I?” He spread his hands as if presenting the flowers around him. “I create permanence. Purity. I strip away weakness, disease, imperfection. I bring forth forms of life that endure.”

Jen’s voice cut in, sharp. “You’re talking about plants, aren’t you?”

He tilted his head, the faintest glimmer of amusement crossing his otherwise stony features. “Plants. Humans. All living things are subject to the same rules. They grow, they adapt, they either flourish or perish. My work ensures flourishing.”

Rio’s voice came steady but low, almost dangerous. “You inject these into your plants. Modify them. Control them.”

Oliver’s eyes flicked to her, as though noting a spark of comprehension he respected, if only slightly. “Precisely. I elevate them. The syringe you hold, Detective, is a chalice of transformation. With it, the flawed is reforged into the flawless.”

Agatha turned the syringe slowly in her hand, her expression unreadable. “And what happens to the flawed that cannot be ‘reforged’?” she asked evenly.

For the first time, Oliver smiled fully. It was not a warm smile though. It was thin, sharp, cruel in its serenity.

“They wither,” he said simply. “As they were meant to.”

The weight of his words fell heavy. Billy looked visibly sick. Jen’s hands curled into fists at her sides. Rio glanced at Agatha, her throat tight with the knowledge that he was not just talking about plants—and Oliver knew it, too.

The syringe gleamed under the harsh lab lights, suddenly feeling less like evidence and more like a key to a philosophy as twisted as the roots of his creations.

Suddenly, Agatha’s phone buzzed sharply in her pocket. The shrill sound cut through the sterile quiet of the lab, making Billy flinch. Agatha slid the syringe back into the evidence sleeve and tucked it away before lifting her phone to her ear.

“Harkness,” she answered crisply, her eyes never leaving Oliver’s.

She listened for only a few seconds before her gaze softened ever so slightly. “I’ll step outside.” Without waiting for Oliver’s approval, she pivoted on her heel and walked out into the corridor.

The heavy lab door swung shut behind her, muffling the eerie silence that had filled the room. On the other end of the line, Alice’s voice carried with the quick cadence she always used when excited—or disturbed.

“Agatha, you’re going to want to hear this. I’ve been digging into Lavender and Rose Grimes—well, trying to. And guess what? No school records. Nothing. Not a single enrollment, not a single transfer, not even pre-school or kindergarten. And it’s not just them. Every kid connected to the Grimes farm is the same.”

Agatha frowned, pacing a short strip of hallway as Alice continued.

“They’ve all been homeschooled on the property. Exclusively. And before you ask—no teachers on record either. No licenses filed, no oversight from the district. It’s like they built a little self-contained kingdom over there, educating their children off the books. Completely cut off from the outside world.”

Agatha’s jaw tightened. “So these kids never interacted with anyone outside the family?”

“Exactly,” Alice confirmed. “No friends outside the farm. No extracurriculars. Nada. It’s a closed system.” A beat of silence. “It’s starting to feel more like indoctrination than education, Agatha.”

Agatha pinched the bridge of her nose, the pieces clicking together in ways she didn’t like. “Thanks, Alice. Keep digging, see if you can trace any connections. I’ll check in soon.”

“Be careful,” Alice said before hanging up.

Agatha slid the phone back into her coat and lingered for a moment, inhaling the faint scent of fertilizer that clung to the corridor. The truth was becoming clearer: Oliver Grimes wasn’t just cultivating flowers. He was cultivating his family—shaping them, pruning them, just like his plants. And if they were going to crack this case open, pressing him for answers in his lab would get them nowhere.

She squared her shoulders, steeling herself, and returned to the lab.

Inside, Oliver had gone back to his work, Dahlia had come back and was now hovering close to his side with a mixture of loyalty and fear in her posture. Rio and Jen stood stiffly near the table, while Billy kept sneaking uneasy glances at the rows of jars and instruments lining the walls.

Agatha’s entrance drew all their eyes. She didn’t waste time. “We’re done here,” she announced firmly.

Oliver raised his head, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth, as though he had expected nothing less. “So quick to leave, Detective? I had thought you were here to learn.”

“Not from you,” Agatha shot back, her voice cold steel. She flicked her gaze toward her team. “Let’s move.”

Jen gave a curt nod, falling into step without hesitation. Billy trailed after, relief written plainly on his face, though he tried to hide it with a shaky swallow. Rio lingered half a second longer, her eyes locked on Oliver’s. Something in his detached calm clawed at her—an echo of someone she had once known, someone who had shaped her and her sister with the same cruelty masked as control. She clenched her fists, then forced herself to turn away when Agatha’s hand brushed lightly against her elbow.

They left the lab together, the door closing with a heavy finality behind them. The air outside was cooler, less suffocating, though still tinged with the sweet, almost cloying perfume of countless flowers. The greenhouse loomed just ahead, its glass walls glittering in the late afternoon sun.

Billy exhaled in a rush once they were back among the garden paths. “God, he’s terrifying. It’s like he doesn’t even think people are… people.”

“That’s because he doesn’t,” Agatha said grimly. “To Oliver Grimes, everything is a specimen. A subject. A vessel for perfection—or a weed to be cut.”

Jen shook her head, her expression tight with frustration. “And we’re not going to get anything useful out of him. He’s too controlled. Too rehearsed.”

“Exactly,” Agatha agreed. She scanned the sprawling gardens, the carefully arranged beds of color and symmetry. “If we want answers, they’re not in his lab. They’re out here. In the family. In the way this place runs.”

Rio’s lips pressed together, her gaze distant. “And in the ones who aren’t here anymore,” she murmured.

No one missed the weight in her tone.

The four of them walked deeper into the garden, each step carrying them away from Oliver’s suffocating presence and closer to whatever truths still lingered among the roses, orchids, and lilies of the Grimes farm that shouldn’t bloom at this time of year.

As soon as they were far enough, Agatha gathered her team beneath the shadow of a tall trellis wound thick with climbing jasmine.

“Alice called me while I was outside,” she said, her voice low. “She dug into Lavender and Rose. Neither of them ever went to school. No records, no enrollment. Nothing. And it’s not just them—every kid raised here was homeschooled. Exclusively.”

Jen frowned, arms crossed tight over her chest. “That explains a lot.”

Billy’s eyebrows shot up. “So they’ve literally never had friends outside these walls?”

“Exactly,” Agatha replied. “No teachers. No outside contact. No oversight. These kids’ entire world has been this place, and only this place.”

As if on cue, a burst of laughter carried across the garden. All four of them turned in unison to see another child—this one younger than Lily and Poppy—darting across the path in a pale pink dress that floated around her knees despite the cold weather. Her braids bounced as she ran, barefoot, toward a cluster of roses. Shadowing her from a distance was a tall, severe-looking woman in a plain dress, her eyes never straying from the girl. There was no warmth in her watchful stare. Supervision, not affection.

The girl squealed and spun in a circle, arms outstretched as though she were imitating the flowers swaying around her. The woman didn’t smile, didn’t soften. She merely followed, her presence like a leash without a rope.

Something in Rio snapped into clarity at that sight. She turned on her heel, her dark eyes locking onto Agatha first, then darting to Jen and Billy. Her voice came fast, urgent, like puzzle pieces matching together.

“Don’t you see?” she demanded, almost breathless. “It’s all here. All of it.”

Jen blinked at her. “What are you talking about?”

Rio gestured sharply toward the little girl, then toward the endless rows of flowers and the imposing greenhouse beyond. Her hands trembled slightly as she spoke, the words spilling over one another.

“They’ve never left these grounds. Not one of them. Not the children, not the women. Every name we’ve heard—Lily, Poppy, Dahlia—they’re all flowers. All of them.” She turned to Agatha, her tone rising. “That’s not coincidence. That’s control. Identity stripped down to a single theme, dictated by him.”

Billy’s mouth fell open, but Rio wasn’t finished. She pressed forward, her voice sharpening with each point.

“And where are the men? Hm? Have you seen any? Aside from Oliver?”

The question hung in the air like a blade. Jen glanced around instinctively, as if another figure might suddenly materialize among the hedges, but there was no one. The gardens stretched wide and orderly, but conspicuously empty of male presence.

“It’s only him,” Rio continued, her voice low and fervent. “Only Oliver. He’s the head, the king—no, more than that. He’s the center of everything here. They orbit him like planets around a sun. He tells them what to do, what to grow, what to name their children, how to live. They obey. Completely.”

She stepped closer to Agatha now, her chest heaving with the force of her realization. Her voice dropped, intimate and urgent, but it carried the weight of a gavel striking home.

“This farm isn’t just a family, Agatha.” Her hand tightened unconsciously around her own wrist, her knuckles white. “It’s a cult.”

The word hung in the air, stark and final.

Agatha’s gaze softened for a moment, her instincts torn between detective and wife. She wanted—achingly—to reach for Rio, to steady her, to whisper that she wasn’t alone in recognizing the pattern. But with Jen and Billy standing just steps away, all she could manage was a brief, steadying look, a silent current of understanding between them.

Billy swallowed hard. “A… a cult?” His voice cracked a little, caught between disbelief and dawning horror.

Jen exhaled slowly, her jaw tight. “Honestly? It fits. The isolation. The control. The indoctrination. God, no wonder Lavender tried to leave.”

Rio’s expression hardened, though her eyes glistened faintly in the shifting light. “And look what happened to her. She strayed from his control, and she’s dead.”

Silence pressed down on them, broken only by the distant laughter of the girl in pink, still spinning among the roses. The woman watching her shifted her stance, as if she, too, sensed the detectives’ gaze.

Agatha’s voice finally broke the silence, clipped and resolute. “Then we treat it as such. This isn’t just about a family tragedy anymore. This is about dismantling Oliver Grimes’ entire kingdom.”

Rio nodded once, sharply. But Agatha caught the tremor in her wife’s jaw, the way her past bled through the edges of her composure. She longed to take her hand right there, but instead she squared her shoulders and led the way deeper into the garden, each of them carrying the weight of the word Rio had unleashed into the open air.

A cult.

Chapter 7

Notes:

It's messed up.

 

The precinct felt heavier than usual when they returned, as though the weight of the Grimes farm had followed them back through the glass doors and into the fluorescent-lit corridors. Even Señor Scratchy, padding along behind Rio, seemed subdued, tail swishing low instead of perked, despite the excitement of seeing his owners again. Agatha led the way to Alice’s office, where the entire team and Director Calderu were already waiting.

Alice had her monitors glowing, screens cluttered with files, genealogical charts, and county records. The sharp click of her keyboard filled the silence as the others took their seats.

“Alright,” Alice said, pushing her glasses up her nose. “I pulled everything I could find on the Grimes family. Birth records, death certificates, land deeds—you name it. And…” She hesitated, eyes flicking toward Lilia before continuing. “It’s… bizarre.”

“Define bizarre,” Jen said, leaning back in her chair, arms folded.

Alice tapped a few keys, and the family tree spread across the central screen. Names bloomed across the branches like blossoms on a vine. How fitting.

“Let’s start with the sisters. Iris Grimes, you already know—she’s Lavender and Rose’s mother. Dahlia Grimes, her sister, has three daughters: Lily, Poppy—the twins you met—and Daisy. Then there’s Marigold, who has a daughter named Jasmine. And finally, Petunia, the last sister, who has two daughters, Aster and Violet.”

Billy whistled low under his breath. “That’s… a garden center, not a family tree.”

Even Agatha had to admit the sheer flood of flower names was dizzying. She rubbed her temple with two fingers, eyes narrowing at the screen.

“So each sister has only daughters,” Lilia observed, her tone flat but edged with concern.

Alice nodded. “Exactly. No sons. No male children on record at all.”

Rio leaned forward in her chair, hands gripping the table. “And the pattern isn’t broken even once? Not a single male birth in the entire family line?”

Alice shook her head. “Not one. And here’s where it gets stranger.” She scrolled further down the page, bringing up the scanned birth certificates. “Every single one of those kids—the fathers are listed as unknown. Without exception. Whether it’s Lavender, Rose, Lily, Poppy, Daisy, Jasmine, Aster, or Violet—every single birth certificate has only the mother’s name filled out. The father’s box is blank.”

A silence swept the room. Jen’s jaw went slack for a moment before she managed to find words. “Wait—you mean none of them are legally acknowledged to have a father? Not even a placeholder name?”

“Not even that,” Alice confirmed. “And it goes further back. When I checked the sisters’ generation—the mothers themselves, Iris, Dahlia, Marigold, and Petunia—same thing. Their birth certificates only list Oliver Grimes as their father. Their mothers… vanished from the records entirely. No names.”

Billy shifted uneasily in his chair, running a hand through his hair. “So… what, are you saying Oliver’s the only man in the whole family? Like some kind of—”

“Patriarch,” Rio finished for him, her voice quiet but charged. “The sole male figure at the center of it all. And every woman, every child, revolves around him.”

Agatha caught the shiver that ran through her wife and fought the urge to reach across the table to steady her hand. Instead, she kept her voice cool, professional. “This goes beyond eccentric family traditions. We’re looking at a controlled environment, breeding patterns, naming conventions. This isn’t accidental. This is deliberate.”

Jen exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “That explains why none of the kids are allowed to leave. Why they’re homeschooled. He’s raising them in isolation, cutting them off from the world, erasing outside influences.”

“And creating generational dependency,” Rio added, her words clipped, her mind racing. “If the only male presence they’ve ever known is Oliver, then he becomes the authority. The father, the provider, the god-figure. That’s how cults work—they collapse identity into obedience. He thinks he’s the natural order of all things, but it’s the contrary. It is all so unnatural.”

Alice’s eyes softened, though her voice remained steady as she scrolled through the documents. “It gets worse. Some of these daughters don’t even have hospital records attached to their births. No doctor signatures, no county hospital files. Just home births, certified by Oliver himself.”

Billy stared at the screen, his face pale. “So basically, this guy’s been running a closed system. He decides who gets born, where, how, what they’re called, how they live. He owns them.”

Lilia finally spoke, her voice calm but carrying the weight of authority. “And he’s hidden it well. Outwardly, it looks like a large, eccentric family running a flower farm. But under the surface…” She gestured toward the screen. “We’re staring at something else entirely.”

Rio’s breath hitched, and for a moment her mask cracked. Her gaze locked on the family tree blooming across the monitor, flower name after flower name filling the screen like an oppressive pattern. Her voice, when she spoke again, was low but burning with certainty.

“I told you this isn’t just a family. This is a controlled dynasty. And Oliver Grimes isn’t just the patriarch—he’s the cult leader.”

The room fell silent again. Even the hum of Alice’s computer fans seemed muffled. Lilia finally leaned forward, voice sharp as a blade.

“Then we treat this case as what it is: a cult investigation. Which means we stop looking at Lavender’s death as an isolated tragedy—and start looking at it as the first crack in Oliver Grimes’ empire.”

Agatha rubbed at her forehead, pacing in the narrow space of Alice’s office like a caged animal. The information sat wrong in her gut, buzzing like a wasp she couldn’t swat away.

“No,” she said sharply, breaking the silence. “That’s not possible. They can’t all be fatherless. Cult or not, biology doesn’t bend to Oliver Grimes’ will. There must be fathers somewhere. Hidden, silenced, missing—hell, maybe he even bought donor material on the black market. But to have no trace at all despite so many cases? That doesn’t happen.”

Her voice was loud, biting, frustration laced through every word. Billy shifted uncomfortably, Jen’s eyes darkened, and Alice kept staring at the screen as though the records might rewrite themselves if she looked long enough.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence. The weight of Agatha’s words hung in the air, heavy and unmoving. And in that silence, Rio—who had been standing just behind her wife, arms crossed—suddenly went pale.

Her breath caught, and she sank into the nearest chair as though her legs had given way. The color drained from her face, leaving her skin ghostly, her dark eyes fixed on something the rest of them couldn’t see.

“What if…” Her voice was a whisper, barely audible, but it cut through the stillness like a knife. “What if there is no father at all?”

Everyone turned to her.

Rio’s hand trembled slightly as she placed it flat on Alice’s desk, as though steadying herself against the thought clawing at her. She swallowed hard, then clarified in the same hushed, horrified tone:

“Or rather… what if there was only one father?”

Billy’s brows knit. “Wait—what are you saying?”

Rio didn’t answer him. Instead, her gaze slid toward the corner of the desk, where Alice had laid out a few printouts earlier—among them, a high-resolution photograph of the strange botanical syringe Iris had left behind.

Slowly, deliberately, Rio leaned forward. Her hand hovered for a second, then she reached across the desk and tapped the picture once with her finger. A simple gesture, but it was enough to send a shiver of unease around the room.

She didn’t explain further. She didn’t need to. The implication hung there, chilling and outlandish: whatever was in those syringes, whatever “perfect flowers” Oliver was cultivating in his lab—it might not have been meant for plants alone.

Agatha’s jaw tightened. She saw it in her wife’s eyes—the terror, the revulsion, the dawning suspicion that they were standing on the edge of something much darker than they’d imagined.

For a moment, no one spoke. Even Alice, who always had something to fill the silence, kept her mouth shut.

Then Rio pulled back from the desk, gathering herself, her voice sharpening with urgency. “We need to talk to Rose. Right now. She’s the only one who might tell us what is really happening inside that house.”

Lilia’s lips pressed into a hard line, but she gave a firm nod. “Do it. Whatever this is, Rose may be the key.”

Agatha exhaled slowly, forcing down the tight knot in her chest. She reached for her coat, her voice clipped but steady. “Then let’s move. If Oliver’s been keeping them all under his thumb for this long, Rose won’t have much time before he shuts her down too.”

The team filed out together, the picture of the syringe still lying on Alice’s desk—a silent, damning clue staring up at the empty office, waiting for the truth to catch up.

 

---

 

The automatic doors of the precinct slid open with a muted hiss, and Rose stepped inside, clutching her son close against her chest. The baby—Elio—squirmed lightly in her arms, making a small, tired sound before settling again. She looked out of place under the sterile fluorescent lights of the lobby, her blouse plain, her eyes shadowed with worry. Agatha was already waiting, her arms folded, while Rio stood just beside her, radiating a calmer, gentler energy that seemed to draw Rose’s wary gaze almost instantly.

“Rose,” Agatha said softly, stepping forward. “Thank you for coming.”

Rose nodded, her grip tightening around her child. “I didn’t know if I should… but after Lavender…” Her voice broke slightly, and she shook her head.

“You did the right thing,” Rio reassured her, moving closer with the quiet unthreatening composure she used with fragile witnesses. “Come with us. We’ll find somewhere private.”

The three of them moved down the hall, the sound of Rose’s footsteps hesitant against the tile. Elio gave a soft whimper, and Rose rocked him gently, murmuring something under her breath until he quieted again.

Inside the conference room, the air felt heavy. The blinds were pulled down over the windows, shutting out prying eyes. A single long table, some chairs, and a faint hum from the air conditioner were all that filled the space. Agatha closed the door behind them, the click echoing louder than it should have.

“Sit,” Rio urged gently, pulling out a chair. Rose lowered herself into it carefully, adjusting Elio in her arms until he lay more comfortably.

For a moment, no one spoke. Agatha leaned against the table, watching carefully, while Rio pulled her own chair close, settling into a position that was neither interrogator nor authority figure—just another woman speaking to her.

“Rose,” Rio began softly, “we’ve been trying to understand your family. Your mother. Your aunts. Your sister. And your cousins.” She paused, then began to list them in an even, deliberate voice. “Lavender. Rose. Lily. Poppy. Daisy. Jasmine. Violet. Aster. Every one of you—named after flowers.”

Rose’s face flickered. She looked down quickly, avoiding eye contact, her hand stroking Elio’s back with nervous intensity.

Rio’s voice dropped lower, almost a whisper. “You’re all his flowers. His perfect flowers.”

The words seemed to settle like lead in the room. Rose’s lips parted, but she said nothing.

Rio leaned in slightly, her tone tender, almost coaxing. “Oliver is everybody’s father, isn’t he?”

Rose froze.

“Your mother’s father,” Rio continued slowly, carefully. “Her sisters’ too. Lavender’s. Yours…” She hesitated, then let her eyes fall to the baby nestled against Rose’s chest. Her voice gentled even further, as though she were stepping onto thin ice. “…and Elio’s too. Right?”

Rose’s breath caught audibly. For a long moment, she kept her head bowed, staring at the floor, at her son, anywhere but at Rio. Then, finally, with a trembling hand, she brushed a strand of hair away from her face and lifted her gaze.

Her eyes met Rio’s—dark, haunted, searching for something like mercy. And then, slowly, painfully, she nodded.

One single tear slipped down her cheek, falling onto Elio’s blanket.

Agatha sighed, a long, heavy exhale that seemed to carry the weight of the whole revelation. She dragged a hand over her face, grounding herself before she spoke. “Rose… we’re not here to judge you. Not for any of this. You’ve been trapped, controlled. You’re as much a victim as anyone else in that house. Do you understand?”

Rose let out a shaky laugh, bitter and broken. “Victim. That’s… that’s one word for it.” She looked down at Elio again, kissed his head, and closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, she finally began to speak, voice thin and fragile.

“He never touched us. Not once. Not the way you might think.”

Rio’s brows furrowed, but she didn’t interrupt.

“He… he treats us like his plants,” Rose continued, swallowing hard. “Like his orchids. His lilies. His dahlias. We’re his flowers. He says we need to stay pure, perfect, so the line doesn’t get tainted. And when we turn twenty…” Her voice broke, and she rocked Elio instinctively, clinging to him. “When we turn twenty, he… he inseminates us. Like his plants. With his own… with him. Always him. Never anyone else. He says that way, the line grows purer each generation. That we’ll be the most perfect family in the world. That cross-breeding would ruin everything.”

Her words dissolved into sobs, muffled against Elio’s small head. “We are his flowers. That’s what he calls us. His perfect flowers.”

Rio’s eyes shimmered, but she forced herself to stay composed, to keep her voice soft and grounding. “Rose… you’ve carried this for so long. You don’t have to carry it alone anymore.”

Agatha, her jaw clenched tight, stepped forward and set a steady hand on Rose’s shoulder. “He’s not God, Rose. He doesn’t get to decide your lives like this. What he’s done—it’s a crime. Against all of you. And now that we know, we’ll stop him. I promise.”

Rose broke then, the dam bursting. Silent tears slid down her face as she clutched Elio tightly to her chest, as if holding on to the only piece of herself that Oliver Grimes could never fully own.

Rio reached across the table, her hand open, patient, waiting. After a long moment, Rose placed her trembling fingers in hers.

Oliver Grimes had not built a family. He had built a garden. And the women within it had never been free to bloom.

Agatha let the silence linger for a moment after Rose’s confession, her hand still resting gently on the young woman’s shoulder. The detective’s face was unreadable, but her eyes were sharp, drilling into Rose as though searching for the one last piece of the puzzle that hadn’t yet been placed. Slowly, she straightened, her voice even but pointed.

“Rose,” she asked quietly, “what happens… if the baby is a boy?”

The effect was immediate. Rose stiffened, her whole body curling protectively around Elio. Her arms tightened, clutching him so close that the baby stirred in protest. Her eyes brimmed with panic, flickering between Agatha and Rio as though caught between answering and fleeing.

Finally, in a trembling whisper, she said, “He… he doesn’t let us keep them.”

Rio leaned forward, voice calm and coaxing. “What do you mean, sweetheart?”

Rose closed her eyes, her words falling out broken and uneven. “If we give birth to boys, he forces us to hand them over. Always. We’re told they’re sent to adoption agencies, closed adoptions, no records, nothing we can ever trace. He says boys are… impure. That they ruin the line. That they serve no purpose in his garden. Only girls can stay. Only girls matter.” Her voice cracked on the last words, and she buried her face briefly against Elio’s hair, inhaling his scent.

Rio’s hands curled into fists in her lap, nails digging into her palms to keep her fury under control. “And Elio?” she asked softly.

“I ran,” Rose whispered. “The moment I found out I was having a boy, I knew I couldn’t stay. I couldn’t let him take my baby away from me. I packed what little I could, and I left before anyone could notice. I’ve been hiding ever since.”

Agatha’s jaw clenched, her voice low and taut. “So you’ve been on the run from him. From your whole family.”

Rose nodded, tears streaming freely now. “I didn’t care what happened to me. I just couldn’t lose him. My baby. My son. He calls them useless, but Elio is everything to me.” Her hand trembled as she stroked the infant’s cheek. “He’s not useless. He’s not impure. He’s mine.”

Rio reached across the table again, her fingers brushing the edge of Elio’s blanket, her voice so gentle it nearly broke. “You were brave, Rose. So unbelievably brave. You saved him. You gave him a chance at a life your family never would have allowed.”

Rose’s lip quivered, her gaze darting toward Rio with a desperate kind of gratitude, as though those words were the first kind ones she’d heard in years.

But Agatha wasn’t finished. She folded her arms, her voice still sharp, but with a current of compassion beneath the steel. “And Lavender? How did she play into all this? You were hiding—someone must have known.”

Rose nodded, clutching Elio closer. “Lavender’s the only one I could trust. She’d already been cast out years ago… because she couldn’t have children.”

Rio blinked, startled. “Barren?”

“Yes,” Rose whispered, nodding again. “She turned twenty like the rest of us. He tried, but nothing ever took. She never conceived, and he said she was useless. A dead flower. He cast her out of the house, told her she wasn’t part of the family anymore and told us she had ran and was thus a traitor. But she never stopped loving us. Never stopped watching from a distance. When I found out I was pregnant and realized he was a boy, I knew what would happen. I knew I’d lose him. So I went to her. And Lavender… she took me in. She hid me. She kept me safe. Even when it meant risking everything, she protected me and my son.”

Agatha and Rio exchanged a weighted glance, understanding dawning. Lavender’s isolation, her bitterness, her protectiveness—it all made sense now.

“She was trying to shield you from them,” Agatha said slowly.

Rose’s tears returned, but softer this time, like grief mixed with love. “She told me she didn’t matter anymore. That she was already ruined in their eyes. But that I had to fight. That Elio deserved more than to be discarded. She said… she said she’d rather die than let them take me back.”

Rio closed her eyes briefly, swallowing hard against the knot in her throat. She reached out again, resting her hand on Rose’s trembling one. “Lavender was a victim, just like you. But she chose to be your protector too. She gave you and Elio a chance.”

Rose clutched Elio tighter, rocking him gently as he shifted in her arms. “She saved us,” she whispered. “She saved us both.”

Agatha looked down, her expression grim. “And now, Rose, we’ll make sure her sacrifice wasn’t in vain. Oliver’s garden ends here.”

The room fell into silence, heavy with both the horror of what had been revealed and the fragile hope of what could come next.

In the silence, Rose’s breathing had grown ragged, each confession peeling away another layer of composure until only raw fear and grief remained. Her arms around Elio trembled, her voice fractured into fragments, her body trembling with the strain of reliving truths she had buried too deep for too long.

Agatha saw it—the way Rose’s gaze darted between them and the door, the panic curling tighter around her like vines. She lifted her hand slowly, palm up on the table, her tone softened into something steady and grounding.

“Rose,” Agatha said gently, “you’ve given us more than enough for today. You don’t have to go further. You don’t owe us anything else.”

Rio nodded in immediate agreement, her eyes warm, her voice low and careful. “You’re safe here. Nothing that’s happened is your fault. Not one bit of it. Do you hear me? You’ve survived something no one ever should, and that makes you stronger than you realize.”

Rose’s lip quivered as she glanced between them, torn between relief and disbelief. The words seemed to seep into her like water to parched soil. She nodded once, quickly, and whispered, “I… I don’t know what happens next.”

Agatha leaned in, voice firm but kind. “What happens next is up to you. If you want help, we’ll make sure you get it. If you want protection, we’ll fight for it. And if you need time, then time is what you’ll have. You’re not alone anymore, Rose. That ends today.”

For a heartbeat, the room fell quiet but for Elio’s soft sigh against his mother’s chest. Rose closed her eyes, clutching him close, then finally drew in a shuddering breath. “Thank you,” she murmured, the words fragile but sincere. “Thank you for… believing me.”

Agatha gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. Rio, with the faintest smile, reached over and tucked the edge of Elio’s blanket more snugly around his tiny body. “Take care of him. Take care of yourself,” Rio said. “And remember—none of this is your fault, and we believe you.”

With that, Rose rose carefully to her feet, rocking Elio against her shoulder. She looked at them one last time, her eyes swollen with tears but steadier now. Then she slipped out of the conference room, disappearing down the hallway and out of sight.

The door shut softly behind her, leaving Agatha and Rio in the echo of all she had said.

For a long moment, neither spoke. The weight of it pressed down heavy, suffocating. Agatha inhaled sharply through her nose, then stood, pushing the chair back with a scrape that sounded far too loud in the silence. “God,” she muttered, rubbing her temples. “I need a moment.”

Rio didn’t answer. She simply pushed herself to her feet and followed as Agatha opened the door and led her into the quieter stretch of hallway. A small empty office nearby stood ajar, and without exchanging a word, they slipped inside, closing the door behind them.

The quiet there was absolute. No humming computers, no phones ringing, no footsteps of colleagues. Just them.

Agatha exhaled shakily, leaning back against the wall as though bracing herself. Her eyes found Rio’s, and for a second, the detective’s tough exterior faltered. She reached forward without hesitation and pulled Rio against her.

Rio melted into her arms instantly, pressing her forehead against Agatha’s shoulder. The embrace wasn’t desperate but recentering, two people steadying each other against the abyss of what they had just uncovered. Agatha held her close, one hand at the nape of Rio’s neck, the other wrapped firmly around her back.

Neither spoke. Their silence was a small pocket of safety in the storm.

Finally, after what could have been minutes or hours, Rio drew back slightly, her hand still resting against Agatha’s chest. Her eyes shimmered, but her voice was calm. “If this is true—if all of it is true—then Oliver Grimes is far more dangerous than we thought. He’s not just controlling them. He’s breeding them. Like livestock.”

Agatha’s mouth tightened. “And we’re going to stop him. But first…” She glanced toward the door, reluctant. “…we have to tell the others.”

Rio nodded, exhaling a steadying breath. She gave Agatha’s hand one last squeeze before letting go. The moment dissolved, professionalism snapping back into place.

Together, they left the sanctuary of that room and made their way back down the hall. The weight of Rose’s revelations followed them, heavy and unshakable, but so did the unspoken bond they carried, ready to carry that weight into battle.

When they entered Alice’s office again, the rest of the team looked up expectantly. Agatha and Rio exchanged one last glance before facing them all.

It was time to share the truth.

 

---

 

When Agatha and Rio finished recounting Rose’s testimony, the office had gone silent. Not even Alice’s computer hummed in the background—she’d muted it herself, as though any mechanical sound would have felt indecent against the weight of what had just been revealed.

Jennifer sat stiff-backed, her knuckles white as she gripped the edge of the table. Billy, who usually filled the room with nervous chatter or eager questions, had paled and stared blankly at his hands. Alice leaned back in her chair, one leg jittering restlessly under the desk, her eyes fixed on some point in the middle distance.

Only Lilia seemed able to move. The Director stood near the window, her arms folded tight across her chest, her expression unreadable. Yet her jaw shifted ever so slightly, clenching and unclenching with the anger only long-practice in composure could mask.

“That man,” Jennifer finally said, her voice hoarse, “he’s been… manufacturing generations. His own daughters, granddaughters… even great-granddaughters if Rose had had a daughter.” She shook her head slowly. “And people still see him as some eccentric recluse with a greenhouse.”

“He’s worse than a cult leader,” Billy murmured, his voice trembling. “Cult leaders want power. He wants… purity. Like—like he’s God.”

Rio closed her eyes for a moment, the word God tasting bitter in her mind. She kept her tone measured when she spoke. “He’s nothing of the sort. He’s a man who’s learned to play nature like a puppet. He wants to own life itself. That’s all. But Nature goes beyond him, nature is everything he is not, and you can’t recreate it, or force it or make it better. That’s not how it works.”

The horror hung in the air, but Lilia’s voice cut through it with measured authority. “We don’t have the luxury of standing still.”

She turned from the window and looked at them all, her gaze steady and commanding. “There’s another layer here we can’t ignore. Lavender.”

The mention of the name seemed to shiver through the group. Alice finally blinked and straightened in her chair, Billy swallowed hard, and Agatha’s eyes narrowed as she rubbed her jaw.

“Yes,” Lilia continued. “Lavender’s murder and dismemberment. That’s the first and only violent break in Oliver Grimes’s little… garden.”

Rio’s brow furrowed. “It makes sense now why she was targeted. She sheltered Rose. She took one of his flowers out of the soil he planted them in. Of course he would want to punish her. It fits his twisted logic.”

“Punish her, yes,” Agatha said, voice low and rough, “but dismemberment? That’s not punishment, that’s cleanup. Cutting a body into pieces makes it easier to hide or move. But sending them away, in packages? Risking exposure like that?” She shook her head, frustrated. “That doesn’t fit with the Oliver we’ve been piecing together. He wouldn’t jeopardize the rest of his… operation.”

Rio’s eyes sharpened at that. “Exactly. He’s meticulous. Control is his obsession. The packages contradict that entirely.”

The team let the thought hang, every one of them chewing it in silence, the contradiction clawing at their nerves.

“Then maybe,” Alice said cautiously, “he didn’t send them.”

Billy frowned. “You mean… someone else? An accomplice?”

“Or a rival,” Agatha muttered. “Someone inside, maybe even one of the daughters who snapped. Or someone outside who found out too much.”

Lilia exhaled slowly, rubbing at the bridge of her nose before speaking again. “This is what we need to focus on next. Lavender’s murder. If Oliver killed her, then why the packaging? And if he didn’t… then who did?”

Her tone hardened, pulling them all back to order. “But make no mistake—we already have enough. Rose’s testimony alone is sufficient to arrest Oliver Grimes. The incest, the forced inseminations, the child adoptions—this is beyond any statute of secrecy. It’s a crime scene spanning decades.”

Jennifer’s eyes flicked up, sharp again. “So we arrest him first thing?”

Lilia nodded. “Yes. But not only that. Tomorrow morning, we go back to the farm. We remove every minor, every child from that place. They need to be safe before Oliver even realizes he’s lost control.”

Agatha straightened, her chest tightening at the thought. The girls, the babies, all raised in that greenhouse masquerading as a home. “We’ll need CPS on standby,” she said. “And transportation. Quiet and fast.”

“Already in motion,” Lilia said. Her expression softened just slightly as she looked around at them, at the weight pressing on each face. “I know this feels like an endless spiral of horrors. But remember this—we’ve pulled one of his flowers out of the ground, and she’s safe. That’s excatly what Oliver feared. Tomorrow, we’ll pull out the rest.”

Her words steadied the room, though not enough to erase the tension.

Agatha finally broke the silence, her voice low but firm. “And then,” she said, “we’ll make Grimes answer for Lavender. One way or another.”

The room fell quiet again, but this time the silence wasn’t paralyzing or confusing. No, it was determined.

The storm was still coming, but for the first time, the team knew exactly where to strike.

 

Notes:

Yeah, as I said, pretty fucked up, but bear with me here.
Anyway, comments give me life!

Chapter 8

 

The next morning was gray and heavy, a sky that seemed to anticipate storms even when none were forecast. The Westview Police convoy rolled out before dawn, headlights slicing through the mist. Agatha and Rio rode together in the lead vehicle, their silence heavy, the kind that was less about lack of words and more about conserving strength. Behind them followed two vans filled with armed officers in tactical gear, alongside social workers and child protection agents ready for what lay ahead.

As the farm came into sight—its familiar greenhouse domes glistening with dew, its fields eerily still—Agatha felt her jaw clench. “This ends today,” she muttered, mostly to herself, though Rio’s hand, resting on the console between them, brushed hers in quiet solidarity.

The caravan stopped at the front gates, tires crunching on gravel. Officers fanned out quickly and efficiently, forming a protective perimeter. Agatha stepped forward, her coat flaring in the breeze, her voice sharp and carrying.

“Westview Police! We’re here under lawful authority to remove all children from this property for their safety.”

The farmhouse door banged open. Three women spilled out—Petunia, Marigold, and Dahlia, their faces pale but twisted with fury. Iris lingered behind them, not rushing forward like the others, but staying just inside the doorway. Her expression was unreadable, her hands clasped tightly in front of her.

“You can’t take them!” Petunia screamed, her voice raw, almost animal. “They’re our babies! You have no right!”

Dahlia charged forward, her dark braid whipping behind her as she tried to block the officers heading toward the side barn. “Leave them alone! They’re not yours to steal!”

Marigold’s face crumpled with rage and terror as she clutched the doorway post. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing? You’re tearing apart a family! He won’t forgive this!”

But Agatha didn’t flinch. She advanced with a steely calm, her badge glinting in the weak light. “We’re not here to argue. These children are in danger, and they will be protected. Step aside.”

Her voice brooked no defiance, but still the sisters spat their venom, calling the officers kidnappers, whores, and traitors. Some hurled curses at Rio and Agatha, recognizing them now as the ones who had dared to unravel their world. Yet Rio didn’t look at them—her eyes were fixed on the children being led out in small groups by social workers.

The girls clung to one another, their nightgowns fluttering in the wind. Some cried openly, wailing for their mothers as the officers crouched low to reassure them, speaking gently, voices calm and soothing. One officer even offered his hand to a little girl no older than six, letting her squeeze his fingers tight. Another bent down to wipe the tears off a child’s cheek with his sleeve.

The women fought harder at the sight, reaching desperately to pull their daughters back, clawing at uniforms, sobbing, shouting. Two had to be restrained carefully but firmly as they kicked against the ground, screaming their children’s flowery names.

But not all the children resisted. Some looked around with wide, bewildered eyes, too young to understand but sensing the tension. One stood frozen, refusing to move until an officer crouched beside her and explained softly, “It’s all right, sweetheart. You’re safe now. We’re going to take care of you.”

And then there were others—older girls who did not cry, who did not scream, but instead let out a long, trembling breath as they were led away. Relief flickered in their eyes, quiet but unmistakable. One girl, perhaps eleven, glanced back once at the house, then turned her face forward, her small hands gripping tightly onto the social worker’s sleeve as though afraid someone might drag her back.

From the doorway, Iris did not move. She did not shout, did not claw, did not curse. Her eyes followed every child, every officer, every gesture of resistance from her sisters. She leaned against the frame, shoulders hunched, her lips pressed together in a thin line. For a moment, Rio caught her gaze across the distance. There was no fight in Iris’s eyes, no rage—just exhaustion, and something that looked dangerously close to surrender.

Agatha kept her posture strong, but inside, her chest ached as she watched the mothers struggle. The cruelty of the situation wasn’t lost on her: these women were victims too, warped by a man who had stolen their autonomy long before their daughters were even born. But the children—the children had a chance to be free, and Agatha wasn’t going to let it slip.

“Keep them moving,” she ordered quietly to the officers as she passed. “Don’t let the shouting slow you down.”

By the time the sun had fully risen, the six remaining granddaughters had been found in the various rooms of the farm and gently led towards the vans. Their cries echoed faintly in the garden, mingling with the shrieks of their mothers left behind. Petunia had collapsed to her knees in the dirt, fists pounding the ground. Dahlia was still cursing, her throat ragged, while Marigold wept into her hands, rocking back and forth.

And Iris… Iris had sat down on the porch steps, immobile and silent.

Agatha stood with Rio at the gate, watching the little twins –Poppy and Lily—being carried out by a soft-looking female agent.

The scene was chaos. The once still, silent farm had erupted into a storm of noise and heartbreak—the cries of the children being led away, the guttural sobs of mothers clawing at the officers, the clipped commands of police and social workers trying to keep order. Gravel crunched under heavy boots, doors slammed, voices rose and cracked. It felt like the kind of scene that would replay itself in dreams, jagged and unrelenting.

And yet, amid all of it, Iris Grimes sat motionless on the porch steps. Her posture was slouched, her hands clasped loosely between her knees, her hair falling like a curtain across her face. Unlike her sisters, she hadn’t screamed, hadn’t thrown herself at the officers, hadn’t cursed Agatha or Rio or any of them. She had simply… stayed still. Watching.

Rio noticed her there, quiet and apart, like a figure carved out of stone. Something about that stillness pulled her forward. She left Agatha near the gate and crossed the gravel, her boots crunching lightly with each step. The closer she got, the clearer Iris’s silence became—it wasn’t detachment, nor was it cowardice. It was deliberation. A choice.

Rio stopped just beside her, then lowered herself onto the step, leaving a respectful space between them. For a moment, neither woman spoke. The air was thick with the sound of children’s cries fading into the distance, but here, on the porch, it felt almost like a bubble of quiet.

“I know it was you,” Rio said softly, her voice pitched low enough that no one else could hear.

Iris didn’t look at her. Her fingers twisted together in her lap, pale knuckles pressing white against skin.

Rio continued. “The syringe. You left it where we would find it. You knew we needed a thread to pull. And the gate—someone left it open for us the other morning. That wasn’t a mistake. You wanted us to come in.”

Still, Iris didn’t answer. Her chin dipped slightly, but her eyes stayed fixed somewhere far away.

Rio waited, giving her the silence she needed. The hush stretched, not uncomfortable really but taut, like a string pulled tight. Finally, Iris turned her head and looked at her.

Her gaze was piercing, sharp even in its weariness. She studied Rio as if weighing her, testing the strength of her words. Minutes seemed to pass in that exchange of silence before Iris finally spoke.

“Do you have children?”

The question landed like a stone in Rio’s chest. Her throat tightened, and for a moment, she thought about lying. But there was no lie that would matter here, no answer that could shield her from those eyes.

“Yes, I do,” Rio said quietly. “I have a son.”

Iris’s eyes softened, but only slightly. Something flickered there—a crack in the mask she wore so carefully. Her voice lowered to a whisper, but it carried with the weight of someone who had thought these words a thousand times before.

“Then you know why I did it.”

It wasn’t as much a confession was it was an offering. An explanation that needed no further elaboration. Rio felt the truth of it lodge deep inside her chest.

Iris rose to her feet with slow, deliberate grace. The movement felt heavy, as if each bone in her body carried years of strain. Rio stood as well, not out of reflex but in respect, keeping her eyes on her.

For a moment, the two women stood there, facing each other—one the reluctant betrayer of a family poisoned by loyalty, the other a woman who knew all too well the lengths to which someone would go to protect a child.

Iris leaned closer, her lips barely moving, her voice so soft that Rio almost doubted she’d heard it at all.

“Save Rose.”

It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t even an order. It was a command whispered from one mother to another, a thread of hope passed from shaking hands to steady ones.

And then, without waiting for a response, Iris turned away. She walked down the steps and crossed the yard back to her sisters. Petunia was collapsed in the dirt, Dahlia still raging, Marigold sobbing against the railing. Iris bent toward them, slipping seamlessly into the role expected of her. She draped her arms around them, murmured soothing words, rocking them gently. From the outside, she looked like any sister offering comfort in grief.

But Rio knew better. She had seen the crack in the façade, the choice behind the silence. Iris had risked everything to give them the thread that led here, and now, she had given them one more: the final, quiet instruction. Save Rose.

Rio stood on the porch for a long moment, the wind catching the edges of her jacket. Her heart beat heavily against her ribs, a rhythm that echoed with both the weight of the moment and the urgency of the task ahead. She glanced back across the yard. Agatha was watching her from the gate, sharp-eyed, protective, but patient.

When Rio finally moved, it was with a new steadiness. She walked back toward Agatha, carrying with her the echo of Iris’s words.

The chaos was still alive in the air—children being led away, mothers shouting and weeping, officers moving with firm precision—when the creak of the farmhouse door cut through everything like a blade. Heads turned at once.

Oliver Grimes stepped into the morning light.

He squinted, his frame filling the doorway, his expression twisted with confusion that hardened into anger the instant his eyes took in the scene before him. Women crying, little girls in officers’ arms, Petunia clutching Marigold, Dahlia screaming curses. His jaw tightened, his face flushed, and he bellowed, “What in God’s name is going on here?!”

The yard seemed to still for a heartbeat, but only for that moment. Then the wailing rose again, the officers continued their work, and Agatha began to move.

Her stride was sharp, cutting across the gravel like a knife’s edge. Her coat flared with each step, her face set in grim determination. Rio felt her own breath catch as she watched, her chest tightening with both dread and something fiercer—a deep, pulsing relief that the moment had finally come.

“Oliver Grimes!” Agatha’s voice rang out, low but carrying, cold as stone. “You are under arrest.”

The man’s eyes snapped to her, his lip curling. “You’ve no right to—”

She didn’t slow. “You are under arrest for the abuse and endangerment of your daughters and their minor children, and for suspicion of homicide against your granddaughter.”

Gasps rippled through the sisters, but Agatha was already there, just feet from him, her badge lifted in her left hand, her right resting on the butt of her holstered weapon—not threatening, but ready.

Oliver’s face darkened, his fury boiling over. “This is blasphemy! These are my children! You dare—”

“Shut your mouth.” Agatha’s tone cracked like a whip. She stepped closer, her eyes never leaving his. “Turn around. Hands behind your back. Now.”

For a moment, Rio thought he might lunge at her. He was tall, broad, built with the rough power of a man used to working the land. His fists clenched at his sides, his chest heaving. But Agatha did not flinch. She stood rooted, radiating that same sharp, unyielding authority that had stopped far worse men in their tracks.

And finally, with a sound somewhere between a growl and a curse, Oliver spun on his heel. His shoulders hunched with barely contained rage, his breath ragged.

Agatha wasted no time. She pulled his arms back and snapped the cuffs on with brutal efficiency. “Oliver Grimes, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law…”

Her voice was steady, precise, as the Miranda rights spilled from her lips. Around them, the officers resumed their work with renewed energy, spreading out across the property. A pair of detectives rushed toward the barn, another toward the greenhouses. Uniformed officers disappeared into the outbuildings, their radios crackling.

Oliver spat onto the ground, twisting to glare at Agatha over his shoulder. “You think you’ve won something here? You’ve done nothing but curse yourselves. Do you know what it means to desecrate a holy garden? Do you know what happened to Eve when she disturbed the natural order of Eden? Do you know what punishment awaits those who defy the Father?”

Agatha didn’t answer. She hauled him forward, her grip on the chain between the cuffs iron-tight.

But Rio saw the flicker in his eyes as he scanned the yard, the brief, unguarded flash of panic when he noticed the children were truly gone. It was small, but it was there—and it told her more than his words ever could.

The sisters surged forward, Petunia screaming, “Let him go! You devils! You can’t take him!” Dahlia tore against an officer’s hold, while Marigold shrieked curses through her sobs. Iris, Rio noticed, did not move again. She simply stood behind them, her hands pressed to her mouth, her eyes fixed on Oliver as though memorizing him.

The cuffs bit into his wrists as Agatha shoved him toward the waiting cars. His ranting didn’t stop, spilling out in waves of venomous scripture, promises of divine retribution, threats that sounded rehearsed.

“Search everything!” Director Calderu’s voice cut through the noise as she arrived on the scene, her coat snapping in the wind. “Every room, every outbuilding, every cellar. Tear this place apart if you have to. We are not leaving a single stone unturned.”

“Yes, Director!” officers called back, scattering in every direction.

Rio forced herself to breathe, her chest tight as she turned her gaze back to Agatha. Her wife was resolute, her hand never once loosening its grip on Oliver as she delivered him into custody.

Oliver might still have secrets buried in this farm, in the minds of his daughters turned wives, in the shadows of his supposed “garden.”

But now he was in chains.

 

---

 

The interrogation room was quiet but charged, the air heavy with the tension of a coiled spring. Oliver Grimes sat in the cold metal chair, his cuffed hands folded neatly before him, despite spending the night in custody. His posture was calm—too calm—his eyes fixed on Agatha as though she were an intruder in his temple rather than a detective with the power to dismantle his empire.

Agatha remained standing. She leaned forward across the table, her voice low, deliberate. “Mr. Grimes, you’ve been charged with minor endangerment, incestual abuse, cult activities and the suspected murder of Lavender Grimes. This is your chance to speak.”

Oliver tilted his head, a condescending smile playing across his lips. “My daughters chose this life, Detective. They were not taken, they were not forced. They consented. Each of them was of age, and they wished to be part of the Father’s Garden. It is a covenant, a sacred—”

“Stop.” Agatha’s voice cracked like thunder. She cut across him without hesitation, her eyes burning. “You don’t get to hide behind scripture. What you call ‘consent’ is manipulation, brainwashing. You isolated them, indoctrinated them since they were children, told them they had no worth outside of serving you. That is not free will. That is slavery.”

His smile faltered, but only slightly. He shifted in his chair, but his voice remained even. “You wouldn’t understand, Detective. You live in a world of chaos, where women are lost, broken, unloved. I gave them order. Purpose. I gave them—”

“You gave them trauma,” Agatha snapped. Her hand slammed against the metal table, the sound reverberating off the walls. “You gave them fear. And now, you’re going to answer for every single life you’ve destroyed.”

On the other side of the two-way glass, Alice, Jennifer, Billy, and Rio sat in the cramped surveillance office, eyes locked on the feed streaming from the interrogation room. Alice’s fingers twitched restlessly near the keyboard, her lips pressed in a thin line. Jen’s jaw was tight, her arms crossed over her chest as though keeping herself from striking the screen.

Billy shifted in his chair, pale and visibly nauseous. “He’s… he’s justifying it. Like it was nothing. Like these girls aren’t his own daughters.” His voice cracked in disbelief. “This guy’s sick.”

Rio didn’t answer. She couldn’t. She sat perfectly still, her dark eyes fixed on Oliver’s face, her every muscle tense. She had known men like him before—personally—men who cloaked their cruelty in grandiose ideals, who convinced themselves and everyone around them that their violence was love. Her stomach twisted, but her gaze never wavered.

The door to the office opened, and Director Calderu stepped inside, a folder clutched in her hand. She didn’t look at the screen at first—her expression was grave, businesslike. “We’ve got results from the search,” she said flatly.

The others turned.

“They found blood in one of the cars on the farm,” Lilia continued, opening the folder. “But it wasn’t Oliver’s.” She paused, looking up. “It was Iris Grimes’s vehicle.”

The words dropped into the room like a bomb.

Billy blinked, his mouth falling open. “So… so Iris killed her daughter?” His voice was incredulous, almost horrified at having to form the words.

But Rio was already shaking her head. The denial was instinctive, fierce. “No.”

Her chair screeched across the floor as she stood abruptly, startling the others. A thought had ripped through her, sharp and sudden, connecting dots that had lain scattered until this very moment. She pressed a hand to her temple, muttering almost to herself, “No, she didn’t.”

“Rio, you can’t—” Jennifer started, but Rio had already moved.

She shoved the door open and bolted down the hall, her steps quick and decisive. Her heart pounded, her chest tight, but her mind burned with certainty. Iris hadn’t killed her daughter—Rio was sure of it. Which meant the truth was something else, something Oliver still believed was hidden, or didn’t even know himself.

She reached the interrogation room and pushed the door open without waiting for permission.

Agatha’s brows shot up when the door to the interrogation room swung open and Rio strode in, her coat still half-unbuttoned, her hair loose from where she had been running. She never entered mid-session, not without clearance. But Agatha could tell from her wife’s eyes—sharp, blazing, alive with conviction—that this wasn’t impulse. This was certainty.

“Rio?” Agatha’s voice was low, warning, but her criminologist didn’t flinch.

Oliver’s smirk widened when he saw her enter, as though sensing her urgency and savoring it.

“Agent Vidal,” he drawled, his voice rich with mockery. “Come to witness the Father’s testimony firsthand? Or perhaps you’ve seen the truth for yourself and want to join?”

But Rio didn’t even glance at him. She went straight to Agatha’s side, her breath quick, her voice low and urgent, meant for her wife alone. “They found Lavender’s blood in Iris ‘car.”

Agatha’s brows drew together, her suspicion sharpening as she studied Oliver anew.

Then, Rio turned to Oliver too. She didn’t sit. Instead, she planted both hands firmly on the cold metal, leaning forward until she was staring Oliver Grimes in the face. Her voice, when it came, was cool, unwavering.

“I figured you out.”

Oliver tilted his head, smirk tugging at his lips. “Did you now? That’s bold, coming from someone who’s been here all of five seconds.”

But Rio didn’t blink. “You killed Lavender.”

Oliver’s smirk never faltered. Agatha instinctively folded her arms, watching closely.

Rio pressed on, her tone gaining momentum, each word sharper than the last. “You killed her in a burst of rage after she came back to fight about Rose and her unborn child. Lavender had left the farm, she got out. That made her dangerous—because freedom meant she could expose you. And you couldn’t risk it. So you silenced her.”

Oliver scoffed, leaning back in his chair, but his hands twitched against the cuffs. “That’s a pretty story. No proof.”

“You dismembered her after,” Rio continued, not letting him reclaim control. “Because you thought it was cleaner that way. Easier to cover your tracks. But you couldn’t destroy her completely, could you? You couldn’t resist making Iris pay for it.”

Agatha’s eyes flickered to Rio. She was following, every beat. Iris. Of course.

Rio’s voice grew stronger, her dark eyes locked on Oliver’s. “Because Lavender wasn’t the real culprit in your eyes. Not even Rose. It was Iris. Iris, who bore what you call ‘defective flowers.’ Lavender, who couldn’t have children. Rose, who dared to keep her son and turn her back on your cult. All of it, in your twisted logic, was Iris’s fault. She birthed them. She failed you.”

Oliver’s jaw tightened. His lips parted, then shut again, and though he let out another dismissive chuckle, the sound was brittle this time. “Ridiculous. You sound desperate.”

But Rio leaned closer, refusing to retreat. “You punished her. You forced Iris to deal with Lavender’s body. You made her take the pieces, made her dirty her own hands so she’d carry your guilt for you. Only Iris wasn’t as broken as you thought.”

Her voice dropped, steady as stone. “Instead of burying her daughter’s remains where you ordered, she turned them into packages. She sent them out. Because maybe she hoped someone would notice. Maybe she wanted to bring the whole farm down, to stop your madness once and for all.”

For the first time, Oliver’s composure cracked. It was small—a flash of fire in his eyes, the clench of his jaw, the subtle shift of his weight as if he wanted to lunge forward. But it was enough.

Agatha seized on it. “So that’s it, isn’t it, Oliver? That’s why Iris kept quiet this whole time. She was your scapegoat. Your prisoner.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Oliver spat, his calm veneer unraveling. His voice, for the first time, rose. “Iris is weak. Always has been. She failed her purpose, failed me, failed the Garden. You think she’s clever enough to orchestrate something like that? She couldn’t—”

But he stopped himself, biting the words back too late.

Agatha’s eyes flashed. She stood up and walked to the wall, leaning on it, as if to put physical distance between her and this monster. Rio stayed at the table, their presence doubling the weight pressing down on him, even if a few feet away. “She did. And you know it. You just admitted she failed you. Failed in your eyes. That’s motive. That’s rage. That’s why Lavender died.”

Rio’s gaze softened, not for Oliver but for the truth that sat heavy between them. “You thought you could use Iris to erase your crime. But she turned it back on you. She wanted the world to see the monster you are.”

Oliver’s breathing had quickened. His composure was gone now, the righteous calm of a self-styled prophet shattered. His eyes darted between them, desperate for ground, for control, but he found none.

“You have no proof,” he hissed again, but the words rang hollow.

Agatha leaned in, her voice low, venomous. “We don’t need proof of what we already see unraveling in front of us. The blood in Iris’s car, the packages, your slip just now—it all points to you. And Iris? She’s not the weak one here. She’s the one who outsmarted you.”

Now that Rio had said it, laid the truth out like a surgeon exposing the rot beneath the skin, Agatha was beginning to see the whole picture clearly.

She pushed off the wall, stepping closer, her sharp eyes narrowing on Oliver. “Two methods of operation,” she murmured, almost to herself at first, then louder, her voice steady and deliberate. “Two people. One to hide, one to reveal. One to kill, one to protect.”

Her gaze flickered to Rio—her partner in every way—and then back to Oliver, whose composure was fraying like a threadbare rope. “Iris exposed you,” Agatha continued, her tone darkening. “You wanted to punish her, but she punished you.”

Oliver shifted violently in his seat, the cuffs clattering against the steel table. His smirk had withered away completely now, replaced with the sweaty, twitching unease of a man cornered with no way out. He leaned forward, his voice rising, guttural with defiance. “You think Iris will back you up? That she’ll betray me? My daughter will never testify against me!”

Agatha opened her mouth to answer, but before she could, the door to the interrogation room slammed open. The sound echoed like a gunshot.

Jen stormed in, her jaw set, her eyes blazing. In her hand she held a clear plastic evidence bag, its contents gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights: a lumberjack saw, its blade marred with dried, rusty stains of blood. She slapped it down on the table between them with a sharp crack that made Oliver flinch.

“Oh, but she doesn’t need to,” Jen snarled, her voice a razor’s edge. She tilted the bag so the saw caught the light, the ugly brown-red blotches undeniable. “We found this under a table in your lab. Bet we’ll find your fingerprints all over it, and Lavender’s blood too.”

Oliver’s eyes widened, a flash of panic darting across them before he caught himself, trying desperately to pull the mask of arrogance back over his face.

Jen wasn’t having it. She leaned closer, her words dripping venom. “Who would have thought a scientist could be so sloppy? I mean—your whole profession is about precision, right? Keeping track of every tool, every test tube, every sample. And yet here you are, leaving the murder weapon rotting under a table like some lazy butcher. Pathetic.”

Her mockery was deliberate, a blade twisting in the wound of his pride. Agatha knew exactly what Jen was doing—poking at the man’s ego, undermining the only power he had left.

Agatha’s lips curled into a slow, dark smile, her eyes never leaving Oliver’s reddening face. She savored the moment, the way the truth and evidence now boxed him in completely. There was no wriggling free, no sermon about “the Garden” that could save him now.

“It’s over, Mr. Grimes,” Agatha said, her voice calm but laced with finality, like a gavel striking.

Oliver slammed back against his chair, eyes darting wildly between Agatha, Rio, and Jen. His chest heaved, his hands trembled against the cuffs. For all his talk of divine justice and destiny, he looked very small now, like a cornered animal, stripped of the control he’d clung to for decades.

“No,” he hissed, shaking his head violently. “You don’t understand. None of you understand! The Garden cannot die with me. It was supposed to—”

“Save humanity?” Rio cut him off sharply, her voice low and unyielding. She stood tall beside her wife, watching Oliver unravel. “All you did was rot it from the inside.”

He bared his teeth, but there was no fight left in him, only desperation. His breath came quick and shallow, his knuckles white around the metal.

Agatha leaned down just slightly, her shadow cast across him. “You’re done, Oliver. Your Garden has burned down around you. And Iris? She already planted the seeds of your downfall. All we had to do was watch them grow.”

Oliver slammed his fists against the table, the cuffs rattling. “She betrayed me, her whole branch was rotten. I should have plucked them out long before. Bad seeds need to be weeded out before they can poison the rest.”

The words echoed through the room, sharp as glass.

Rio straightened, her voice almost gentle now, but her eyes stayed locked on Oliver’s trembling frame. “No, Oliver. She saved them. Rose, Lavender, her nieces, all of them. She tried, in the only way she could. And now, we’ll make sure she doesn’t have to carry that burden alone.”

Oliver sat back, breathing hard, his face flushed with anger.

Agatha signaled toward the mirror, her voice firm. “That’s enough for now. Get him out.”

Two uniformed officers entered to escort Oliver away, his protests rising, muttering about betrayal, divine justice, and the fall of his Garden.

The moment the door shut, silence fell heavy in the room. Agatha turned to Rio, her expression a mixture of awe and worry. “You walked in here like you’d been rehearsing it your whole life.”

Rio exhaled slowly, her hands finally leaving the table, trembling now that the adrenaline had started to fade. “Because I know men like him. They always believe their cruelty is holy. But Iris… Iris wasn’t just surviving. She was fighting in her own way.”

Agatha reached out, brushing her wife’s arm gently. “And you just gave her that voice.”

 

---

 

The bullpen had never felt so heavy. The case was officially closed, but the atmosphere in the room was anything but celebratory. The harshness of what they had uncovered still clung to the air like a lingering fog, seeping into everyone’s bones. They had seen cruelty before, cases that left them reeling—but this one… this one had torn at the marrow. Families twisted into cages, love corrupted into ownership, children raised in shadows of violence and lies.

It was late evening now, the lights dimmed low, and the team had gathered for an impromptu debrief. Papers were stacked haphazardly on desks, coffee cups stood forgotten, and a bag of pretzels sat torn open on the central table beside a plate of cookies that Alice had produced from somewhere in her office stash. It wasn’t much, but it was comfort—something small to hold against the bleakness.

Señor Scratchy seemed to sense it all. The big fluffy dog padded around the bullpen with soft determination, his tail wagging slowly as he nudged against legs and sniffed at hands. He lingered longest at Rio and Agatha’s side, pressing his heavy head against Rio’s knee, but every so often he trotted off to the others, resting his chin briefly on Jen’s lap, or dropping a slobbery toy at Billy’s feet, or pawing at Alice until she absentmindedly scratched behind his ears or offered him a piece of her pretzel.

“Good boy,” Rio murmured, her fingers sinking into Scratchy’s fur as he circled back to her. The dog leaned into her touch, eyes closing halfway as though he, too, was exhausted by all the horrors he’d silently witnessed.

The team ate in silence for a while, the occasional crunch of chips or shuffle of papers filling the void where conversation usually lived. Finally, Billy broke it, his voice quiet and hesitant. “What’s… what’s going to happen to the kids?”

His question landed in the center of the room like a stone dropped into still water, ripples spreading through the silence. He didn’t look up when he asked, just stared at the pretzel stick he was twirling between his fingers.

Agatha shifted in her chair, her expression softening. She knew Billy well enough to hear the weight in his voice, the boy always wore his heart too close to the surface. “Most likely,” she said gently, “they’ll go into foster care. At least for now. The mothers… Marigold, Dahlia, Petunia—they’ll need serious therapy. Time to undo all the damage Oliver did to them. Until then, the kids can’t stay in that environment.”

Billy finally glanced up, his brows knitting together. “So they’ll be split up?”

“Not necessarily,” Agatha replied, though her tone carried the weariness of uncertainty. “Social services will try to keep the siblings together if they can. But even if they can’t, they’ll be safe. And that’s what matters most. And when it’s safe to do so, they’ll probably be returned to their mothers.”

Alice leaned back in her chair, her arms crossed, a grim sort of agreement in her voice. “Anything is better than staying in that house. The walls of that place… they reek of him. Even if you stripped it down to the foundation, the rot he left behind wouldn’t go away.”

“Too right,” Jen muttered darkly, reaching for another cookie with one hand and her wife’s hand with the other. “If I never hear the name Oliver Grimes again, it’ll be too soon.”

“Seconded,” Alice said with a sharp nod.

Señor Scratchy picked that moment to clamber up onto Agatha’s lap, much too large for it but wholly convinced of his right to be there. The sudden awkward bulk of him made Agatha grunt, but she didn’t push him away. Instead, she draped an arm over him, letting the weight of the dog anchor her. Rio chuckled quietly beside her.

“See?” Rio murmured, scratching Scratchy’s chest while he panted happily. “He knows we need the comfort.”

“Smartest one in the room,” Alice teased, though her smile was tired.

The bullpen grew quiet again, but it was a softer quiet this time, no longer the suffocating silence of despair, but the stillness that comes after a storm, when everyone is damp, battered, but still alive.

Billy exhaled slowly, as though trying to steady himself. “It just feels so unfair,” he said at last, almost whispering. “Those kids didn’t ask for any of this.”

“No one ever does,” Rio said softly. Her gaze lingered on Billy, her tone full of quiet empathy. “They’ll get a chance at a life he tried to deny them now. And that’s something.”

Agatha gave her wife a small look, one of pride and quiet gratitude. Leave it to Rio to find the silver lining in all the darkness.

“Here’s to hoping,” Jen muttered, raising her cookie like a toast before biting into it.

Alice let out a sigh, leaning into her chair with Lorna’s photo peeking from her desk behind her. “At least we stopped him. That’s something too.”

Scratchy barked once, a deep sound that startled them all into faint, weary laughter.

 

---

 

The house smelled of cooked vegetables, lemon chicken and rosemary potatoes, comfort food Agatha had insisted on making despite Rio’s half-hearted protest that they could just order in. After the week they’d had, after the hell of Oliver Grimes and his twisted greenhouse, Agatha needed the grounding of something homemade. Something that reminded her she could still choose normalcy.

They sat at the dinner table—Rio across from Agatha, Nicky in between them, Señor Scratchy sprawled under the table like a furry sentinel waiting for scraps. The clatter of silverware and the steady rhythm of chewing filled the silence at first. For a brief, fragile moment, it almost felt like any other family meal.

Of course, Nicky couldn’t resist. He stabbed at a potato with his fork and tilted his head toward his mothers, curiosity sparking in his brown eyes. “So,” he said, drawing out the word, “what happened with that case you were working on? The one you wouldn’t let me read about in the papers?”

Agatha’s fork paused halfway to her mouth. She and Rio exchanged a quick glance, one of those silent conversations married couples perfected. Agatha’s arched brow said, do you want to field this one? Rio’s faint headshake replied, absolutely not, your turn.

Agatha set her fork down with a sigh, fixing her son with a look that was equal parts stern and fond. “You know we can’t tell you everything, Nicky.”

“Yeah, but you usually tell me something.” Nicky shrugged, trying for casual but not quite hiding the edge of teenage persistence in his voice. “Last time, you at least told me about the creepy guy with the snakes. This one’s all over the news, but you two have been like… extra secretive.” He leaned in conspiratorially, lowering his voice. “Was it, like, some mafia thing? Did you have to go undercover? Did Scratchy save the day again?”

At the mention of his name, Scratchy lifted his head and wagged his tail, nails clicking against the wood floor as he scooted closer to Nicky. The dog gave a low whuff, clearly siding with the boy’s plea for information.

Rio reached for her glass of water, buying time before speaking. Her voice was gentle when it came. “Nicky… not every case is the kind you need to know about. Some things…” She hesitated, her usually steady tone dipping into something heavier. “…some things are just too dark.”

Nicky frowned, his fork now forgotten on his plate. “So it was bad.”

“Worse than bad,” Agatha said quietly.

He studied her face, the lines of fatigue etched around her eyes. He was only fifteen, but he wasn’t blind. He’d seen the way both his mothers came home earlier—silent, drained, carrying the weight of something too big for words. He knew when not to push, even if his curiosity burned.

“Okay,” he said finally, softer now. “Then I won’t ask.”

The air at the table lightened by a fraction. Agatha reached across and squeezed his shoulder, grateful for his maturity. Rio offered him a small smile, though her eyes glistened with the residue of memories she wished she could scrub clean.

Scratchy, however, decided the moment was too solemn for his liking. He nudged Nicky’s thigh with his snout, then let out a sharp bark that made the boy jump.

“Hey!” Nicky laughed, the tension breaking at last. “You just want my chicken, don’t you?” He held up a forkful teasingly, waving it just out of reach while Scratchy’s tail beat like a drum against the chair legs.

Agatha groaned, though a smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “Don’t feed him from the table, Nicky. We’ve talked about this.”

“He looks like he’s starving,” Nicky protested, though Scratchy’s round belly and glossy coat said otherwise. “Just a little piece?”

Rio leaned back in her chair, the faintest trace of amusement lighting her face for the first time all evening. “You’re not going to win that argument with your mom, baby. She’s stubborn.”

“I’m not a baby.”

“And I am not stubborn,” Agatha objected immediately at the same time, which only made Rio and Nicky burst into laughter.

Scratchy barked again, as if adding his own vote to the matter. Finally, with a long-suffering sigh, Agatha caved. “Fine. One bite. But that’s it.”

Nicky grinned triumphantly, slipping the dog a morsel of chicken. Scratchy snapped it up in an instant, then licked Nicky’s hand with slobbery gratitude before flopping down again, content.

The mood at the table shifted—lighter now, easier. Agatha watched her son laugh, his teenage grin unburdened by the things she’d seen, and she felt a small swell of relief. He didn’t need to carry that darkness. Not tonight. Not ever, if she and Rio could help it.

Dinner went on with more chatter—safe topics this time. School gossip, a new movie Nicky wanted to see, Scratchy’s latest antics at the park. It wasn’t enough erased the horror of the case, but it was enough to remind them of what they were fighting for: this table, this laughter, this normalcy.

And for the first time since the farm, both Agatha and Rio managed to eat without feeling the taste of ashes in their mouths.

After the last bites of dinner had been cleared away, Agatha and Rio settled into the living room with Nicky sprawled across the rug and Señor Scratchy bounding happily between them, tail wagging like a metronome. The house was warm, lit softly by the standing lamp in the corner and the amber glow of the city lights filtering through the blinds. It felt almost surreal, this peace, after the week they’d endured—the case, the farm, the twisted truth about the Grimes family.

“Alright, Scratchy,” Nicky said, tossing a small plush toy across the room. “Catch!”

The dog leapt expertly, snagging the toy mid-air before skidding on the rug and trotting back, triumphant. Nicky clapped, laughing, and Agatha couldn’t help but smile at the sight. Rio sat cross-legged nearby, leaning slightly against the sofa, her hand resting on Scratchy’s back as she stroked his fur.

“You know,” Nicky said, rolling onto his side to face them, “I think Scratchy might like me more than you two.”

“Impossible,” Agatha said, raising an eyebrow. “I’ve been feeding him for years. He’s loyal to me.”

“Loyal? Maybe,” Rio countered, her tone playful but soft. “But I give him belly rubs. That counts for something, right, boy?” The dog responded with a happy woof and a wag, and a lick to the cheek, as if confirming her statement.

The three of them laughed, the sound filling the living room, pushing away the shadows of the past few days. Agatha felt herself finally exhale, the tension in her shoulders loosening.

The Grimes family might be twisted, but theirs was not.

Far from it.

 

 

Chapter 9

Notes:

The whole story is written!!! It took me five months but I finally finished. Now I just have to decide when to post the chapters. Hope you'll like it and tell me what you think!

 

Saturday morning arraived bright and unseasonably warm, and Westview’s farmer’s market was already bustling with families, couples, and clusters of friends weaving between the colorful stalls.  A folk band strummed softly near the fountain, their voices carrying over the hum of chatter and laughter of the day.

For once, the whole team had gathered without badges, guns, or looming case files. Billy appeared first, a little awkward but glowing with happiness, hand in hand with his new boyfriend Eddie, who had a mop of curly hair and an easy smile. Behind them, Alice and Jen pushed a stroller carrying two-year-old Lorna, who was wide-eyed and delighted at everything around her—the balloons tied to carts, the dogs passing by, the samples of jam pressed into eager hands. And not far behind came Agatha and Rio, walking close but careful, the space between them just wide enough to sell the illusion of colleagues enjoying a weekend outing, Señor Scratchy trotting happily beside them.

“Look at this turnout,” Alice said cheerfully, steering the stroller past a display of honey jars shaped like bears. “If Westview keeps growing, we’re going to need two markets.”

“Fine by me,” Billy said, tossing Eddie a grin. “Means more food stands to try.”

Eddie squeezed his hand and laughed. “You just want an excuse to eat three breakfasts.”

Agatha’s lips quirked at that, but before she could make a teasing remark, Alice glanced back at her with a curious tilt of the head. “Hey, where’s Nicky today? I thought he’d be all over something like this.”

Agatha slipped her hands in her coat pockets, her expression softening at the mention of her son. “He’s over at a friend’s house for the weekend. He barely remembered to say goodbye before running out the door.”

Rio’s lips twitched, fighting a smile, and Alice chuckled knowingly. “Ah, the independence stage. We’ll get there soon enough with Lorna.”

Agatha glanced meaningfully at the stroller, then smirked. “Just wait until she’s fifteen and thinks she knows everything. You’ll pray for the days when her biggest rebellion was throwing peas on the floor.”

Jen groaned dramatically. “Don’t remind me. I’m not ready for her to be a teenager.” She leaned down, brushing Lorna’s curls. “Stay small forever, okay?”

Lorna babbled something that sounded suspiciously like “no,” which set the whole group laughing, before the little girl reached towards Scratchy, her little hands making grabby hands towards the white furry beast. The dog good-naturedly pawed closer, letting himself be petted by the eager little hands.

They drifted between stalls together, stopping to sample apples at one table, warm scones at another. Eddie charmed the vendor into slipping him an extra piece, which Billy immediately stole, popping it into his mouth before Eddie could protest. Alice and Jen picked up fresh flowers—sunflowers, which Lorna insisted on holding despite the stems being taller than her. Rio lingered at a booth selling handmade soaps, running her fingers across the lavender-scented bars. Agatha hung close, offering nothing more than a murmured comment about which one Nicky would like, but her gaze lingered on Rio’s profile longer than it should have.

It felt almost dangerous, this simplicity. Standing side by side, their shoulders brushing as they bent to look at jars of marmalade, pretending they were just two coworkers enjoying a Saturday. Agatha caught herself wanting to reach for Rio’s hand, to let it rest between them as naturally as breathing. Instead, she forced her focus on the jars and muttered, “Apricot or raspberry?”

Rio gave her a sly smile, quiet enough so no one else could hear. “Both. Life’s too short to choose. Besides, we’re almost out.”

Billy and Eddie had wandered to a coffee stand, returning with two steaming cups. “Best cold brew in town,” Billy announced proudly. “Eddie says it passes the test.”

“It does,” Eddie confirmed. “Though I’m starting to think he just wanted to show off that he’s a regular here.”

Alice rolled her eyes. “You two are disgusting.”

“Give them time,” Agatha murmured under her breath, earning a hidden smirk from Rio.

They eventually found a wide patch of grass near the fountain where they could sit. Alice spread a blanket for Lorna to play on, scattering a few toys from the stroller. The toddler busied herself happily, babbling at her stuffed dog while the adults relaxed with their purchases. Jen lay back on her elbows, sunglasses perched on her nose, despite the cool air, while Alice fussed with a container of olives. Billy and Eddie leaned against each other, still giggling over some private joke.

For a long while, Agatha simply watched. She felt the edge of the week’s horror still clinging to her bones, but here, in the warmth of the sun and the sound of laughter, it dulled. She glanced sideways at Rio, who was sitting with her legs folded neatly, sipping from a paper cup of tea. Rio caught her looking, and for a fleeting second, the barrier between them cracked. Something sofened in her gaze, quiet and intimate, meant only for Agatha.

Agatha let it made her smile, then looked away, focusing instead on Lorna toddling toward Billy, who scooped her up with a delighted laugh.

But the cheerful hum of the farmer’s market was shattered in an instant by a high-pitched scream. It sliced through the music, the chatter, the clinking of cups, leaving a sharp silence in its wake. Heads turned. Conversations died. Agatha’s instincts, honed by years of cases, snapped into place before her conscious mind caught up. She was on her feet, her entire posture changing, eyes sweeping the crowd for danger.

The others reacted the same way. Jen was already up, her hand going to where her holster would normally be if she weren’t off duty. Billy’s easy smile dropped, replaced by sharp alertness. Rio straightened, eyes narrowing as she followed Agatha’s line of sight.

“Over there,” Agatha muttered, already striding across the cobblestones toward the sound, the dog dutifully following.

Near a stall selling handmade quilts, a woman stood, frantic, clutching at her hair. Her husband mirrored her panic, turning in circles, scanning every direction with wide, helpless eyes. “Luna! Luna!” the woman cried, voice breaking.

Agatha slipped past the gawkers gathering at a distance. She lifted her badge from her coat pocket, flashing it quickly but firmly. She never went anywhere without it. Force of habit. “Detective Harkness, Westview PD,” she said, her tone steady and commanding. “This is my team. Tell me what happened—we can help.”

The woman whirled toward her, face blotchy with tears, clutching Agatha’s sleeve as though she were the only solid thing in a dissolving world. “My daughter—our little girl—she was right here! We looked away for just a second and—” Her words broke into sobs.

The father’s voice cracked. “She’s gone. We can’t find her. Luna—”

Agatha steadied the mother’s hands between her own, grounding her. “Listen to me. We’re going to find her. I need you to focus just long enough to tell me: how old is Luna? What was she wearing?”

“She’s eight,” the mother sobbed. “Jeans and a pink coat. She—she had her hair in braids this morning, two braids—”

Agatha nodded once, firm and decisive. “Good. That helps. We’ll find her.” She turned to her team, already snapping into motion.

“Jen—start canvassing. Ask every stall in a fifty-foot radius if they’ve seen an eight-year-old girl in a pink coat.”

“On it,” Jen said, her stride already purposeful as she moved into the crowd.

“Billy—get to the entrance. Talk to security, shut down the exits if you can. Nobody leaves without a kid matching that description being accounted for.”

Billy’s jaw tightened, but he gave a sharp nod. “Right.” He sprinted toward the edge of the market, dodging startled vendors.

“Rio,” Agatha said, softer but just as firm, “stay with them. Keep them calm, keep them steady. I’ll need them focused if anything comes up.”

Rio stepped forward, making eye contact with the mother. Her voice gentled instantly, low and even. “You’re doing everything right. I know it’s terrifying, but we’re going to help you. I need you to breathe for me, okay? Just one breath at a time.”

The woman gulped air, clinging to Rio’s calm presence.

Agatha glanced at Alice, who had scooped Lorna back into the stroller, her face pale but composed. “Alice, stay here. Keep Lorna safe and hold this position in case Luna circles back.”

Alice nodded, pulling the stroller closer to her body. “Got it.”

Agatha turned back to the couple. “I need to know—was Luna upset this morning? Did she wander off before? Is there anywhere in the market she especially likes to go?”

“She—she loves the carrousel,” the father stammered, pointing shakily toward the far side of the fountain. “But we checked there already—”

Agatha didn’t waste time. “I’ll check again. Stay with Agent Vidal.” She locked eyes with Rio for a heartbeat, a silent message passing between them: keep them together, keep them from falling apart. Rio gave the faintest nod.

Agatha moved off quickly, cutting through the flow of the crowd. She scanned faces, eyes sharp for flashes of pink in the sea of coats. Her mind raced, calculating probabilities—child wandering off versus child taken. The second thought made her chest tighten, but she shoved it down. Panic would help no one.

Behind her, she could hear Jen calling questions to vendors, her authoritative voice rising above the market’s noise. Billy’s voice carried faintly from the entrance, sharp and insistent as he explained the urgency to the security guard. Alice was quiet but vigilant, hand resting protectively on Lorna’s stroller handle.

Back near the distraught parents, Rio kept her voice low and grounding. “You said she had braids. Did she have any accessories? Hair ties, ribbons—anything bright?”

“Pink ribbons,” the mother whispered, clutching her throat. “With little stars.”

“That’s perfect,” Rio said softly, tucking the detail away. She squeezed the woman’s hands gently. “We’ll find her. We’ll do everything we can.”

The couple’s desperation was raw, a mirror of fear Rio knew too intimately. The image of a missing child, the sound of parents screaming—it cut too close to home, but she forced the memories down. This wasn’t about her. This was about Luna.

Agatha’s voice came through sharp and focused from a short distance away.  “I want every booth asked. Check bathrooms, side alleys, anywhere a kid might hide. Nobody assumes the worst until we’ve ruled out the best.”

The team fanned out, the market’s easy weekend atmosphere now taut with dread. People whispered, glanced around nervously, some parents pulling their children closer.

And at the heart of it, a mother’s sobs echoed against the stalls, a reminder of what was at stake.

 

---

 

Two hours had crawled by, heavy and relentless, the once-bright hum of the farmer’s market long gone. What should have been a morning of laughter and simple pleasures had transformed into a tense, drawn-out nightmare.

Officers from the precinct had joined the search, combing through every aisle, every restroom, every stall and alley within a two-block radius. Still—nothing.

Luna was nowhere.

Agatha had not stopped moving. She had paced every corner of the market, spoken with every vendor, every bystander, her tone clipped and authoritative. Exhaustion was creeping into her bones, but she shoved it down. There was no room for it. Not when an eight-year-old was missing.

Alice and Jen had rejoined the effort after sending little Lorna home with a trusted babysitter. It had been Alice’s idea—she couldn’t risk her daughter seeing this panic, couldn’t stand her being anywhere near danger. Jen had agreed, albeit reluctantly, but now both were back, free to throw themselves into the search. Alice’s tech-trained eyes scanned the crowd and surrounding rooftops with precision, while Jen checked in with the patrol officers coordinating the perimeter.

Agatha was in the middle of questioning a man who ran a fruit stand—his account was useless, another vague recollection of a child in pink somewhere between the fountain and the flower stalls—when something tugged at the edge of her vision. A flicker of color on the ground, half-tucked under a wooden crate stacked with apples.

She excused herself abruptly, crouched, and reached for it.

Her fingers closed around soft fabric.

A small stuffed rabbit, cream-colored, one ear slightly bent, a bright blue bow tied neatly around its neck.

Agatha’s stomach clenched. She lifted it carefully with a tissue to not tamper with it, as though it might shatter. The toy was well-loved, its fur worn in places, but it was unmistakably a child’s treasure.

Heart thudding, she crossed back to where Rio was still with the parents, her stride firm but deliberate. The mother looked up, eyes swollen and red, and when she saw what Agatha carried, her face crumpled completely.

“That’s—” she gasped, hand flying to her mouth. Her voice broke into a sob. “That’s Luna’s bunny. That’s her Flopsy. We always tell her she’s too old to be carrying it around but she always insists and Daniel always caves.”

The father reached out with trembling hands, but stopped short of taking it, as if touching the toy might make the reality worse. His jaw worked soundlessly before he finally rasped, “She never goes anywhere without it even if she tries to hide it.”

Agatha’s voice was low, calm but edged with gravity. “You’re certain this is hers? No mistake?”

The mother nodded so quickly her ponytail bounced. “Yes. I tied that bow myself this morning. She never puts it down. If it’s here, then—” She broke off, choking on her words, the rest unspoken but heavy in the air.

Rio slid an arm gently around the woman’s shoulders. “She might still be walking around somewhere, waiting of you. One breath at a time.”

Agatha studied them both for a long moment, her gaze sharp, searching. Then she asked carefully, “I need you to be absolutely certain—there’s no chance Luna wandered off on her own? No chance she decided to explore? Sometimes children do, even the quiet ones.”

The father’s head snapped up, his eyes flashing with something between despair and offense. “No. You don’t understand. Luna doesn’t do that. She’s shy. She clings to us in public—she’s afraid of crowds. She’d never just… wander off. Not without us noticing.”

The mother nodded, tears streaming. “It’s not like her. She wouldn’t. She wouldn’t leave us.”

Agatha’s jaw tightened. She gave a single, grave nod, turning the plush rabbit in her hand thoughtfully. The weight of their certainty pressed down on her like iron. If Luna hadn’t left on her own, then the implications were clear—and far darker.

Agatha stepped a few paces away, her eyes locking onto Jen, Alice, Billy, and finally Rio. She gestured subtly with a tilt of her head, calling them in.

It was time for a briefing.

The team gathered a little away from the distraught parents, close enough to keep an eye on them but far enough that their words would not carry. The chatter of the market had dimmed to a subdued murmur, as though the whole place was holding its breath. Agatha scanned her team, her eyes sharp but tired. She hesitated for just a fraction of a second, her gaze lingering on Rio.

She knew what she was about to say would strike her wife harder than the others. She wished she could shield her from it, soften the blow—but here, with their marriage a secret and Rio’s past a locked-away truth, Agatha had no choice. The detective straightened, her voice firm when she spoke.

“All right,” Agatha said, low and measured. “We’ve covered every corner of this market, every stand, every restroom, every alley. Nothing. The only thing we found—” she held up the stuffed rabbit briefly before lowering it again “—is Luna’s toy, abandoned. That tells us one thing, and one thing only.”

Her pause was deliberate. The silence felt heavy.

“That girl has been kidnapped.”

The words dropped like stones into the circle.

Rio’s ears rang the instant she heard them, a high-pitched, suffocating buzz. Her pulse leapt. The world seemed to tilt. For one awful heartbeat, she wasn’t in the market anymore—she was eight years old again, clutching Naya’s hand in the dark, listening to a man’s voice telling them to behave, to be perfect, or else. The smell of mildew, the oppressive silence, the endless lessons—it all rushed back like a tide threatening to drag her under.

Her throat tightened. Her hand twitched at her side. She could almost hear Naya’s frightened breath.

But then, Agatha’s eyes.

Steady, locked on hers across the small circle. Not pitying, not soft, but grounding. Agatha knew. Agatha always knew.

Rio drew a long, deliberate breath and forced herself back into the moment, letting her hand rest on her dog’s head. Her gaze met her wife’s, more at ease under that silent tether. She gave a small, subtle nod. I’m okay. I can do this.

Agatha’s shoulders eased, just barely. She dipped her chin in acknowledgment before letting her gaze sweep back over the rest of the team.

Rio stepped forward, her voice even, calm, professional—her job her anchor. “Abducting a child in a crowded market, right in front of her parents, is a massive risk for any perpetrator.” She folded her arms, thinking aloud the way she always did when parsing patterns. “That level of risk usually means one of two things. Either this was impulsive—someone saw an opportunity and grabbed it without thinking through the consequences. Or—” her eyes narrowed, her tone sharper “—it was a meticulously premeditated plan. One designed to take advantage of the noise, the distractions, the parents’ momentary lapses. A plan carried out carefully, quickly, with no mistakes.”

Alice frowned, glancing back toward where the parents sat, hunched over. “But how would someone plan something like this? They’d have to know Luna was going to be here.”

“Exactly,” Rio said, nodding once. “If it’s the second scenario, then this wasn’t random. It was targeted. Someone knew she’d be here today, at this time, with her parents, and prepared for it.”

Jen’s mouth tightened into a grim line. “And if it’s the first scenario?”

“Then we’re dealing with someone reckless,” Rio replied. “Which is dangerous in its own way. An impulsive abductor is unpredictable. They don’t think ahead. They make mistakes—but they can also panic. And when people like that panic, they get violent.”

Billy shifted uncomfortably, his youthful face drawn. “So either way, Luna’s in danger.”

The silence that followed was short but heavy.

Agatha finally broke it. “That’s what we’re looking at. Two possible profiles. Either impulsive, or meticulous. We’ll figure out which soon enough. But right now—” she gestured to the rest of the team “—we need to treat this as an abduction case. No more wasted time.”

Alice gave a short nod, her hands tightening around her phone as though already itching to pull up maps, camera footage, anything she could. Jen’s jaw was set like stone. Billy swallowed, his face pale, but his posture assertive under the weight of responsibility.

Rio exhaled slowly, folding her arms tighter around herself for a brief moment before loosening again. She caught Agatha’s eyes one more time, and though no one else noticed, that quiet exchange held a world in it. I’ll hold it together. I’m with you. Stay close.

Agatha gave her team a final look, her expression hardening with resolve. “Meet me back at the station as soon as possible. We’ve got a new case on our hands.”

She glanced one last time toward the parents, their broken faces bent towards each other. A pang hit her chest—but she pushed it aside. She had no room for hesitation.

The hunt had begun.

 

---

 

The air inside the Westview precinct conference room was far quieter than the bustle of the farmer’s market, but it was no less heavy. The blinds were half-drawn, muting the afternoon light. At the long table sat Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair, their hands intertwined so tightly that their knuckles had turned white. Across from them, Agatha and Rio sat with open notebooks, pens at the ready, but their gazes were softer than their postures suggested.

Agatha cleared her throat gently, her voice still string. “Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair, I know this is difficult. But the more we understand about your lives, your family, and any possible connections, the better our chances of finding Luna. Can you walk us through your family—relatives, friends, anyone close enough to know your routines?”

The parents exchanged a glance, their faces drawn and pale. Mrs. Sinclair spoke first, her voice trembling but audible. “We—we don’t have much family nearby. My parents passed away years ago. Daniel’s father too. His mother is in a retirement home, but she’s in no condition to travel.”

Daniel Sinclair gave a small nod, his jaw tightening. “We don’t have enemies. No debts. We live quietly. We work, we raise our daughter, we keep to ourselves.”

Rio leaned forward slightly, her tone calm but coaxing. “And there’s no one in your circle—friends, neighbors, coworkers—who might have shown unusual interest in Luna? Someone who has ever made you feel uncomfortable?”

They shook their heads quickly, almost too quickly.

“No,” Mrs. Sinclair whispered. “Not with Luna. But—” She stopped, her throat closing. Her fingers tightened around her husband’s.

Agatha noticed the flicker immediately. She leaned in, her detective’s intuition picking at the hesitation. “But what?”

The silence stretched. Finally, Daniel exhaled slowly, his gaze fixed on the table. “This isn’t…this isn’t the first time.”

Agatha and Rio froze, exchanging a sharp look.

“Not the first?” Rio asked carefully.

Daniel swallowed. His voice was thick when he continued. “We had another daughter. Hazel. She disappeared twenty-six years ago. She was eight too.”

The words hung in the air like a thunderclap.

Agatha felt her chest tighten. “Disappeared?”

Mrs. Sinclair broke then, her composure shattering. Tears spilled down her cheeks as she choked out the words. “Kidnapped. That’s what the police said at the time. We were very young at the time, barely twenty, and living in Eastview then. Hazel went to play outside in the yard one afternoon…and she never came back. They searched everywhere. Questioned everyone. But they never found her.”

Rio’s pen had gone still in her hand, the ink pooling in a tiny dot against the paper. Her throat constricted, a bitter chill crawling up her spine. She knew that devastation. She’d lived it from the other side. The raw wound that never fully healed. Forcing her voice to remain even, she asked, “And there were no leads? Nothing at all?”

Daniel shook his head bitterly. “It went cold. Months of searching, years of hoping, and nothing. Eventually…they told us to move on. But how do you move on from that?” His voice cracked, his fingers curling into fists.

Agatha exchanged another long, heavy look with Rio. Two daughters. Twenty years apart. Both taken. This wasn’t random. Couldn’t be.

Agatha straightened, her detective’s steel returning. “Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair…we cannot dismiss this as coincidence. Two daughters, taken in similar ways—it tells us something. Whoever is behind this may have a connection to your family, past or present. We will be re-examining Hazel’s case alongside Luna’s. If there are links, we’ll find them.”

Mrs. Sinclair sobbed openly now, burying her face against her husband’s shoulder. He held her, his own tears threatening.

Agatha’s tone softened, the promise carrying weight. “I know you’ve lived through this nightmare before. I know trust is difficult, given what happened twenty years ago. But I give you my word—this team will do everything possible to bring Luna back to you. We won’t let this become another cold case.”

The couple nodded, broken but grateful, clinging to any thread of hope. After a few more reassurances, Agatha stood, offering them space. Rio quietly handed Mrs. Sinclair a box of tissues, her eyes softer now, the storm inside her carefully masked.

They left the conference room slowly, hand in hand, looking smaller than when they had entered.

Once the door shut behind them, silence filled the space.

Agatha let out a long breath, running a hand over her face. Then she turned to Rio.

“Two girls. Same family,” Agatha murmured. “This isn’t chance.”

“No,” Rio replied quietly. “It’s a pattern.”

Agatha’s jaw tightened with resolve. “We’re reopening Hazel Sinclair’s case. And we’re finding out what happened to both of them.”

With that, she gathered her notes, ready to rejoin the rest of the team.

The bullpen hummed with urgency. The farmer’s market was far behind them now; gone were the chatter of families and the scent of baked bread and flowers. Instead, the whiteboard stood at the center of their focus, blank except for the bold, block letters Agatha had written across the top: SINCLAIR CASES.

Alice was already at the board, pinning up a photo of Luna, her small, round face framed by dark hair, a smile that was almost too big for her features. Beside it went an aged, slightly faded photograph of Hazel Sinclair, a girl of the same age two decades earlier. There was a clear resemblance between the sisters—same shy smile, same soulful eyes. The sight of them side by side sent a shiver through the room.

Agatha moved to stand at the head of the board, marker in hand, walking around Scratchy who refused to stray far from Rio. Her wife stood a little to her right, arms crossed tightly over her chest, her expression unreadable. Jen and Billy sat at their desks, flipping through their preliminary notes. Lilia strode in from her office, her sharp gaze sweeping over the scene.

Alice turned as she heard the Director’s heels click against the floor. “Amber Alert is out. Statewide, not just local. So far, no hits. No reports, no tips.” She exhaled, frustration creeping in. “It’s like Luna vanished into thin air.”

Lilia folded her arms, posture commanding. “Have we considered the obvious? Statistically speaking, child abductions are overwhelmingly committed by family members. Custody battles, grudges, secrets. Did you check the Sinclairs’ circle thoroughly?”

Jen lifted her chin. “Yes. I did the interviews while Billy cross-checked financials and digital communications. The Sinclairs are clean. No debts, no disputes. Extended family is either deceased, estranged, or incapacitated. Neighbors gave nothing suspicious. As far as we can tell, there’s no motive from inside the family.”

Billy nodded in agreement, spinning slightly in his chair, papers in hand. “I went over their phones, emails, and bank records. There’s nothing. No weird transactions, no shady contacts. It doesn’t look like anyone close to them is behind this.”

Lilia’s eyes narrowed, sharp but not accusing. “So you’re telling me two daughters vanish from the same family, twenty six apart, and you’re ruling out the parents?”

The silence that followed was heavy. Rio shifted, her gaze still fixed on the whiteboard, the two photos staring back at her. Her mind had begun drifting again, spiraling down familiar corridors of memory—the sharp smell of chalk on a blackboard, her sister’s soft crying in the night, the sound of the lock clicking on the door of that place. She felt the pressure building in her chest, that ringing in her ears threatening to drown out the present.

Agatha, watching closely, caught it. She didn’t move closer—couldn’t, not here—but she lingered on Rio with her eyes, willing her silently to stay grounded.

Then Lilia asked the question that snapped Rio back.

“Are we even sure these two cases are connected? Hazel disappeared more than twenty five ago. Luna today. That’s a long stretch. Could be coincidence.”

Rio blinked, then inhaled sharply, her eyes sharpening as she finally spoke. “No. It’s more than likely they’re connected. Two daughters from the same family, taken at the same age under their parents’ noses? This isn’t random.”

The team turned to her, listening intently. Rio unfolded her arms, stepping toward the board. Her hands moved with precision, gesturing to Hazel’s photo, then Luna’s. “We’re looking at one of two things. Either it’s someone with a long-standing obsession specifically with the Sinclair children, or it’s someone targeting the parents, making them suffer by taking their daughters. In either case, the family is the anchor point. That’s the connection.”

Agatha’s chest eased just slightly. That was the Rio she knew—pulling herself back from the brink, cutting through noise with clarity.

Alice tapped her pen against the edge of the desk. “If it’s an obsession, we’d need to look at anyone who might have been around back then. Teachers, neighbors, anyone who knew Hazel when she was alive and could still be lurking now.”

“Or,” Billy added, “if it’s about the parents, we should look at Daniel and Mary Sinclair’s past. Work history, old disputes, any enemies that might’ve been forgotten.”

Lilia considered this, her expression neutral but measured. “So we have two working theories: obsession with the daughters, or revenge against the parents. Either way, if this perpetrator has resurfaced after twenty years, they’re careful. Meticulous. That makes them dangerous.”

Rio nodded once, her expression cool but her hands clenched lightly at her sides. “This isn’t someone who just grabbed Luna on impulse. If it were, we’d have more traces, more panic in the execution. Whoever this is—they planned it. Maybe not the exact moment, but the opportunity. They took a risk, yes, but one they knew how to manage.”

Jen leaned forward, jotting notes. “Which means they’ll also know how to hide her.”

The bullpen fell silent again.

Agatha finally capped her marker and set it on the ledge beneath the board. “All right. We split focus. Alice, work the digital angle—anything on the Sinclairs’ social media, old photos, mentions of Hazel or Luna. Billy, you and Jen dig into the parents’ past. Colleagues, disputes, anyone they might’ve angered. Rio and I will start reconstructing Hazel’s case file. If this is the same person, the answer’s in there.”

Her gaze swept the team, then lingered on Rio again for just longer a heartbeat. “We’re not letting this one go cold.”

Lilia’s eyes swept across the bullpen again, thoughtful but decisive. “All of you are right,” she said at last, her voice carrying the sharp edge of command. “We cannot treat Hazel and Luna as separate cases. Too many parallels, too much overlap. If Hazel’s file was left to gather dust, then it’s time we shake it free.”

She placed her hands on her hips, her tone firm. “First step—contact the detective in charge back then. We need everything they knew twenty years ago, every scrap of detail that got buried or forgotten. That case might have been written off as cold, but it’s our best chance of understanding what’s happening now.”

Alice was already lowering herself into her chair, pulling her tablet closer with practiced ease. “On it,” she said briskly, fingers flying across the glass screen. Her brows furrowed in concentration as she pulled up the archives. The soft clacking of her nails against the device filled the air, punctuated by quick swipes as she dug deeper.

The others watched, tension buzzing in the room. Agatha stayed standing by the whiteboard, arms folded, her expression tight but composed. Rio, still close beside her, had leaned slightly forward, her gaze focused on Alice’s screen as though sheer willpower could speed the process.

“Here we go,” Alice murmured after a few beats. Her tone had shifted into something sharper, professional. “Hazel Sinclair’s file. Case opened in 1999, marked unresolved in 2003, cold by 2005. Lead investigator was… Detective Jonathan Brown. According to the system, he retired about nine years ago.”

“Retired,” Jen repeated, frowning slightly. “Still in Westview?”

Alice’s fingers tapped again. “Give me a second—yes. Found him. Outskirts of town. Current address is listed as a small house just outside town, near Crestfield Road.” She turned the tablet for the others to see, the map glowing on the screen with a little red pin marking the spot. “Not too far, twenty minutes’ drive tops.”

Lilia leaned in, studying the screen for a moment before straightening. “Good work, Gulliver. That’s our first real lead.” Her gaze swung toward Agatha and Rio. “You two—go see him. Brown handled Hazel’s disappearance from day one. Whatever theories he had, whatever evidence never made it into the files, he’s the one who’ll know.”

Agatha gave a crisp nod. “We’ll leave right away.”

Rio inclined her head too, though her jaw was tight, and Agatha noticed the faint tremor in her hand before she curled it into a fist around Scratchy’s leash.

Jen glanced between them, her voice tinged with concern. “You think he’ll even talk to us after all this time? Retired cops can be… prickly.”

Lilia’s eyes sharpened. “Then make him talk. Hazel Sinclair’s disappearance was a stain on this department. If he knows anything—even if it’s just one overlooked detail—you get it out of him. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Director,” Agatha answered firmly.

Rio’s agreement came softer, but steady as awell. “Clear.”

Alice, still seated, added quickly, “I’ll send you his last known number and some background info to your phones. If he’s not at home, at least you’ll have ways to track him down.”

Billy spoke up for the first time in a while, adjusting the strap of his messenger bag slung across his shoulder. “Should we keep digging here in the meantime?”

Agatha turned toward him, her expression easing for a fraction of a second. “Yes. Hazel’s file should still be in the archives downstairs. See if there’s anything Alice can’t pull up digitally. Sometimes paper records hold more than the system.”

“On it,” Billy said, already moving.

Jen rose too, gathering her notes. “We’ll cross-check names from Hazel’s time with current databases. If anyone back then so much as sneezed in the wrong direction, we’ll know.”

“Good,” Lilia said, her tone final. “Everyone has their assignment. Let’s move.”

The team scattered like a machine shifting into gear, each cog taking its place. Alice was still muttering to herself as she fine-tuned the digital file. Jen and Billy exchanged a quick glance before diving toward the archives.

Agatha grabbed her coat from the back of her chair, slinging it over one arm. She turned toward Rio, catching her wife’s eye for just a fleeting second.

Rio exhaled slowly, adjusting her scarf around her neck. She looked calm on the outside, her usual poise intact, but Agatha could see through it as clearly as if Rio had been speaking aloud. This wasn’t just a case for her. It was a wound reopening, an old scar tugged raw by time. Even if not linked.

Agatha wanted nothing more than to reach out, to brush her fingers against Rio’s hand and tell her she wasn’t alone. But with the team around them, the secrecy of their marriage still pressing in on all sides, she held back.

Instead, Agatha’s voice carried, low but determined. “Come one, Vidal. Let’s go see Brown.”

Rio nodded once, firmly this time, and together they strode out of the bullpen, followed by their faithful companion, the weight of Hazel and Luna Sinclair’s faces following them.

 

 

Chapter 10

 

Agatha guided the car through the city streets, her jaw tight as she concentrated on the road. The night air hung heavy with silence, punctuated only by the rhythmic hum of the engine. Señor Scratchy sprawled lazily in the backseat, his great fluffy body shifting with every bump in the road, occasionally lifting his head to rest it on Rio’s shoulder from behind.

Agatha kept glancing sideways at Rio, her wife’s profile illuminated by the blur of streetlights flashing past the window. She saw the calm mask Rio had perfected—composed, precise, unshaken—but Agatha knew better than anyone that the calm was not the whole truth. She’d lived long enough at her side to read the signs: the subtle stiffness in her shoulders, the way her hands tightened slightly in her lap before deliberately unclenching, the faintest shadow of something raw in her gaze.

Rio usually avoided cases like these, and not because she lacked the skill—if anything, her insights into abduction cases were unmatched. But the cost to her was steep, pulling her back into memories that were better left buried. Agatha felt that weight pressing against her now, pressing against them both, and the protective instinct in her chest ached to shield her from it.

Finally, Agatha spoke, her voice soft, testing. “You sure you’re okay with this, my love?” She tightened her grip on the wheel for a moment. “I know these cases… they take more out of you than most.”

Rio turned her head, meeting her wife’s eyes. For a beat, the façade slipped, just enough to show the tiredness underneath. But then she exhaled, slow and steady, and reached across the console, sliding her hand into Agatha’s. Her touch was warm, her fingers threading firmly between Agatha’s.

“I want to help,” Rio said quietly. “If Luna was taken like Hazel… then maybe something we find now can stop another family from losing their child forever. I can handle it.”

Agatha searched her eyes, not entirely convinced, but unwilling to push her further. She knew when Rio drew a line in the sand. If she said she wanted to help, then Agatha would respect that—while doing everything in her power to soften the blows where she could.

She gave a single nod, squeezing Rio’s hand before returning her gaze to the road. “All right. But I’m right here if it gets too much. You just need to say the word."

Rio’s lips curved in the faintest of smiles. “I know,” she whispered.

The rest of the drive passed in silence. Agatha kept one hand on the steering wheel and the other firmly entwined with Rio’s. Señor Scratchy gave a low, approving huff from the back, as though satisfied that his two favorite humans were connected again, before resting his massive head against the seat.

By the time the city gave way to quieter roads and the houses thinned out, the air between them had settled. They turned onto Crestfield Road. At the end of the lane, an older house waited, tucked behind an overgrown garden and half-hidden by trees. The paint was chipped, the porch sagged slightly, and the mailbox bore the faded lettering: Brown.

Agatha parked in front of the house, cutting the engine. For a moment, neither moved, the stillness stretching inside the car. Finally, Agatha gave Rio’s hand one last squeeze. “Ready?”

Rio looked at the house, then back at Agatha. Her nod was steady this time. “Ready.”

Señor Scratchy perked up as if in agreement, his tail thumping once against the seat. Together, the three of them stepped out and towards the house.

The knock on the door echoed through the quiet street, breaking the stillness of the evening. Agatha stood tall, shoulders squared, while Rio shifted slightly at her side, one hand holding Señor Scratchy’s leash. From inside, there was the faint shuffle of footsteps and then the door creaked open, revealing a man well into his seventies. His hair was white and thin, his frame bent with age, but his eyes—sharp, pale blue—still carried a flicker of alertness that time hadn’t dulled.

“Detective Brown?” Agatha asked politely, flashing him her badge.

The old man nodded, looking between them, his gaze lingering on Scratchy with faint amusement. “That’s me. And you must be from Westview PD, I take it?”

Agatha introduced herself and Rio. He stepped aside, letting them through. Scratchy trotted in immediately as though he owned the place, his tail brushing against the furniture. Brown chuckled and bent with a groan to fetch a bowl from the kitchen. “Let me get your dog some water. Big fella like that must get thirsty.”

Rio smiled faintly, relaxing a little at his easy hospitality. “Thank you, he’ll appreciate that.”

The living room was cozy, filled with the clutter of a long life: bookshelves overflowing with paperbacks and files, a cabinet stacked with mismatched mugs, a faded armchair positioned perfectly in front of a small television. The air smelled faintly of wood polish and old newspapers.

Once Scratchy had settled in, lapping noisily at his water, Brown gestured toward the table. “Can I get you two something to drink? Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?”

“Water is fine,” Rio said softly, while Agatha declined with a polite shake of her head.

As Brown shuffled back into the kitchen to put on the kettle for himself and grab a glass, Agatha glanced at her wife. Rio’s eyes had already softened, scanning the room with the trained precision of someone who could not stop analyzing. Agatha reached out, brushing the back of Rio’s hand with her fingers briefly before straightening as Brown returned with steaming cups.

“So,” Brown said, lowering himself carefully into the chair across from them, “what brings you here after all this time? It’s been a long time since I last saw any colleagues here.”

Agatha looked at him. “Hazel Sinclair, do you remember her?”

Brown’s eyes widened a little, and he leaned back on his chair. “Hazel Sinclair’s case has been cold longer than I’d like to admit.”

Agatha exhaled slowly, no easy way to begin. “That’s why we’re here. We’re investigating a new disappearance—Hazel’s little sister, Luna.”

Brown froze mid-motion, the mug halfway to his lips. His eyes widened, and for a moment, he looked ten years younger. “Luna? My God… Are you telling me there’s been another kidnapping?”

Agatha nodded gravely. “Yes. Earlier today. We believe the cases may be connected, so we need everything you can tell us about Hazel’s disappearance.”

The old man set his tea down with trembling hands. His voice cracked when he spoke. “Hazel… that case—” He paused, his jaw tightening, and shook his head. “That was the biggest failure of my career. Not a day goes by I don’t think about that little girl.”

Rio leaned forward, her tone calm, professional but gentle. “Then you understand how important this is. Please, Detective, anything you remember could help us.”

Brown’s eyes glistened, but he steadied himself with a breath and began. “Hazel Sinclair disappeared on May 3rd, twenty-six years ago. Eight years old. Bright kid—liked drawing, reading. Her parents reported she vanished from their garden. We launched a massive search, scoured the neighborhood, questioned every resident. We thought at first it might’ve been a family member, but the Sinclairs checked out clean. No history of abuse, no debts, no enemies.”

He rubbed a hand across his face, sighing. “We had a few leads—neighbors reported seeing a dark sedan parked near the corner multiple times that week, but we never traced it. Cameras back then weren’t like today, grainy and scarce. We did door-to-door, got statements, but nothing concrete. Hazel seemed to have vanished into thin air.”

Agatha frowned, jotting notes quickly. “No witnesses at all? Nobody saw her get in a car, or anyone following her?”

“Nothing reliable,” Brown said bitterly. “We had one woman swear she saw Hazel talking to a man near the park, but when we pressed for details, she changed her story three times, probably wanted attention.”

Rio tilted her head, her mind working fast. “Did Hazel have any patterns? Places she frequented? Was there anyone new in the area around that time?”

Brown nodded slowly. “She liked going to the corner store for candy. The owner vouched she wasn’t there that day, though. As for newcomers, there were a couple of tenants who’d moved into a nearby building, but nothing tied them to her. We interviewed everyone, ran background checks—dead ends everywhere.”

“And no ransom demands?” Agatha asked.

“None. That was the strangest part. If it were a kidnapping for money, we’d have expected a call, a letter—something. But there was nothing. Just silence.” His voice faltered. “It felt… personal. Like someone took her just to make her disappear.”

Rio’s jaw tightened, but she pressed on. “What about setbacks? Anything that made you think you were close but lost it?”

Brown gave a hollow laugh. “Too many. We found a shoe in a vacant lot two weeks after. Thought it was hers—it wasn’t. A man with a prior record for stalking kids was living nearby, turned out he was out of town at the time. Every time we thought we had something, it fell apart.”

Agatha exchanged a heavy look with Rio. The pattern was too precise, too deliberate. Hazel had been erased, and now Luna was gone the same way.

Brown leaned forward, gripping his knees. “Tell me… do you really think these cases are connected?”

Agatha’s voice was steady, but her eyes softened with the weight of it. “Yes. And that’s why we need your help. This time, we can’t afford to lose her.”

 

---

 

Detective Brown had been speaking for what felt like hours, weaving between memories of frantic searches, dead-end tips, and the endless frustration of an investigation that never gave him answers. His voice had grown hoarse, and when he finally leaned back, staring into the depths of his cooling tea, a heavy silence filled the room.

Agatha closed her notebook but kept her pen poised. Something in his expression told her he wasn’t finished. He sat there, frowning into nothing, before finally letting out a long, weary sigh.

“There’s one thing I never put in the official reports,” he admitted, his tone low, as if confessing a crime. “Back then, I always suspected Hazel’s disappearance wasn’t random. I thought it was linked to another man—a predator who’d just started to be whispered about twenty years ago, right before he vanished off the face of the earth.”

Both Agatha and Rio straightened in their seats. Agatha’s sharp eyes locked on him immediately. “What man?” she pressed. “Why isn’t his name in the file?”

Brown gave a short, bitter laugh. “Because I never had proof. Nothing that would’ve held up. Just… my gut. And in this job, your gut doesn’t make a case. It just keeps you awake at night.”

“Tell us anyway,” Agatha said firmly.

The retired detective rubbed his temple, his shoulders sagging with the weight of memory. “He was already suspected—though never charged—of preying on little girls. Not the kind of predator who snatched a child at random, no. He was deliberate. Careful. Chose them like he was shopping. He’d watch them, learn their routines, figure out exactly when they were most vulnerable. And then—” Brown snapped his fingers weakly, “—he’d take them, sometimes right under their parents’ noses. Never left a trace. Never a fiber, never a fingerprint. Nothing. Impossible to prove. At least that's what I thought he could be doing.”

Rio stiffened in her seat. The description curled like ice in her stomach, each word digging under her skin. Her mind was already connecting threads she didn’t want to connect, whispers of her own past clawing at the back of her skull. Her hand twitched slightly in her lap, but she kept her expression neutral.

Agatha’s gaze flicked sideways toward her wife for the briefest second before returning to Brown. “If you suspected him,” Agatha said slowly, “why wasn’t he brought in? Why wasn’t he ever questioned?”

“Because every time we tried, he came up clean,” Brown said, frustration raw in his voice. “We searched his home—nothing. We dug into his past—clean. We tracked his movements—airtight alibis. The man was a ghost. We couldn’t hold him, not for longer than an hour or two. And the brass didn’t like me barking up a tree without evidence. Said I was wasting resources, chasing shadows. He was smart. Smarter than anyone wanted to admit.”

Agatha leaned forward, her pen hovering again. “What was he doing at the time?”

Brown hesitated, his jaw clenching as though saying it might give the man power again. “Lived in the county over, moved around a lot, but always in the area. Never stayed in one place longer than a year or two. Never gave a full name, just… existed. The kind of man people trusted because he was always around, helping and smiling. Hell, some even liked him. But me? I could feel it. That bastard was hiding in plain sight.”

Rio’s breath hitched almost imperceptibly, her spine rigid now. Scratchy, who had been stretched out lazily near the couch, lifted his massive head. His dark eyes flicked toward Rio, and with a low huff, he got up and padded closer. The dog pressed against her leg, warm and solid, his presence grounding her. Rio’s hand immediately sank into his fur, fingers tightening just slightly.

Agatha’s eyes didn’t miss the exchange. The subtle tremor in Rio’s shoulders, the way her jaw had gone tight. But she said nothing yet, giving her wife the silent space she clearly needed.

Detective Brown sat back heavily, his knuckles pale around the mug he hadn’t touched in a while. His voice was quieter now, shaded with the kind of sorrow that came with decades of regret.

“The thing is,” he said, “the man didn’t just vanish after Hazel. He was around for another three years. Less yes, but still there. And then—poof. Gone for good. No trail, no sightings, no whispers. We couldn’t track him. I thought maybe he’d died or gone overseas. For years, there wasn’t a single sign of him.”

Agatha frowned, jotting the timeline in her notebook. “And then?”

Brown’s eyes flicked up, their tired light catching on hers. “Then, a little more than a decade ago, a miracle. One of his victims reappeared—out of the blue, and she confirmed it had been him all along and that I wasn't just crazy for thinking he might have been behind it all. Grown by then, younger than Hazel would have been, but alive. She came back with scars and silence, but she came back. Not many do, you understand. Most never return.”

Rio’s hand froze mid-motion, her palm buried in Scratchy’s thick fur. Her pulse hammered in her ears, but she forced herself to sit still, to keep breathing. The room felt smaller suddenly, the air pressing in too close.

Agatha caught the flicker of strain in her wife’s expression and turned back quickly to Brown, her tone steady. “What happened? Did the girl talk? Did she give you anything that could lead you to him?”

Brown shook his head, the lines around his eyes deepening. “Her case wasn’t ours by then. Different jurisdiction, different set of hands. I wasn’t allowed near it. My superior told me flat-out: let it go. Too many years had passed, too many missing pieces, not enough links to Hazel. And besides, the girl’s identity was sealed to protect her. Only a handful of people ever knew her name. I never got to speak to her.”

Rio’s throat closed. She lowered her gaze, as though staring at her own knees could anchor her. Scratchy whined softly and pressed his heavy body even closer against her, sensing her unraveling.

Brown continued, oblivious. “But I was always convinced. Always. That Hazel was his first victim. Maybe even a trial run, before a few years later, he took the leap. Bolder. Bigger. That’s when he snatched that girl and her sister. Twins. From right under their parents’ noses, out of their own garden. Like he’d been preparing for it all along.”

The blood drained from Rio’s face.

Agatha felt it in her bones, the moment the puzzle clicked. Her pen stilled. Slowly, she turned her head, her gaze locking on her wife. Rio’s pale skin, her trembling lips, the way Scratchy’s protective hulk of a body seemed to anchor her in place—it all painted the truth before she dared to form the thought.

Agatha’s voice was soft, cautious. “Detective… do you remember the man’s name?”

Brown leaned forward, lowering his tone, as if the walls themselves could betray him. “He was never booked under his real name. To us and everybody, he was only known by an alias, said it was a superstition thing. He called himself…” He paused, tasting the word like poison. “…Thanos.”

Scratchy gave a sharp, distressed whine and nudged his head insistently under Rio’s arm. Rio flinched, her nails digging into his fur. Her breath caught in her throat.

Agatha’s stomach twisted. It all slid together like a cruel revelation.

Brown, oblivious to the storm brewing two feet from him, pressed on. “That victim who came back twelve years ago? I always believed she was one of the twins. The unlucky ones who got caught in his so-called project. He wanted them for something larger, more twisted. But she made it out, God knows how. But him? He was never found, neither was the other twin. Still out there, maybe. Still breathing hopefully. And Hazel… Hazel never got her justice.”

The words hung heavy in the room, but Agatha barely heard them. Her eyes were on Rio, who was staring at the floor like she could fall through it, her chest rising and falling too fast. Scratchy nudged her again, whining louder this time, protective and insistent.

Agatha reached out under the table, brushing her hand against Rio’s. Her wife didn’t move. Didn’t even look up. But Agatha felt how cold her skin was, how tight the tension ran through her fingers.

Detective Brown shook his head, letting out a humorless laugh. “I’ll tell you something, detectives. That man—Thanos—he’s the shadow of my failures. Every night, I think about him. Every morning, I wonder if another child is out there, suffering because I didn’t stop him. And I can’t do anything anymore, except hope someone else can finish what I started.”

He sighed, sinking back into his chair, grief pulling his shoulders down. He didn’t see the way Rio gripped Scratchy’s fur like it was the only thread tethering her to the present. Didn’t see the storm of memories clawing behind her eyes.

Because he couldn’t know.

Couldn’t know that the victim who reappeared a decade ago was sitting just across from him. That she was alive, scarred, still walking through the world carrying the weight of what Thanos had made of her and her twin.

Agatha knew. And the knowledge burned like fire in her chest.

She tightened her hold on Rio’s hand under the table.

Suddenly, Rio stood up, her chair scraping against the wooden floor, startling Brown.

“Excuse me,” Rio blurted, her voice raw, cracked, too loud for the silence that had fallen. She didn’t wait for anyone’s reply. Her long strides turned into a near-run as she darted toward the front door, Scratchy bounding up instantly to follow, his nails clicking frantically on the floorboards.

Agatha shot up too. “Detective,” she said quickly, keeping her voice level even as her chest tightened, “thank you for your time. Please—send me any files you still have on Hazel, anything at all. Notes, reports, even what you think might not matter. Everything. It could help.”

Brown blinked, startled by the sudden storm of movement. He nodded, concern flickering across his weary features. “Of course. I’ll get it together for you. Tomorrow morning at the latest.”

“Good.” Agatha gave a curt dip of her head, already moving. “We’ll be in touch.”

And then she was gone, stepping into the humid night air, pulling the door shut behind her.

She spotted Rio instantly. Her wife was on her knees in the dirt beside a flower bed just off the porch, her body convulsing as she retched violently into the soil. The soft light of the porch lamp spilled just far enough to catch the trembling lines of her shoulders, the pale sweep of her profile, her hair falling in a curtain around her face.

Scratchy stood pressed against her side, whining low in his throat, nudging at her arm with his massive head as if to shield her from the world.

“Rio.”

Agatha was at her side in an instant, kneeling in the damp grass without hesitation. She reached out, her hand moving gently, sweeping Rio’s hair back from her forehead, holding it behind her shoulders so it wouldn’t fall into her face. 

Rio gagged again, the sound tearing itself from her as her body rebelled against the flood of memories. Her hands pressed hard into the dirt, fingers clawing furrows through it, as though anchoring herself in something tangible might stop the sickening tide in her chest.

“It’s all right, my love,” Agatha murmured, her voice low, tender, as steady as she could make it. “Breathe. I’ve got you. Just breathe. Let it all out.”

Rio spat weakly into the dirt, her body shaking. The sour sting of bile burned her throat, and tears pricked her eyes—not from emotion only, but from the sheer force of it. Scratchy let out another soft whine, circling her once before flopping down beside her like a great, living wall of fur. He pressed himself against her hip, keeping her grounded with his weight.

Agatha stroked a hand down her back, slow, soothing. She remembered nights—too many nights—where she had held Rio through a nightmare, whispering her back into the present. But here, in the dark quiet of Detective Brown’s garden, it felt different. Rawer. More dangerous. Because the name was no longer a ghost—it had been spoken aloud, dragged out into the open.

Rio coughed, spit again, then finally slumped forward, resting her forehead against her arm. Her whole body trembled with exhaustion. “I—” Her voice cracked, breaking apart. She swallowed hard, tasting the bitter acid, her chest heaving. “I can’t—Agatha, I can’t do this.”

“You don’t have to,” Agatha whispered, leaning closer, her forehead brushing lightly against the crown of Rio’s bowed head. “You’re safe. I’m right here.”

Rio’s fingers curled into the grass, knuckles pale. She shook her head weakly, as if trying to deny the world, to push it back, to bury the name she had just heard. “He’s supposed to be gone,” she whispered hoarsely. “I left him behind. I left all of it behind. Even…  And now—” Her words broke into another dry heave, but there was nothing left to bring up. Only the empty, wrenching spasms of memory tearing through her.

Agatha kissed her temple softly, ignoring the dirt left by her fingers and sweat. “I know. I know it hurts. But you’re safe. With me. With Scratchy. He can’t touch you, not now.”

Scratchy gave a low, rumbling growl at that, as if to back Agatha’s words, his body bristling protectively against Rio’s side.

The night was quiet save for Rio’s ragged breaths, the faint hum of insects in the grass, the distant creak of Brown’s old house settling. Agatha stayed pressed close, holding Rio’s hair, her other hand resting firm and warm between her shoulder blades, giving her a steady anchor.

Minutes passed like that, the storm inside Rio gradually ebbing until her breathing steadied into shaky, uneven gasps. Her body sagged, utterly spent, against the earth.

Agatha tilted her head, looking at her wife’s pale face. “Do you want me to take you home?” she asked softly. “We don’t need to do more tonight. Not if it’s too much.”

Rio squeezed her eyes shut, silent for a long time. Then, hoarse and small, she whispered, “No. I want to finish this. For Hazel. For…” She trailed off, shaking her head again. Her voice broke. “I just need a minute.”

Agatha kissed her hair again, rocking her gently as though soothing a child. “Take all the time you need. I’ll wait.”

And so they stayed there, in the dark by the flower bed, Scratchy curled at Rio’s side, as Agatha held the woman she loved more than life against the weight of the ghosts trying to drag her back.

By the time Rio’s breathing had evened out enough for her to hold herself upright, the night air had grown heavy with dew. Her skin was clammy, and her eyes shone red-rimmed from the violent purge her body had forced upon her. Agatha’s arm stayed looped tightly around her waist, guiding her gently but firmly back toward the car. Scratchy padded along beside them, pressed so close against Rio’s leg that it was as though he feared she might vanish if he let an inch of space come between them.

Agatha opened the passenger door and helped Rio ease down into the seat. The criminologist sat hunched forward, elbows resting on her thighs, hands dangling loosely between her knees, her knuckles stained with dirt from clutching the ground earlier. Scratchy scrambled into the backseat and immediately thrust his massive head over the console, resting it lightly against Rio’s arm.

Agatha slid into the driver’s seat but didn’t start the car right away. Instead, she leaned back, one hand on the wheel, her sharp gaze fixed on her wife. For several minutes, silence filled the vehicle—broken only by Rio’s uneven exhales and the faint hum of crickets outside.

Finally, Agatha exhaled slowly. Her voice, when it came, was low and steady, but full of gentle steel. “You need to stand down, Rio. This investigation is over for you.”

Rio’s head snapped toward her, eyes flashing wide. “What?”

“You heard me.” Agatha’s expression was calm, almost deceptively so, but her eyes betrayed the storm she was trying to contain. “It’s too personal. You can’t go through this again. I won’t let you.”

Rio sat up straighter, her body rigid with a sudden surge of energy. “You don’t get to make that decision for me.”

Agatha turned fully to her now, her hands tightening on the steering wheel. “Yes, I do. Because I know what this will do to you. Because I watched you nearly collapse just hearing his name. Because I vowed I would protect you, Rio, and I’ll burn every rule in the book to keep that promise.”

Rio shook her head violently, strands of hair sticking to the dampness on her temple. “No. No, Agatha. You don’t understand. There’s no one better than me to know how he works. No one. If it is him, if Thanos is behind Luna’s disappearance, then I’m the only one who can help bring her back alive.”

Agatha clenched her jaw. She wanted to argue, to insist that the cost was too high, that she’d rather lose the case than lose her wife. But Rio wasn’t finished.

Her voice wavered as she continued, raw with something that cut deeper than fear. “And what if Brown’s right? What if this isn’t just about Luna? What if Hazel was his first? What if Luna’s just the latest? What if every trail, every breadcrumb, leads back to him—” She stopped, chest rising sharply as emotion caught in her throat. “What if it leads back to her?”

Agatha’s gaze softened despite herself. “Rio… it’s been twelve years….”

Rio’s hands trembled, but she gripped her knees hard, forcing herself to look Agatha dead in the eye. “If there’s even the smallest chance—if this case might lead us to Naya—then I have to be there. I need to be there. I need to get her back, Agatha. Even if it costs me everything.”

Her words hung between them like a sword, suspended by the thinnest thread.

Agatha studied her wife for a long moment, her heart aching with the truth of it. She knew Rio well enough to understand that nothing she said, no order, no plea, would pull her off this path. Rio’s resolve was carved in stone, sharpened by decades of grief and guilt.

The detective’s chest rose and fell with a heavy sigh. She reached out, covering Rio’s dirt-smeared hands with her own. “You know this goes against every rule I’m supposed to uphold,” she murmured. “You know I should be pulling you from this case right now.”

“I know,” Rio whispered back.

Agatha searched her wife’s face, trying to gauge the balance between determination and fragility. She saw both, tangled so tightly together that it was impossible to separate them. After a long silence, she finally nodded—just once, but it was enough.

“Okay,” she said softly, the word a surrender and a vow all at once. “But listen to me, Rio. The second I feel it’s becoming too much for you—if it gets out of control, if it crosses that line—you’re out. No arguing, no second chances. Do you understand?”

Rio’s throat worked, and for the first time since the name Thanos had fallen from Brown’s lips, a faint flicker of steadiness returned to her gaze. She squeezed Agatha’s hands. “I understand. I promise.”

Agatha searched her a moment longer, as if testing the truth of those words. Then she released her breath and leaned back into her seat.

The car fell silent again, heavy with everything unsaid. Agatha finally turned the key, the engine rumbling to life. The headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating the narrow road ahead.

Neither of them spoke as Agatha pulled away from Brown’s house, the night stretching out around them. They sat in silence, Rio’s hand resting in Agatha’s, Scratchy’s head nestled between their shoulders, as the weight of what lay ahead pressed down on them all.

The hum of the car engine was steady, almost hypnotic, filling the silence that had settled between them. The road stretched endlessly ahead, lit only by the harsh beams of the headlights cutting through the darkness. Rio sat turned toward the window, her profile faintly illuminated by the dashboard glow, her hands motionless on her lap.

The shrill ring of Agatha’s phone broke through the quiet. She flicked her eyes at the screen mounted on the dashboard. Director Lilia Calderu.

Agatha pressed the button, her voice calm as the call clicked onto the car’s Bluetooth. “Director.”

“Harkness,” came Lilia’s crisp but low tone. “I was hoping you’d call me first, but since you didn’t, I’ll take it I need to pry.” A pause. “How did it go with Brown?”

Agatha glanced at Rio, who remained motionless, her gaze locked out the window. She tightened her grip on the wheel. “We got some useful information,” she began carefully. “Brown confirmed that Hazel’s abduction has always looked off to him. He…he suspects it wasn’t random. He thinks it ties back to someone else. Someone who was active two decades ago.”

On the other end, silence stretched for a beat too long. Then Lilia’s voice dropped, edged with gravity. “Who?”

Agatha drew a quiet breath, the name bitter on her tongue. “Thanos.”

Scratchy gave a low whine in the backseat, as though responding to the tension vibrating through the car. Rio’s shoulders stiffened visibly, though she still didn’t turn.

Lilia was quiet again, but Agatha didn’t need to see her face to know what expression she wore. The same haunted recognition Agatha had felt when Brown said it. Lilia had been there twelve years ago, when Rio has reappeared. She had actually been the first person Rio had spoken to when she had wandered into a police station, lost and clad in a dress too small for her nineteen-year-old frame, back when Lilia wasn’t Director yet, but only a detective.

“And Rio?” Lilia finally asked softly.

Agatha swallowed hard. “She heard it too.”

That earned a sharper inhale from the Director. “Agatha, you know what this means. You need to pull her off the case immediately. It’s too dangerous for her—mentally, emotionally. It’s not an option.”

For the first time since the call began, Rio turned her head, her voice cutting into the space between them, rough but resolute. “No.”

Agatha flicked her eyes toward her, surprised at the sudden strength behind the word. Rio sat straighter now, her hands clenched tight against her thighs, her face pale but her eyes blazing.

“No,” she repeated, directing the word at the Director through the car speakers. “I’m not stepping away. I know how he works. I know how he chooses them. If anyone can help prevent another girl from vanishing forever, it’s me.”

“Rio—” Lilia began, but Rio pressed forward, her words spilling faster, more desperate.

“If Brown’s right, if Thanos has come back after all these years…if this leads to Luna, then maybe it leads to Naya too. I can’t sit this one out. I won’t.”

Her voice cracked on that last word, and though she turned her face away again, Agatha caught the shine in her eyes.

On the other end of the line, Lilia sighed. A sigh that carried years of weariness, of choices made between rules and humanity. “Agatha, you and I both know what the right call is here.”

Agatha’s throat tightened. She did know. Every rule screamed at her to agree, to bench her wife, to shield her from the abyss threatening to drag her back in. But she also knew Rio. Knew that if she was sidelined now, she’d tear herself apart from the inside out. Or keep investigating in way less safe ways. 

“I know,” Agatha said finally. Her voice was quiet, but steady. “But I also know there’s no stopping her. And I’m not letting her face this alone. So here’s what’s going to happen: she stays on the case, but I’ll keep a close eye on her. The second I feel it’s not working, or it’s breaking her down, she’s out. No question. I’ll pull her myself.”

Lilia was silent again, and Agatha could almost hear the Director weighing the words. Finally, she exhaled heavily. “You’re asking me to go against protocol.”

“I’m asking you to trust me,” Agatha replied.

Another beat of silence. “Fine. But Agatha—if this spirals, it’s on you.”

“Understood,” Agatha said quietly.

Lilia’s voice softened, though the steel never left it. “Thank you for the update. It’s late. Go home, both of you. Get some rest while you can. I’ll have another team keep digging through the night, but I want you in early tomorrow. This is time-sensitive, and we can’t afford to waste a second.”

“Got it,” Agatha said.

The line clicked off, leaving the car steeped once more in silence.

For a while, neither of them spoke. Rio’s head tilted back against the seat, her breathing still uneven, while Agatha kept her gaze fixed on the empty stretch of road, her jaw clenched tight. Scratchy nudged his muzzle against Rio’s arm until she finally let her hand curl into his fur.

Only after several long minutes did Agatha speak again, her voice softer than before. “You know she’s right. You should be sitting this one out.”

Rio let out a humorless laugh, low and bitter. “Maybe. But I can’t. Not this time.”

Agatha reached over, threading her fingers through Rio’s. She didn’t reply—not with words. But the way she held on, firm and unyielding, was answer enough.

 

 

Chapter 11

Notes:

Flashback

 

 

May 12^th, 2013. Twelve years earlier.

 

The morning air was crisp, still damp with the remnants of the night’s rain. A faint mist clung to the edges of the trees, and Detective Lilia Calderu pulled her coat tighter around herself as she crossed the parking lot. She was early—earlier than usual—but her mind refused to rest. The case they were working had taken over her thoughts again: missing persons, no leads, and families breathing down her neck for answers she didn’t yet have.

Her heels clicked against the asphalt in a steady rhythm until something to her left disturbed the quiet morning. Movement. Subtle, slow, almost unsteady. She turned her head, squinting toward the line of woods that bordered the Westview police station. At first, she thought it might be a jogger, someone cutting through the trees on an early run. But the figure wasn’t running. They were stumbling.

Lilia’s breath caught, instincts snapping into place. She paused mid-step, watching more closely. The figure emerged slowly from the shadows of the trees, leaning against trunks for support, clutching at branches to steady herself. Even from a distance, Lilia could see the fragility in the gait, the smallness of the form. Young. Female. Out of breath. Something was very wrong.

“Hey!” Lilia called, voice firm but gentle. Her hand brushed the holster at her hip without thinking. “You okay?”

The girl didn’t answer. She didn’t even look up. She just kept moving forward, slow but determined, her body trembling with effort.

Concern prickled the back of Lilia’s neck. She started across the lot, quickening her pace. She’d been a detective long enough to trust her instincts, and every fiber of her being told her this girl needed help. Something had happened. Something bad.

As the distance closed, the details sharpened. The girl couldn’t have been more than sixteen, eighteen at the most. She wore a dress—something out of place and time, faded and too tight, as though it belonged to another age. The hem was ripped, fraying threads fluttering with each step. Her legs were bare, scratched and raw, streaked with dirt and small cuts. No shoes. She was barefoot, her feet dark with soil and spotted with blood.

“Hey,” Lilia tried again, softening her tone. “You’re safe here. Can you hear me?”

Still nothing. The girl’s chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven pants, her arms shaking as she reached for another tree to hold herself upright. Lilia’s strides lengthened, closing the final distance until she was only a few feet away. She slowed, cautious not to frighten her.

“Okay,” she murmured, lifting her palms slightly in a gesture of peace. “I’m Lilia. I’m a detective here. You’re safe now. Can you tell me your name?”

The girl had stopped walking at last. She stood trembling, shoulders hunched as if bracing against an invisible weight. Slowly, she raised her head, and Lilia saw her face properly for the first time.

She was heartbreakingly young. Strands of long dark hair clung to her damp forehead, tangled and wild. Her skin was pale, smudged with dirt and tears, but what struck Lilia most were her eyes—wide, frantic, full of a fear that seemed older than her years.

“Can you tell me your name?” Lilia repeated, gently.

The girl’s lips moved, cracked and dry. A whisper escaped, broken and raw.

“I have to go back.”

Lilia blinked. “Back where?”

“My sister,” the girl rasped. Her voice trembled as if unused for days. “I have to go back for my sister.”

Her knees buckled, and Lilia instinctively reached out, steadying her by the shoulders. She was lighter than she should have been, bones sharp under Lilia’s grip. The detective’s heart squeezed at the thought of how long this girl must have been running—how long she’d been suffering before she made it here.

“You don’t have to go back,” Lilia said firmly, meeting her eyes. “You’re safe now. Whoever your sister is, we’ll find her. But I need you to tell me your name first, okay?”

The girl shook her head, panic flashing. “He’ll hurt her. I left her. I left her behind.”

The words tore from her throat like a confession. Her breath quickened, chest heaving with guilt and terror. Lilia steadied her grip, holding her up.

“No one’s going to hurt her. Not if I can help it.” She lowered her voice, calm but resolute. “But I can’t do anything if I don’t know who you are.”

The girl bit her lip, eyes darting toward the woods as though expecting someone—or something—to come tearing out after her. Her whole body shivered with the memory of pursuit, though the forest lay silent.

“I shouldn’t be here,” she whispered.

“You’re exactly where you need to be,” Lilia countered, her tone brooking no argument. “You came to us for a reason. You’re safe.”

For a long, tense moment, the girl seemed frozen between collapse and escape. Then her body sagged, her strength slowly  draining away. Lilia caught her as she swayed, easing her weight against her chest.

“Easy, easy now.” Lilia’s voice softened again, coaxing her. “I’ve got you. No one’s going to hurt you.”

The girl clutched at Lilia’s sleeve weakly, fingers trembling. Her lips moved once more, barely audible.

“Rio. My name.”

The name came out as fragile as glass.

Lilia’s heart clenched. Finally, a thread. She could work with this. She adjusted her hold, already preparing to get the girl inside, get her medical attention, and alert the right people.

“Okay, Rio,” Lilia whispered, steady and reassuring. “You did the right thing coming here. You’re safe now. We’ll take care of you—and we’ll find your sister. I promise.”

But even as she said it, she felt the weight of the girl’s body go slack against her, as exhaustion claimed her at last. Lilia tightened her grip and looked back toward the station.

Her day had just begun, but she already knew—nothing about her life, or this girl’s, was ever going to be the same again.

Lilia adjusted her stance, sliding an arm more securely around the girl’s waist to take on her weight. The girl’s body felt frail, the bones of her ribcage too sharp beneath the thin fabric of her dress. She trembled against Lilia, not from the morning chill but from exhaustion and shock.

“Easy now,” Lilia murmured. “I’ve got you.” She steadied the girl and began steering her toward the station’s entrance, just across the lot. “Can you tell me your age, sweetheart?”

But the girl resisted, her bare feet dragging against the asphalt. Her eyes darted back toward the treeline, wide with dread.

“We’re nineteen,” she whispered suddenly, her voice so hoarse Lilia almost missed the words. “I think… we’re nineteen. But I’m not sure.”

Lilia’s brow furrowed. We’re. Not I’m. And she wasn’t sure of her own age. A cold awareness prickled down the detective’s spine. Whoever this girl was, she hadn’t lived an ordinary life. Not even close.

“Alright,” Lilia said carefully, not wanting to spook her further. “That’s okay. We’ll figure it out. For now, I just need you to stay with me. Can you do that?”

The girl gave no answer. Her breaths came in shallow gasps, her weight sagging more heavily against Lilia as if every step cost her more strength than she had. Lilia shifted, bearing her with ease, but her heart tightened at the weakness she felt. The girl couldn’t have weighed more than a bird in her arms.

“What’s your full name, Rio?” Lilia tried again gently, her voice calm, coaxing. “Can you tell me your last name?”

But instead of answering, the girl’s eyes darted wildly once more to the forest. Her voice cracked as she choked out, “I have to go back. My sister… she was right behind me. But he—he caught her and locked the door so I couldn’t go back. I left her. I left her behind.”

Her body stiffened as she said it, as though guilt itself had frozen her in place. Her nails, chipped and dirty, dug into Lilia’s sleeve.

“My sister needs me.” Her words spiraled into a near-plea. “She needs help. Please—I have to go back!”

Lilia tightened her hold as the girl tried feebly to twist toward the woods again. Panic surged in her eyes, a desperate, animal fear that clawed at Lilia’s chest.

“Hey—hey, look at me,” Lilia urged, tilting her head to catch her gaze. “Listen to me. You’re safe now. You did the right thing coming here.”

“No!” The girl shook her head violently, strands of dark hair sticking to her cheeks. “He has her. He’ll hurt her because I ran. I shouldn’t have left her, I thought she was right behind me—”

Her voice cracked into a sob, raw and unrestrained, the sound of someone breaking after holding themselves together too long. Lilia steadied her grip and pulled her in closer, the protective instinct in her rising fast and fierce.

“Listen to me,” Lilia said firmly, cutting through the storm of the girl’s panic. “You can’t help her if you collapse here. Do you understand? If you want me to find your sister, I need you to stay on your feet with me. Just a little longer. Can you do that?”

The girl’s sobs hitched into shallow breaths. She didn’t answer, but she stopped fighting, her trembling body sagging once more into Lilia’s support. Her wide eyes still flickered toward the woods, but now they held a glassy sheen, like someone drowning between terror and surrender.

“That’s it,” Lilia murmured, coaxing her gently forward, step by step. “That’s it. We’ll get you inside. You can tell me everything once you’re safe.”

As they walked, Lilia couldn’t shake the gnawing unease in her chest. The girl’s words—“we’re nineteen,” “he caught her,” “I left her behind”—painted fragments of a picture she didn’t yet understand. But she didn’t need the whole picture to see how dire this was.

This wasn’t just a runaway. This was trauma—deep, corrosive, and recent. Someone was still out there. Someone dangerous enough to make this girl stumble barefoot through the woods until she collapsed at the doorstep of a police station.

And there was a sister. Another girl. Still in whoever’s grasp.

Lilia’s jaw tightened. Her protective instinct deepened into a sharp determination. Whoever had done this—whoever “he” was—wasn’t going to keep her. And if there was a sister still out there, then time was already against them.

“Almost there,” Lilia whispered as the station door loomed closer. She adjusted her hold again, guiding the girl’s faltering steps. “You’re safe now. We’ll get her back. I promise you.”

The girl’s breath hitched, as though the words pierced her fragile hope. She looked up at Lilia with eyes so wide and wet they seemed too big for her pale face.

“You promise?” she whispered, voice breaking on the last syllable.

Lilia swallowed hard, steadying her voice into certainty she didn’t entirely feel yet. “I promise.”

As they approached the station, Lilia felt the girl’s weight grow heavier in her arms, her strength ebbing with every step. Whatever hell she had been running from, she had reached her limit.

The girl had escaped.
But her sister had not.

And somewhere in those woods—or deeper, somewhere much darker—that sister was still waiting.

They had almost reached the front steps of the station when the girl’s strength gave out completely. Her knees buckled, folding beneath her without warning.

“Whoa—easy, I’ve got you,” Lilia murmured, catching her before she hit the ground. She eased her down carefully onto the cool concrete, lowering her as though she were fragile glass that might shatter at the smallest impact. The girl’s chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven gasps, every breath a battle.

“You’re alright,” Lilia whispered, slipping out of her coat. She draped it over the girl’s trembling shoulders, tucking it gently around her. The oversized fabric nearly swallowed her thin frame, but at least it shielded her from the chill. “Stay with me. You’re safe here.”

The girl blinked up at her, eyes glazed and disoriented, as though she couldn’t quite anchor herself to reality.

“I need your name,” Lilia said softly but firmly. She crouched low, close enough that their gazes locked. “Can you tell me your full name?”

For a moment, the girl just stared at her, lost, confusion flickering across her features. It was as if the question itself was foreign, as though she hadn’t been asked it in years. Her lips parted, closed, then parted again. No sound came out.

Lilia reached for patience she’d learned over decades in the job. She kept her tone steady, coaxing. “Your name, Rio. I need your last name. You’re safe now. You can tell me.”

The silence stretched, the seconds dragging into what felt like hours. Lilia almost thought she wouldn’t answer at all when, finally, the girl’s voice cracked into the air.

“Rio.”

The single syllable was fragile, trembling. She swallowed, then forced out the rest in a whisper.

“My name is Rio Vidal.”

The words lingered in the cool morning air, sinking into Lilia like a stone into deep water. The name stirred something in her memory, an echo she couldn’t immediately place. Vidal. Where had she heard that before?

She repeated it softly, almost to herself. “Rio Vidal…”

The girl—Rio—nodded weakly, as if trying to prove it to herself as much as to Lilia. Her thin fingers gripped the detective’s sleeve with surprising strength.

“I have to go back,” Rio whispered urgently again, her voice trembling but determined. “My sister… he has her. If I don’t go back, he’ll punish her. Please—I can’t leave her there. She needs me.”

Her words poured out in a rush, panicked, insistent. Each repetition carried the weight of a promise she believed she had already broken.

Lilia’s stomach tightened. The name, the way she said “sister”—something was clawing its way up from the back of her mind, a memory from years past. Two girls. Identical, both with dark hair and striking eyes. A photograph she had seen more than once, in old case files now buried under dust.

Her breath hitched.

The Vidal twins.

Eleven years ago, two eight-year-old sisters—Rio and Naya Vidal—had vanished without a trace. Abducted. Their faces had been plastered across newspapers, news bulletins, the backs of milk cartons. The case had haunted Westview for years. Leads had dried up, hope had withered, and the file had eventually been resigned to the shelves of cold cases.

And now… here she was. One of them.

Lilia’s pulse quickened as the realization hit with full force. She knelt lower, her voice urgent but gentle. “Rio. Listen to me. You’re safe now. You don’t have to go back. It’s over. Do you understand? We’re going to help your sister. But I need you to trust me.”

Rio shook her head, panic flaring in her eyes. “No—you don’t understand. He’ll know I’m gone. He’ll hurt her because of me. I should have stayed, I should have—”

Her words broke into sobs, the sound raw enough to pierce straight through Lilia. The girl’s whole body shook, clutching at herself as if she could shield her sister from afar.

Lilia’s throat tightened. She pressed a steady hand against Rio’s shoulder. “You’ve already done something incredible. You made it out. That means we have a chance now—a chance to bring her back. But we can’t do that if you check out now. I need you to stay with me. Just stay.”

Rio’s sobs quieted into hiccupping breaths, but her wide eyes stayed locked on Lilia’s, desperate and pleading.

“She’s still there,” she whispered, barely audible. “Naya’s still there. You have to get her.”

Naya. The other name fell like another stone into Lilia’s chest.

There was no doubt left. One of the missing Vidal twins, flesh and blood, was lying before her right now.

Lilia forced her voice to stay steady, calm, authoritative. She couldn’t let Rio see the storm inside her, not when the girl was already breaking apart.

“We will,” Lilia promised, and this time it wasn’t just instinct—it was conviction. “We will get her. But first, I need to take care of you. You’ve been through hell, and you’re safe now. Do you hear me? You’re safe.”

Rio’s lips trembled, as though the words “safe now” were foreign, almost unbelievable. She let out a shuddering breath, her body sagging beneath the weight of exhaustion and relief, though her eyes still flickered with guilt and fear.

Lilia adjusted her coat around her again, glancing quickly toward the station doors. Officers had begun to spill out, alerted by her earlier calls. They froze, eyes widening as they took in the scene—the young woman in tatters, barefoot and bruised, kneeling under the detective’s coat.

But Lilia raised a hand, wordless, keeping them back for a moment. This was delicate. Too delicate.

She looked down at Rio again, her grip steady on the kneeling girl’s shoulder.

“You’ve survived this long,” she whispered. “Now let me help you the rest of the way.”

For the first time, Rio didn’t argue. Her body curled in on itself, her lashes fluttering shut, exhaustion finally dragging her under.

And Lilia knew, with grim certainty, that May 12th, 2013, would be carved into her memory forever. Because the Vidal case—the one she thought had gone cold long ago—had just landed, breathing and broken, right at her feet.

Lilia felt the girl’s weight sagging further in her arms, her eyelids fluttering as though she were fighting a losing battle against sleep. Alarm jolted through Lilia’s chest. She had seen this too many times before—shock setting in, adrenaline giving out, the body crashing after running too long on nothing but terror and survival instinct.

“No, no, don’t you fade on me,” Lilia urged quickly, shifting her hold to keep Rio upright. She glanced up and spotted one of the uniformed officers standing frozen near the doorway, wide-eyed and unsure.

“You!” Lilia barked, her voice sharp enough to snap the young man to attention. “Call an ambulance. Now. Tell them it’s urgent.”

The officer fumbled for his radio and hurried off, his voice carrying the clipped words of the emergency call as he disappeared into the station. Lilia lowered her gaze back to the girl crumpled in her lap, her small hands still clutching weakly at Lilia’s coat.

“Stay with me, Rio,” Lilia coaxed, her tone softening again. “Don’t close your eyes yet. Talk to me.”

The girl’s lashes fluttered, half-lidded. “Tired,” she whispered, her voice so faint Lilia had to lean close to hear it.

“I know you’re tired. You’ve done more than anyone could ask.” Lilia brushed a strand of hair from Rio’s forehead, the motherly gesture surprising even herself. “But I need you to hold on just a little longer. The medics are on their way. You’ll get warm, and safe, and you’ll rest then. Not now. Right now, I need you to talk to me.”

Rio’s lips parted, but only a hoarse sound came out. Lilia pressed gently, needing to keep her tethered. “Tell me something, anything. Where are you from? Where did you grow up? Do you remember?”

The girl’s brow furrowed faintly, as if the question were too heavy for her fading mind. After a long pause, she rasped, “We used to live… in a house… blue shutters.” Her words wavered, unsteady, as though she weren’t sure whether the memory was real or imagined.

Lilia seized onto it, nodding. “Good. That’s so good, Rio. A house with blue shutters. Do you remember where?”

The girl blinked slowly, fighting the weight dragging her down. “By… the water. Always could hear it.” Her breath hitched. “Naya liked… the sound. Said it… sang her to sleep.”

Her voice cracked on her sister’s name, panic flickering back into her eyes for a brief, lucid moment. “She’s still there,” Rio gasped, clutching at Lilia’s sleeve again with trembling fingers. “He has her. He’ll hurt her.”

Lilia’s heart clenched. She gripped Rio’s hand firmly, grounding her. “Look at me, Rio. We’re going to help her. But I need you to stay awake so you can tell me how. Can you do that? Just for a little while longer?”

Rio’s lips trembled. Her lashes fluttered again, but she forced them open, staring at Lilia with eyes so wide and broken they looked like they belonged to a child, not someone nearly grown.

“Cold,” she whispered.

“I know.” Lilia pulled the coat tighter around her, rubbing her arm through the fabric. “You’ll be warm soon. Just keep talking. What’s your sister’s name again?”

“Naya,” Rio breathed again, voice trembling on the syllables. “She’s my twin. She… she’s stronger than me.” A faint sob shook her thin frame. “But he—he—”

Her words crumbled into incoherence.

“Don’t think about him right now,” Lilia interrupted gently but firmly, not wanting Rio to spiral into terror she couldn’t pull her back from. “Think about Naya. Tell me about her. What’s she like?”

For a moment, Rio’s gaze unfocused, then softened slightly. “She laughs more than me. Always laughing. Even when we weren’t supposed to. He’d get so angry, but she… she didn’t stop.” Her voice faltered into a fragile whisper. “I miss her laugh.”

Lilia swallowed against the lump rising in her throat. “You’re going to hear it again, Rio. You will. But only if you stay awake. Alright?”

Rio blinked slowly, exhaustion pressing down on her. “Trying,” she murmured.

“That’s all I ask,” Lilia assured her, squeezing her hand. “Just try.”

The wail of sirens rose faintly in the distance, growing louder as the ambulance drew near. Relief loosened Lilia’s chest, though she kept her expression steady for the girl in her arms.

“Did you hear that, Rio?” she said softly. “They’re coming for you. You’re almost there.”

Rio gave the smallest nod, her head lolling against Lilia’s shoulder.

The station door banged open and two more officers hurried out, scanning the scene with urgency. One knelt beside them, his eyes flickering nervously over Rio’s frail frame. “How bad is she?”

“Bad,” Lilia said shortly, not taking her gaze off Rio. “But she’s alive. And she’s staying that way.”

The officer nodded, backing off as the sirens grew near. Lilia stroked Rio’s tangled hair once, steadying both of them.

“Stay with me,” she whispered again. “You’ve made it too far to let go now. Just a little longer.”

Rio’s lips moved faintly, as though she were trying to form words but couldn’t quite summon them. Lilia leaned close, straining to hear.

“…don’t let him find me.”

The words were broken, cracked with fear so raw it made Lilia’s blood run cold. She tightened her hold, whispering fiercely into Rio’s ear.

“He won’t. Do you hear me? He’ll never touch you again. Not while I’m here.”

For the first time, a flicker of something softer than terror passed across Rio’s features. Like the faintest suggestion of trust.

And Lilia clung to that as the ambulance pulled into the lot, its lights bathing them both in red and blue.

 

---

 

The hospital corridors smelled faintly of antiseptic, sharp and clean in a way that made Lilia’s nerves buzz. She had spent too many nights in these kinds of places, waiting for statements from victims, or updates on colleagues brought in broken from the job. But tonight was different. Tonight, her chest carried the weight of a name she hadn’t heard spoken aloud in over a decade.

Rio Vidal.

Hours had passed since the girl had been brought in, though time had stretched and twisted until it felt far longer. Lilia had paced the length of the hall more times than she could count, her coat folded over one arm, her mind spinning with too many questions and not nearly enough answers.

The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed quietly as she stood just outside the room the doctors had assigned. The blinds were half-drawn across the glass window, muting the light from within, but she could still make out the faint outline of the girl lying in bed. Small, fragile, nearly swallowed by the blanket.

A voice drew her attention back to the present. “Detective Calderu?”

She turned to see the physician—mid-forties, sharp-eyed behind rectangular glasses—approaching with a clipboard tucked under one arm. His voice was professional, but softened by a note of weariness, the kind reserved for late nights and difficult cases.

“That’s me,” Lilia said, straightening slightly. “How is she?”

The doctor exhaled, his gaze flickering briefly through the glass before returning to Lilia. “Overall, she’s stable. No serious injuries, no untreated fractures, nothing life-threatening. But…” He shifted the clipboard, tapping the papers with his pen. “She’s extremely dehydrated, but we’ve started her on fluids. She’s also malnourished—just a little underweight for her age, though nothing irreversible with time and proper care. Most pressing right now is exhaustion. Based on her condition and the state of her feet and legs, it looks like she’s been running for hours, possibly all night, in the cold. That kind of strain on the body…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “It’s remarkable she made it as far as she did.”

Lilia nodded, jaw tightening. She had seen Rio stumble into the station, seen the way her body had given out in her arms. This matched what her instincts had told her, but hearing it confirmed still twisted something deep inside her chest.

“And?” she prompted.

The doctor gave a small shrug, his mouth tightening slightly. “She’s been through something… significant. Trauma of some kind. That much is clear. While her body’s in relatively good condition, her mental state is another matter. She was very agitated when she arrived. Kept repeating herself, talking about needing to go back, about someone hurting her sister. It was clear she couldn’t settle.”

Lilia felt her jaw clench at the mention of the sister. Naya. Still missing. Still in danger.

“So, what did you do?” she asked, though she already had an idea.

“We administered a mild sedative,” the doctor confirmed. “Nothing too strong—just enough to calm her system and let her rest. Right now, she’s… not quite lucid. A little out of it. But it was necessary. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have gotten the rest she desperately needs. It’s better than the state of panic she was in.”

Lilia exhaled slowly through her nose, considering that. She understood. She knew what trauma could do to a body—that it could push someone to the brink of collapse, and that sometimes, rest had to be forced for survival. But she also knew she needed Rio’s words, her story, the details only she could provide.

Still, she kept that to herself for now. Pushing too soon would help no one.

“Will she be alright?” Lilia asked at last, her voice low.

“With care, yes,” the doctor replied. His tone was reassuring, but carried the weight of experience. “She needs time, Detective. Rest, hydration, quiet. And patience. Whatever she’s been through, it’s left her in a state of hypervigilance. She needs calm, not interrogation. If she’s to recover, she’ll have to feel safe.”

Lilia nodded slowly, the words sinking into her. She had spent her life walking the line between investigation and compassion, between extracting information and offering comfort. But looking through the glass again at the frail figure in the bed, she knew this wasn’t just another victim, another case. This was a girl stolen eleven years ago, thought lost forever—and the living proof that hope wasn’t always wasted.

“She said she was nineteen,” Lilia murmured, more to herself than to the doctor. “But she wasn’t sure.”

The doctor’s brow furrowed, sympathy etched in his expression. “That doesn’t surprise me. From what little we’ve gathered, she’s been through something… extraordinary. Disorientation, memory gaps, confusion over time—those are common in cases of prolonged trauma.” He lowered his voice. “Whatever happened to her, it’s left deep marks. Patience will be key.”

Patience. Lilia had lived her whole life wielding patience as both shield and weapon in her line of work. But looking at the door to Rio’s room, she felt the familiar burn of urgency threatening to break that discipline. There was another girl still missing. Eleven years. Eleven years lost, and now maybe a chance to bring her home. Every second mattered.

Her hands curled into fists at her sides, the fire in her chest both protective and resolute. Whoever had done this—whoever “he” was—had already stolen more than enough. They would not take another thing. Not if she had anything to say about it.

“Can I see her?” she asked finally, her voice quieter now.

The doctor regarded her for a moment, as if measuring her intent. Then he gave a single nod. “You may. But you must be patient. Gentle. She’s fragile right now, Detective. She needs to feel safe more than anything. If she senses pressure, she may retreat into herself—and we don’t want that.”

“I understand,” Lilia replied without hesitation.

The doctor’s expression softened. “Good. Don’t ask too many questions yet. Let her lead the conversation, if she speaks at all. Simply being there, showing her that she isn’t alone anymore—that will mean more than anything you could say.”

Lilia inclined her head, her gaze steady. “Patience I can manage.”

The doctor gave a faint, tired smile at that, then gestured toward the door. “Alright, Detective. Just remember—go slowly. Let her set the pace.”

Lilia nodded, though inside her chest her heart hammered with all the questions she wanted to ask. About Naya. About the man Rio feared. About the years between their disappearance and today. But she swallowed them down, letting her detective’s instinct give way to something more human, more necessary.

“Thank you, doctor,” she said quietly.

When he stepped aside, she turned back toward the door. Through the slats of the blinds, she could see Rio more clearly now—her hair spread across the pillow, her face pale against the sterile sheets, her body small and curled under the weight of exhaustion. She looked even younger than she had outside the station, like a child lost in a world far too cruel.

Lilia drew a slow breath, bracing herself. She had faced hardened criminals, violent crime scenes, grieving families. But something about this moment, about stepping into that room, felt heavier than any of it.

She couldn’t walk in as Detective Calderu, relentless investigator with a thousand demands. She had to walk in as Lilia, a steady presence, a safe harbor for a girl who had washed up from a nightmare with nothing left to cling to.

Because this wasn’t just about finding answers. This was about protecting the last fragile thread of a girl who had survived the impossible—and about honoring the silent plea she’d whispered before collapsing in Lilia’s arms.

Don’t let him find me.

With that plea echoing in her mind, Lilia reached for the door handle.

The faint hiss of it opening echoed too loudly in the quiet hospital room. Lilia slipped inside, careful not to let the sound startle the girl. The curtains were half-drawn, filtering the fluorescent light into a muted glow that softened the sterile edges of the room. Machines hummed quietly, their displays blinking in calm rhythm, tracking the fragile life lying in the bed.

Rio turned her head toward the sound, the movement sluggish, as if her body weighed too much for her to command. In the wide, pale bed she looked impossibly small—swallowed by crisp sheets, dwarfed by pillows that made her appear more like a child than someone on the cusp of adulthood. Lilia’s chest tightened. Nineteen, Rio had whispered earlier, though with uncertainty, as if even her own age had become a puzzle she couldn’t solve. Looking at her now, Lilia thought she could have been sixteen. Fifteen, even. The toll of years stolen from her was written in the hollows of her cheeks, the shadows beneath her eyes.

“Hey there,” Lilia said softly, her voice dropping to the tone she reserved for frightened witnesses and broken children. She pulled a chair closer and sat down, lowering herself until she was level with Rio’s gaze.

The girl blinked, heavy-lidded, her pupils glassy from the sedative. Still, her lips parted almost at once, forming words with urgency that cut through her exhaustion. “My sister,” she whispered hoarsely. “Where’s my sister? You—you have to help her. He—he caught her.”

Lilia’s heart clenched at the plea. She had prepared herself for this moment, had rehearsed what she might say, but the raw fear in Rio’s voice scattered every practiced phrase. For a second she almost reached out, but she stopped her hand halfway, afraid too much touch might spook the girl.

“Rio,” Lilia murmured instead, steady but gentle. “We’ll do everything we can to find your sister. But we need your help to know where she is.”

Guilt pricked at her even as she spoke. She hated herself for pressing already, when the girl could barely hold her head up. But time wasn’t on their side. If Naya Vidal was still alive, if she was still trapped—every hour mattered.

Rio’s brow furrowed, confusion flickering across her face. Her eyes darted away, unfocused, as though she was searching the shadows of the room for something. “She… she was right behind me,” she murmured, voice breaking. “We ran, but he caught her. He always catches her first. I tried—I tried—”

Her breath hitched, and Lilia leaned forward quickly, speaking softly, urgently. “You were brave, Rio. You got out. That means you can help us. If we know where he keeps you—where the house is—we can go back for your sister.”

Rio’s gaze returned to her, fragile, cloudy, but determined beneath the fog. She gave a shaky nod. “I don’t know… where,” she admitted, voice quivering. “Not the place. Not the name.”

“That’s alright,” Lilia soothed, her detective’s instinct switching into gear even as she kept her tone calm and motherly. “You don’t have to know the name. Just tell me what you remember. Anything. Roads, smells, sounds. Even the smallest detail can help.”

Rio closed her eyes for a long moment, her chest rising and falling in slow, unsteady breaths. When she spoke again, her voice was faint, as if each word was dragged out of her by sheer will.

“There was… corn. Fields. Tall, dry stalks… you could hear them when the wind blew. In summer… they were green. In winter, dead. Always the fields first.” She swallowed, lips trembling. “And the road was… gravel, not paved. Long. No lights. He drove slow sometimes, when the car rattled too much.”

Lilia leaned forward, committing every fragment to memory. Cornfields. Gravel roads. Rural. Could be anywhere within miles of the city outskirts.

“What else?” she prompted gently.

Rio frowned, her hand twitching weakly against the sheets as though she was trying to gesture. “The house… it’s the second we’ve been in. White paint, but peeling. Old. Smelled like dust and—” Her voice caught, cracking. “And him.”

Lilia fought the urge to curse aloud, forcing her voice to remain calm. “That’s good, Rio. That’s really good. What about windows? Did you ever see outside?”

The girl nodded faintly. “Upstairs… my room was upstairs. One window, but covered with boards. Still… I saw trees. Big ones. Pines, maybe? And when it rained… the roof leaked. The water made lines on the walls.” Her words slowed, drifting.

Her eyelids fluttered shut. Lilia leaned forward quickly, speaking her name softly. “Rio. Stay with me just a little longer.”

Rio’s eyes opened again, glassy but determined. “There was a smell. Cows. Sometimes I heard them. Bells, too. Far away, not close. And once… once I saw a truck. Green. With a sign on the side—yellow letters, I think.”

Her head lolled slightly to the side, exhaustion overtaking her fragile strength. “I… I don’t know if it’s real. Maybe I dreamed it.”

Lilia’s throat tightened, her instincts screaming at her that every word mattered, real or dream. She reached out then, finally letting her hand rest lightly on the girl’s arm through the blanket. “You did so well, Rio,” she said softly. “This helps us. You’ve helped us.”

Rio’s eyes softened at that, though confusion lingered. She gave the smallest of nods before her lashes lowered, her body yielding to the pull of sedation and exhaustion.

Lilia stayed there for a long moment, her hand still resting on Rio’s arm, her mind racing. Cornfields. Gravel road. Pines. Cows. A farmhouse with peeling white paint and a leaking roof. A green truck with yellow letters. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

She rose slowly from the chair, watching Rio’s chest rise and fall in the steady rhythm of sleep, and whispered more to herself than to the girl, “We’ll find her. I promise.”

 

---

 

The corridors of the hospital seemed endless at that hour, every step echoing in sterile quiet. Lilia had been pacing them for hours, the weight of Rio’s fragmented words pressing down on her like stones in her pockets. She had relayed everything to the task force—every sensory detail, every slip of memory—and now half the precinct was scrambling across maps, cross-referencing farms, gravel roads, cattle bells, even trucking companies with green bodies and yellow lettering.

But for all their work, she knew the most vital thread was still lying in that hospital bed.

When she returned to Rio’s room three hours later, the girl looked a little more awake. Not fully steady—her gaze still hazed by exhaustion and lingering sedatives—but there was more presence in her eyes, more fight behind them. She was sitting propped up on a mound of pillows, her thin frame wrapped in a too-large hospital gown, fingers picking nervously at the blanket over her lap.

“Hey,” Lilia said softly as she entered, careful to keep her voice light. “You’re looking better.”

Rio’s eyes darted toward her, searching, almost desperate. “Did you find her?” she asked immediately, voice raw.

Lilia took the chair by the bed again, sinking down slowly. “Not yet,” she admitted honestly. She wasn’t about to give the girl false hope. “But we’re working on it. Everything you told me earlier—it’s helping. My team is out there following the leads.”

Rio nodded faintly, her jaw tightening. Her small hands fisted the blanket, knuckles pale. “You have to find her,” she whispered. “You don’t understand—he won’t let her go. He’ll never let her go.”

Lilia let the silence hang for a moment, giving Rio space to breathe, before carefully shifting the conversation. “Rio… I need to ask you some things. I know it’s hard, but it’s important. To know what you both went through. It’ll help us understand him—help us predict what he’ll do.”

The girl stiffened, her gaze skittering away. “No.” The word was flat, clipped, unyielding.

Lilia hesitated. She had expected resistance, but there was something absolute in that refusal. “I’ll be gentle,” she promised, leaning forward a little. “We don’t have to go into everything now. Just—any part you can tell me, about what life was like there. About him. It could make a difference.”

Rio shook her head, a sharp, jerky motion. Her eyes glistened, and her breathing hitched, though she forced it steady. “Not that,” she whispered, voice cracking. “Not yet. I can’t. Don’t ask me that.”

Lilia’s instinct screamed at her to press, to peel back the layers while Rio was still here, still talking—but the way the girl hunched in on herself, arms tightening as though bracing against an invisible blow, stopped her cold. Forcing it would do nothing but break her trust. And trust was everything right now.

“Alright,” Lilia said gently, sitting back. “Not yet. We’ll leave that for later.”

Rio’s head tipped in a small nod, relief mingling with exhaustion on her face. But her next words were urgent again, almost pleading. “Just find her. Promise me you’ll find her. Please. I can’t—I can’t be without her.”

The words stabbed deep. Lilia reached out, this time laying her hand carefully on the edge of the blanket near Rio’s clenched fists—not quite touching, but close enough to anchor. “We will. I give you my word we’ll do everything in our power to bring her back.”

Rio’s eyes flickered toward her, brimming with pain. “You don’t know him,” she whispered. “You don’t know what he does. If she tried to fight—if she failed—” Her breath caught, and she bit her lip hard enough to leave a mark.

Lilia kept her tone firm but quiet. “Then we’ll fight harder. You and I both want the same thing, Rio. To bring her home safe. And I promise you—we’re not stopping.”

The girl swallowed, some of the tension in her shoulders loosening, though the haunted look in her eyes remained. She sank back against the pillows, worn thin again by even that short exchange.

Lilia stayed, not asking more questions for the moment. Instead, she let the silence settle comfortably between them, giving Rio space to exist without pressure. After a long while, when the girl’s breathing had steadied, she spoke again in a tone barely above a whisper.

“When you’re ready,” she said, “you can tell me the rest. At your pace. Not before.”

Rio’s eyes closed slowly, her lips moving in the faintest of nods. “Later,” she murmured, as though making a fragile promise to herself as much as to Lilia. “Later. After we find her.”

And that, Lilia knew, was the only answer she would get tonight.

The hospital room had grown quieter as the afternoon went on. The hum of machines and the distant chatter of nurses down the hall were muffled by the thick door, leaving only the shallow rise and fall of Rio’s breathing. Lilia had been watching her, measuring every small change, every twitch of her thin hands against the blanket, every time her lips parted with unspoken thoughts. The girl looked more fragile now than she had hours ago, even with a little more alertness in her eyes.

It was Rio who finally broke the silence. Her voice was low, raspy, almost uncertain. “What about my parents?”

The question landed like a weight in Lilia’s chest. She froze, caught off guard. Of course Rio would ask. Of course she would want to know. Lilia had prepared herself for the moment but had hoped it wouldn’t come so soon. She considered evasion, a gentle redirection—but the girl deserved truth, no matter how raw.

Lilia leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees. “Rio,” she said softly, careful with every word, “we tried to contact them. To tell them you were safe.” She hesitated, then drew a breath, steeling herself. “But it seems… your parents passed away. There was a fire at their home, about a year ago. They didn’t make it out.”

She braced herself for the reaction—tears, a scream, the kind of grief that shatters a person from the inside out. But none of that came.

Rio didn’t move. She just stared past Lilia, her gaze fixed somewhere distant and unreachable. For a long moment, it was as if she hadn’t heard at all. Then her lips parted, and a single word escaped.

“Okay.”

Flat. Detached. As if she were registering the weather.

Lilia’s heart clenched. That wasn’t okay. Nothing about it was. But she didn’t push. She knew trauma sometimes hollowed out the immediate response, leaving only numbness where feeling should be. She made a mental note to bring in a counselor, but not tonight. Tonight was already heavy enough.

The silence stretched, thick and fragile. Then, unexpectedly, Rio shifted beneath the blankets and whispered, “Do you… do you have a hairbrush?”

Lilia blinked, caught off guard. “A hairbrush?”

“Yes.” Rio’s voice grew insistent, though still soft. “I need one. I always brush my hair before sleep. I have to. Please.”

It seemed such a small, ordinary request in the middle of all the wreckage, but the urgency in Rio’s tone told Lilia it was anything but ordinary. It was ritual. A tether to normalcy. To routine. To something her captor hadn’t broken. Or enforced.

“Alright,” Lilia said gently. “Give me a minute.”

She left the room, returning not long after with a simple brush borrowed from a nurse. The plastic handle looked plain, almost insultingly so, but Rio reached for it with shaking hands as if it were sacred.

She tried to lift it to her head, dragging it through the mess of dark hair that hung limp and tangled around her shoulders. It was long, down to the middle of her back. But her movements were clumsy, slowed by sedation and exhaustion. The brush snagged, tugging uncomfortably, and her hand trembled as she tried again.

“Hey,” Lilia murmured, leaning closer. “Do you want me to help?”

Rio’s head jerked sharply. “No.” Her eyes went wide, almost panicked. “No, you can’t. Only Naya. Only she’s allowed to touch my hair. Or…” She faltered, her breath catching. “Or him. Even if I never wanted him to.”

The last words fell like shards of glass. Lilia felt her jaw tighten, teeth clenching until it hurt. The thought of that man laying any claim to this girl—even something as simple as her hair—was enough to make her blood burn. But she forced herself to stay steady, to keep her fury hidden where Rio wouldn’t feel it.

“Alright,” Lilia said softly. “Not me. Just you.”

Rio wrestled with the brush for another few moments, trying to force the tangles out, but her arms were trembling, her eyelids fluttering with exhaustion. The brush slipped from her fingers and landed on the sheets with a dull thud.

She looked at it, then at Lilia. The silence stretched between them, heavy, questioning. And then, slowly—hesitantly—Rio pushed the brush toward her.

Her gaze fixed on Lilia’s face, searching, weighing, deciding. After what felt like an eternity, she whispered, “Okay. You can. Just this once.”

Lilia’s throat tightened. She accepted the brush as if Rio had placed something fragile beyond measure into her care. She shifted on the chair, careful, deliberate, helped Rio sit upright a little and began to run the bristles through Rio’s hair.

She did it gently, so gently, each stroke smooth and unhurried. She worked slowly through the tangles, never pulling, never rushing. The strands were soft beneath her hand, the rhythm soothing. She could feel the girl relax little by little, shoulders slumping, eyes drifting closed.

“There,” Lilia murmured, more to herself than to Rio. “Just like that. Easy now.”

The steady motion lulled Rio into a half-sleep, her breathing evening out, tension slipping from her face. By the time Lilia laid the brush aside, the girl was nearly gone, hovering on the edge of slumber.

Still, Lilia didn’t leave right away. She let her fingers trail gently through Rio’s hair, stroking softly, the way a mother might soothe a child. Only when Rio’s breathing deepened, steady and sure, did she slowly stand.

She lingered for a moment at the doorway, looking back at the fragile figure curled in the hospital bed. Then she slipped out into the corridor, her steps heavier now, her mind already shifting back to her team, to the hunt, to the fight that was far from over.

But a part of her stayed in that room, sitting at that bedside, brushing the broken girl’s hair.

 

Notes:

Next : back to the present

Chapter 12

 

 

When they stepped through the door, the house was silent. Nicky’s sneakers sat by the stairs, but the boy himself was already tucked away in bed, no light peeking under his door. Señor Scratchy padded in behind them, curling immediately into his spot near the armchair Agatha usually favored, as if sensing his family needed space tonight.

Agatha closed the door softly, her hand never leaving Rio’s back. She could feel the tension still in her wife’s shoulders, tight as coiled wire. Not the usual weariness of a long day, but the lingering tremor of ghosts that Brown’s words had stirred awake.

“Come,” Agatha whispered, pressing her lips to Rio’s temple. “Let’s wash this day off.”

Rio blinked, startled, but the quiet insistence in Agatha’s tone left no room for refusal. She nodded.

Agatha led her to the bathroom, switching on the warm light overhead. She turned the knobs, letting the water run until the room filled with steam. Then she turned back to Rio, her gaze steady.

“Let me take care of you tonight.”

Rio’s throat bobbed with a swallow, but she nodded again, almost shy.

Agatha reached for the hem of Rio’s blouse first, sliding the fabric slowly upward. Her knuckles brushed over the taut planes of her stomach, pausing at every little shiver. She tugged the blouse free of Rio’s body and dropped it to the floor, never breaking eye contact.

“Arms,” Agatha whispered, lifting her hands. Rio obeyed, letting her slip the straps of her bra down, unclasping it with deft fingers until the garment fell away. Agatha’s eyes softened as she took in the sight of her wife’s bare skin. “Perfect,” she murmured, not as a tease but as a truth. She bent forward to press a kiss just above Rio’s heart, lingering there until she felt the beat steady a little.

Her hands moved lower, unfastening the button of Rio’s jeans. She peeled them down slowly, inch by inch, as though every moment of undressing was important. When Rio stepped out of them, Agatha dropped a kiss to her hip, then eased her underwear away just as carefully.

Rio trembled—not from cold, but from the intensity of Agatha’s deliberate care. “Agatha…” she whispered, unsure if it was plea or thanks.

Agatha smiled softly. “Shh. I’ve got you.”

Then it was Rio’s turn to help undress Agatha, though her hands shook. Agatha let her, guiding her through buttons and zippers, stripping away the day until they were both bare, their bodies warm despite the steam gathering in the air.

Agatha took her hand again and led her into the shower. The spray cascaded over them, hot and heavy, soaking their hair, plastering their bodies together. Agatha tilted Rio’s head back under the stream, smoothing wet strands away from her face.

“Close your eyes,” she murmured.

Rio obeyed, and Agatha lathered shampoo between her palms before working it gently into her wife’s hair. Her fingers massaged slow circles into her scalp, coaxing little sighs out of Rio. “That’s it. Just feel this. Just me and you. Nothing else for now.”

She rinsed her clean, then worked the same ritual with her body—soap foaming beneath her hands as she traced every curve, every scar, every shiver. She didn’t rush, she lingered over shoulders, over the delicate line of Rio’s spine, down the curve of her hips. Every touch was deliberate, grounding, reminding.

The water ran hot, sliding over both of them, but Agatha barely noticed. All she saw was the faraway look in Rio’s eyes, the way her breathing caught as though she was fighting off something unseen.

“You’re safe here,” Agatha whispered against the nape of her neck, kissing the water-beaded skin. “Safe, and mine.”

Rio’s breath caught, and she leaned back into her wife’s arms, her eyes fluttering closed as though only now allowing herself to relax.

Agatha wrapped her from behind, their slick bodies sliding against one another under the shower’s heat. She rested her chin on Rio’s shoulder, pressing soft kisses along her damp skin.

Rio let her, but her hands clung to Agatha’s arms, as though needing to center herself. By the time Agatha rinsed her own hair, the tension had softened a fraction. She pressed a kiss to Rio’s wet forehead, murmuring, “All clean. Come to bed, my love.”

When they stepped out, Rio didn’t let go. She clutched at Agatha’s towel, eyes glistening. “Please,” her voice cracked, raw with need. “Please, Agatha… distract me. Make me forget tonight. Just tonight. Tomorrow I’ll face it again, I promise. But tonight I need you—only you.”

Agatha’s chest tightened. She hesitated—because she hated the idea of using her body as a shield against Rio’s pain, hated that her wife felt she had to ask this way. But then she saw the desperation in Rio’s gaze, the way her hands trembled where they held her. This wasn’t about avoidance. It was survival.

Agatha cupped Rio’s face, brushing away the damp strands of hair stuck to her cheek. “Okay,” she breathed. “Just tonight. Let me love you until you forget.”

The way Rio exhaled—shaky and relieved—broke something in Agatha. She guided her to their bed, pushing her down against the sheets that still carried their scent. Crawling over her, Agatha kissed her slow and deep, pouring everything into the meeting of their mouths—safety, devotion, fire.

Rio responded instantly, clutching Agatha’s back, pulling her closer until there was no space between them. Her tongue tangled desperately with Agatha’s, a silent plea to be consumed.

Agatha kissed her jaw, her throat, the racing pulse beneath her skin. “You’re here,” she whispered against her. “With me. No one can touch you. No one will ever take you from me again.”

Her hands trailed lower, spreading over Rio’s breasts, kneading, teasing her until Rio gasped. She arched into Agatha’s touch, her body betraying how badly she wanted to be undone.

“Please, my love,” Rio murmured, her voice thick with need. “Don’t be gentle. Not tonight.”

Agatha’s restraint snapped. She claimed her wife with teeth and tongue, sucking marks into her skin as her hand slid lower, between Rio’s thighs. The slick heat waiting for her there made her groan.

“Oh, love,” she murmured, fingers stroking through Rio’s wetness. “Already trembling for me.”

Rio writhed, grabbing at the sheets, her breath broken into ragged gasps. Agatha teased her, circling her until her wife’s hips jerked, before finally sliding two fingers inside. The cry that ripped from Rio’s throat was half-pleasure, half-release, as if she’d been holding back for hours, days, years.

Agatha set a rhythm—deep, steady thrusts of her fingers, curling just so, her thumb never leaving her. She watched her wife’s face as she unraveled beneath her, the tight coil of pain in her eyes giving way to pure, consuming need.

“Look at you,” Agatha whispered hoarsely. “So beautiful when you let go. Mine. Always mine.”

Rio’s nails dug into her back, dragging lines of fire down her skin. “Yes,” she gasped. “Yours. Only yours. Don’t stop—”

Agatha bent to take a nipple into her mouth, sucking hard while her fingers worked faster, harder. Rio sighed beneath her, caught between sobs and moans, until her entire body arched violently and she came apart with a scream muffled against Agatha’s shoulder.

Agatha didn’t stop. She coaxed her through it, relentless, drawing out every shudder, every cry, until Rio sagged against the mattress, boneless and trembling. Only then did she slow, kissing her way down Rio’s slick body, her tongue replacing her fingers.

The moment her lips closed around Rio, her wife let out a strangled sob, already oversensitive, but Agatha held her hips down and devoured her. She licked and sucked until Rio came again, muffling her gasps with her arm, her thighs trembling around Agatha’s head.

By the time Agatha finally pulled back, Rio was shaking, tears streaking her cheeks—not of pain, but of release. Agatha crawled up her body, kissing them away, whispering, “Safe. Loved. Always.”

Rio clung to her, burying her face in Agatha’s neck. “Thank you,” she whispered hoarsely. “You always save me.”

Agatha held her tight, pressing her forehead to hers. “And I always will. Every time, Rio. Until there’s nothing left to fear.”

They lay tangled together, skin to skin, until exhaustion pulled Rio into sleep. Agatha stayed awake a while longer, stroking her wife’s hair, watching her finally rest, and vowing silently that no ghost—past or present—would ever take her away again.

 

---

 

The sun was already pressing thin rays of gold through the curtains by the time Agatha stirred awake. She blinked against the light, momentarily forgetting the weight of the night before, until she felt Rio curled into her chest, one leg tangled over hers, her cheek pressed to Agatha’s skin.

For a few blessed seconds, Agatha let herself just be—the warmth of her wife in her arms, the quiet rhythm of her breath, the faint hum of Señor Scratchy snoring somewhere at the foot of the bed. He must have come in in in the middle of the night. It felt like safety, like the kind of morning they should have every day. But then reality crept in, heavy and insistent.

They had a lead. A name that could shatter everything.

Agatha kissed the crown of Rio’s head, breathing in the scent of her freshly cleaned hair from the night before. She stroked along her bare back slowly, hoping to soften the words she knew she had to say.

“Rio,” she murmured, voice low, careful.

Her wife stirred, tightening her hold as if trying to burrow deeper into her. “Mmh. Five more minutes,” Rio mumbled, her voice muffled against Agatha’s skin.

Agatha almost smiled, but the heaviness wouldn’t let her. “I wish we could. But there’s something we need to talk about.”

Rio sighed, pulling back enough to blink at her with bleary eyes. “Agatha, it’s too early for a lecture.”

“This isn’t a lecture,” Agatha promised, brushing her thumb over Rio’s cheekbone. “It’s about the case. About… you know what.”

At that, Rio’s body stiffened, the softness of the moment vanishing. She pulled her gaze away, staring instead at the wall. “No.”

Agatha exhaled slowly. She had expected resistance. “Rio—”

“No,” Rio repeated, sharper this time. “We’re not talking about him. Not with the team. They don’t need to know.”

“They do,” Agatha countered gently, though her tone carried an edge of insistence. “We have a lead now. Brown was clear—Luna’s disappearance, Hazel’s too—it all might tie back to him. If we’re going to investigate, the others need to understand who he is. What he does.” She paused, squeezing Rio’s hand. “What he’s done.”

Rio shook her head violently, pulling her hand free to cover her face. “No, Agatha. I can’t— I can’t sit there and tell them… everything. I can’t let them look at me like—” Her voice broke, and she pressed her palms harder against her eyes, as though she could block out the thought itself.

Agatha pulled her close again, wrapping her arms around her until Rio’s trembling settled into shuddered breaths against her chest. “Hey. Listen to me.” She stroked her hair, waiting until Rio finally tilted her head just enough to meet her gaze. “You don’t have to tell them. Not if you can’t. But they do need to know. Otherwise we’re chasing shadows, blind. They won’t understand the patterns, the danger. And we can’t risk missing something because they don’t know the truth.”

Rio’s eyes searched hers, filled with fear and stubbornness and something close to desperation. “So you’ll just… what? Sit them all down and lay my whole life out for them like a case file?”

“If that’s what it takes,” Agatha said softly, but firmly. “You don’t have to say a word. I’ll do the talking. And Lilia will help. She already knows, she was there when…” She trailed off, unwilling to press the wound any deeper, but Rio flinched anyway. Agatha kissed her temple quickly, pulling her back again. “It’s gonna be okay, Rio.”

Rio laid in silence for a long time, staring past Agatha’s shoulder. The morning light caught in her eyes, making them seem even darker than usual. “I hate it,” she whispered finally. “I hate the idea of them knowing. Of seeing me like that. Not the criminologist. Not the profiler. Just… a broken little girl who couldn’t get out until she was fully grown.”

Agatha tightened her hold. “You are not broken. And if they see you as anything less than the strongest woman I’ve ever known, then that’s their failing, not yours.” She cupped Rio’s face, forcing her to meet her gaze. “But I don’t believe they’ll see that. Jen, Alice, Billy—they’ll see what I see. Someone who survived hell and still walked out standing.”

Rio blinked rapidly, her throat working around words she couldn’t quite shape. “And Naya?” she whispered, almost inaudible.

Agatha’s chest ached at the name, but she forced herself to stay steady. “If this leads us to her, then we need the team’s full strength behind us. We can’t afford secrets anymore.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy but not empty. Finally, Rio sagged against her, defeated not by Agatha but by truth itself. Her voice was barely a breath. “…Fine. But only if you do the talking. I can’t… I can’t relive it like that.”

Agatha kissed her softly, with more promise than passion. “Then I’ll do it. And Lilia will stand with us.” She brushed her nose against Rio’s. “You don’t have to carry this alone anymore. Not even the memory.”

Rio closed her eyes, resting her forehead against her wife’s. “I don’t know if I can ever forgive you for being right all the time.”

Agatha chuckled quietly, relief breaking through the heaviness. “Occupational hazard of being married to a very good detective.”

Rio groaned, burying her face against Agatha’s neck, but her arms tightened around her waist, holding on as though bracing for what was to come. And Agatha let her cling, knowing it was the closest she’d get to an agreement.

 

---

 

The bullpen was buzzing when Agatha and Rio stepped into the station an hour later. Despite the late hour they’d all gone home, Alice, Jen, and Billy were already gathered around the central table, documents spread in a messy sprawl of photos, timelines, and scribbled notes. Lorna’s daycare drop-off had clearly already been handled, because Jen and Alice were in full work mode, their usual softness exchanged for sharp focus. Billy was hunched forward, tapping a pencil against his notebook as though his mind was running faster than his hand could keep up.

The three of them looked up as Agatha and Rio entered. Their greetings were polite—nods, brief smiles—but there was a quiet intensity under it. The Sinclair girls’ case was weighing on them all, dragging the atmosphere into something heavy ahnd expectant.

Rio let Señor Scratchy trot forward first, the big fluffy dog padding across the room to nuzzle at Billy’s leg before circling back toward her. She followed silently, keeping slightly behind Agatha. Agatha could feel her wife’s reluctance in the way her steps slowed, in the way her eyes didn’t quite lift from the floor.

“Morning,” Agatha greeted, her voice brisk but friendly.

“Morning,” Jen returned, flipping through the papers in front of her. “We’ve been pulling everything again—every scrap of detail we have on Luna and Hazel Sinclair. Trying to see if we missed something, some thread that ties them.”

Alice gestured to the board where they’d pinned photographs side by side: Luna’s school portrait, Hazel’s grainy image at the same age. “Same age, similar features. Definitely sisters. It’s obviously deliberate. Whoever took them had more than a type.”

Agatha hummed, scanning the board, her detective’s mind already weighing what they’d soon have to share.

It wasn’t long before the sound of Lilia’s measured heels echoed through the hall. The Director’s arrival had a way of shifting the air, as though soft authority itself had entered. She stepped into the bullpen, her sharp gaze flicking briefly to Agatha, then to Rio, reading the unspoken tension between them. She gave the smallest of nods. It was time.

Agatha cleared her throat. “Alright. Everyone. Conference room.”

There was a scrape of chairs, the shuffle of papers being gathered. They all filed in, settling into seats around the long table. Jen and Alice sat together, shoulders brushing, quiet solidarity between them. Billy took his usual spot, notebook at the ready, eyes wide with anticipation.

Rio didn’t take a seat. Instead, she lowered herself to the ground in one smooth motion, crossing her legs and letting Señor Scratchy curl into her lap. She busied her hands with stroking the dog’s thick fur, head ducked, not once looking up at the others. The picture of withdrawal.

Agatha was watching her f course, of course. Every detail of her wife’s body language carved itself into her awareness. But she didn’t force it. Rio needed space—this was the only way she could be in the room at all.

Agatha and Lilia sat side by side at the front of the table, facing their team. It wasn’t lost on Agatha that this mirrored so many other briefings they’d given before—but this one felt heavier, more dangerous, like stepping onto a precipice.

She inhaled, steadying herself. Then began.

“Detective Brown gave us a lot to think about yesterday,” she said, her tone measured, professional. “I want to run through everything we learned so we’re all operating with the same information.”

The room stilled, pens at the ready.

Agatha went over it piece by piece. She recounted Brown’s observations on the Sinclair disappearances: the timing, the eerie similarities between Hazel and Luna, the lack of physical evidence that suggested careful planning. She repeated his frustration, how he’d been stonewalled in the past, unable to move forward with no clear suspect.

Alice was already typing rapidly into her laptop, fingers flying, cataloguing every detail. Jen leaned back in her chair, her hand absently resting on her wedding ring as she listened, sharp eyes flicking up every now and then with questions she scribbled in the margins. Billy kept up with furious notes, his brow furrowed in focus.

Señor Scratchy gave a soft grunt from Rio’s lap, the sound oddly grounding in the tense silence.

Agatha’s throat tightened as she approached the point she’d been dreading. She paused, took a slow breath. Her gaze flickered to her left.

Rio still hadn’t looked up. She was staring fixedly at her hands buried in the dog’s fur, her shoulders taut, her jaw clenched. The sight tugged at Agatha’s chest. She knew how much this cost her.

Then Agatha looked at Lilia. The Director met her eyes with a steady, deliberate nod. Confirmation. Support. A silent go on.

Agatha faced the team again, bracing herself. “There’s… more. Something Detective Brown didn’t say outright, but hinted at. Something that might connect all of this.”

She let the pause hang, her voice dipping lower. “A name. Someone we hoped we’d never have to deal with again. Someone whose methods…” She stopped, another deep breath pushing past the tightness in her chest. “His name is Thanos. Active around twenty years ago until he disappeared into thin air.”

Still oblivious to the change of pace in the room, Billy kept writing furiously in his notebook and Agatha could see the name she hated the most in this life take form in his notebook, in big capital letters.

Rio’s hand faltered briefly against Señor Scratchy’s fur, her knuckles whitening as she tightened her grip. Still, she didn’t look at anyone.

Agatha forced herself to keep going, her voice quieter now, but steadier. “Brown believes Luna and Hazel’s disappearances might be tied to him. And if he’s right, then we need to understand exactly what we’re dealing with. Which means you need to know who Thanos is. What he’s done.”

Her eyes drifted once more to Rio. Her wife’s face was turned away, profile tense, eyes locked on the dog as though he were the only tether keeping her in the room. Agatha’s chest ached, but she knew pushing her wasn’t an option. Neither was staying silent.

So she looked at Lilia instead. The Director gave another small nod, her expression grim, then leaned forward as if readying herself to shoulder some of the weight.

Agatha drew in one final breath, gathering her resolve. “This isn’t an easy story to tell,” she warned. “But it’s one you need to hear.”

And with that, the room braced for what was to come.

The silence in the conference room stretched, heavy and taut. Agatha could hear the faint scratching of Señor Scratchy’s claws against the floor as he shifted in Rio’s lap, the only sound filling the still air. Her team was waiting. She could feel their eyes on her, expectant, confused, already uneasy with the name she’d dropped.

Lilia leaned forward first, breaking the silence with a low, even tone. “Like Agatha told you, what we’re about to tell you is not easy to say or hear. But if Brown is right, if this… monster is involved again, you need to understand the scope of what we’re up against.”

Jen shifted in her seat, her arms crossing defensively as if bracing herself. Alice glanced at her wife, then back at the front, worry written across her features. Billy just sat there, utterly still, his pencil poised but unmoving, as though afraid to even write anything more.

Agatha inhaled. Her throat felt tight, but she forced the words out. “Twenty-three years ago, this man calling himself Thanos abducted two little girls. They were eight years old—twins. He took them straight from their parents’ backyard and vanished without a trace. No ransom. No demands. Nothing. They were just gone.”

Alice’s lips parted slightly, a soundless gasp escaping. Jen’s eyes narrowed, her jaw tense.

Lilia picked up the thread smoothly, her voice practiced, professional. “He kept them for eleven years. Eleven. He controlled every single aspect of their lives—what they ate, when they slept, when they were allowed to see each other. He forced them to study, to learn languages, music, dance, literature… anything he demanded, they had to master. Their worth to him depended on their performance. Their punishments depended on their failures.”

The team’s faces drained a little at that. Billy finally scribbled something down, but his hand shook.

Agatha pressed her lips together, then continued. “They weren’t children to him anymore. They were projects. Experiments. He conditioned their entire lives around what he wanted. And he kept them isolated from the world. No contact with anyone but him, no freedom. For more than a decade.”

Señor Scratchy let out a soft whine, nuzzling against Rio’s arm. Rio’s hand trembled as she stroked his fur, her head still ducked, refusing to look up, pretending not to hear.

Jen was the first to speak, her voice low. “Wait—I think… I remember something about this. It was in the news, wasn’t it? Years ago?”

Alice nodded slowly, her brow furrowed. “Yeah. I do too. They never gave names, but… I remember. It was a big deal, but details were scarce. Just that there’d been a kidnapping, that someone had escaped. The press said it was… horrific, but they never went into depth. Because the victims were minors.”

“That’s right,” Lilia confirmed. “When one of the twins escaped at nineteen, she went straight to the police. I was a detective then, not yet Director. I took her first statement. I opened the investigation. We searched for months, combed everything, but…” Her jaw tightened, her usually steady tone dipping for just a moment. “We never found the second twin. Not a single trace. To this day, she’s still missing.”

The weight of those words pressed down like a stone. The silence that followed was suffocating.

Agatha’s fingers curled into her palm beneath the table, nails biting into skin. Talking about it like this, clinical, detached, as if it were just another case—it made her stomach twist. She wasn’t describing some girl. She was describing Rio. Her wife. Her love. The strongest, gentlest person she knew. And she had to do it without letting the truth slip, without revealing how intimately she knew this story.

She swallowed hard and forced herself to go on. “About seven years ago, I read the files myself. Every page. Every report. I needed to understand what had happened, and what we were dealing with if Thanos ever resurfaced.”

Billy finally lifted his head, his expression pale, horrified. “Eleven years,” he whispered, almost to himself. “That’s… that’s a lifetime. Those girls… how could—"

No one answered him. Because there wasn’t an answer.

Jen exhaled slowly, dragging a hand over her face. “God. That poor kid. Those poor kids.” She stopped herself, shaking her head.

Alice reached over, squeezing her wife’s hand. Her eyes flicked toward the front of the room again, wide, stricken.

Agatha’s chest felt tight, her pulse beating too fast in her ears. She had delivered hundreds of briefings in her life, stood in front of her team and told them brutal truths about murderers, criminals, tragedies. But never like this. Never while sitting across from the survivor herself, never while her heart ached with the weight of her silence.

She forced the next words out, her voice quieter now, almost reverent. “The girl who escaped. The one who gave her statement, who endured those eleven years, who carried the weight of it while the world speculated and whispered but never truly knew…”

Agatha stopped, unable to say more. Her gaze drifted down—past the papers, past the table—toward the figure sitting on the ground.

Rio hadn’t moved. She was folded over Scratchy now, her forehead pressed into his fur, her shoulders trembling ever so slightly with the effort of keeping still. The dog licked at her cheek, protective and steady as always, as though sensing every ounce of her pain.

Lilia took the last step for her, her voice firm, solemn. “That girl was Rio.”

The air left the room all at once, as though the walls themselves had exhaled in shock.

Billy’s pencil clattered to the table. Alice’s eyes went wide, glassy with sudden tears. Jen’s mouth fell open, her composure cracking in a rare, unguarded moment.

No one spoke. No one knew how to.

They all turned toward Rio, the survivor who had been in the room with them every day, who had laughed with them, worked with them, helped them solve case after case with brilliance and composure. And now, faced with the truth of who she was, they saw her differently—not less, not diminished, but marked. Scarred by something almost unimaginable. Marked by Death but being Life.

Rio didn’t lift her head. She buried her face deeper in Scratchy’s thick fur, her fingers clutching him like a lifeline. Her shoulders trembled, a barely perceptible shake that betrayed the effort it took to remain silent, to hold herself together while the truth echoed through the room. Scratchy stayed pressed against her, his large body shielding her from view, his soft whines filling the silence.

The air felt denser somehow, every breath dragging like it had to push through molasses. The team hadn’t expected such a revelation, and it showed in their faces—Alice’s usually bright expression muted into quiet shock, Jen sitting straighter than usual as if bracing herself, and Billy staring at the table, his pen lying forgotten on the table.

Agatha’s chest ached at the sight of her wife so fragile, so exposed in front of the team. It wasn’t Rio’s way to show weakness, she always carried herself with sharp wit and keen intelligence, a professional exterior polished to perfection. Now, stripped bare by the truth, she was trembling like that young girl who had escaped all those years ago. Agatha longed to cross the room, to pull her into her arms, but she couldn’t—not here, not with their marriage still hidden.

It was Rio herself who finally broke the silence. Her voice was hoarse, uneven, like she had to force each word out.

“It doesn’t… it doesn’t change anything.” Her eyes remained on the floor, on Scratchy’s fur. She didn’t look at them. “I’m still me. I’m still Rio. The same one you’ve worked with. The same criminologist who can help you solve this.” She swallowed hard. “And I will do anything—anything—to help us find Luna. Because I cannot bear the thought that there’s another little girl out there… living what I lived. What Naya and I lived. I can’t let that happen again.”

Her words cracked on the last sentence, but she pushed through it, her jaw tightening stubbornly as if daring anyone to question her strength.

The team exchanged glances, but none of them spoke too quickly. Jen was the first to nod, her eyes soft, her voice steady but gentle. “We know, Rio. We trust you. And we’re with you.”

Alice’s hand sought Jen’s under the table, and she added quietly, “You’re still the same Rio we’ve always known. None of this changes that. If anything, it makes me respect you even more.”

Billy, who looked the most shaken, finally lifted his gaze. His eyes were glassy, but his voice, though unsteady, was earnest. “I… I’m sorry you went through that. But I promise we’ll find Luna. No matter what it takes.”

Rio’s throat bobbed as she swallowed, but she didn’t respond beyond the smallest nod. The boy was still young. He should know a detective investigating the disappearance of a child should never promise the child will be found. Promise to do their best, yes. Promise they’ll find them, no. Rio was the living proof of that.

Agatha, sensing the tightrope her wife was walking, knew she had to step in before the emotions in the room became too heavy for Rio to bear. She straightened in her chair, her tone shifting back into the practical, commanding register of a detective.

“Alright,” she said firmly, her eyes scanning the table. “We’ve all heard enough for now. What matters right now is Luna and Hazel. Detective Brown sent over his entire case file from Hazel’s disappearance. We need to comb through every page. He’s convinced there’s a connection. I think he’s right. Too many coincidences. Two sisters, two unresolved abductions, now the fact that Rio’s here too, it’s just too much to be random. And if he’s right, then the key to finding Luna could be in those old files.”

The weight of the room shifted again, the focus moving away from Rio’s pain toward the task at hand. It was subtle but deliberate: Agatha’s way of shielding her wife.

Lilia, who had been watching silently, added with the careful authority her position afforded her. “That’s exactly what needs to happen. But first—” her gaze flicked to Rio, softer than her usual demeanor—“Rio, I want you to step outside for a few minutes. Breathe. Clear your head. Take the dog. Then come back in when you’re ready. We need you focused.”

Rio’s lips pressed into a thin line. For a moment, Agatha thought she might refuse—her wife hated being told to step aside, even temporarily—but then Rio nodded. Wordlessly, she pushed herself to her feet, her movements stiff, her hand still buried in Scratchy’s fur. The dog rose with her, never straying from her side, his big body brushing her legs as they made their way to the door.

The door clicked shut softly behind them, leaving the team in a silence filled only by the faint shuffle of papers and the tension of unspoken thoughts.

Agatha let out a slow breath. She could already imagine Rio outside, probably pacing or sitting against the wall with Scratchy curled at her feet, trying to will her heartbeat back under control. She wanted desperately to go with her, to kneel down beside her again like she had in Brown’s garden, to hold her until she stopped shaking. But here, she couldn’t. Not yet.

The door had barely closed behind Rio before the room erupted. The restraint the team had forced on themselves while she was present finally gave way, and questions tumbled out almost all at once, their voices hushed but urgent.

“Oh my god,” Alice whispered, wide-eyed as she twisted in her seat toward Lilia and Agatha. “Was that real? Everything you said about—about what happened to her? That was Rio?”

Jen leaned forward, her usually composed expression shaken. “You’ve got to be kidding me. I mean—I remember hearing about those girls. Everyone did. But it was years ago, and the press kept it vague. Nobody knew the names. And all this time, Rio—” She exhaled sharply, glancing toward the door as though she could still see their colleague on the other side.

Billy, who looked the youngest he ever had in that moment, stared down at his notepad with wide, unfocused eyes. “She was three years younger than me right now when she got out,” he murmured. “And she’s been carrying that this whole time?” He scrubbed a hand across his face, clearly rattled. “How did she even manage to—how does she function like she does?”

The flood of voices only stopped when Agatha raised a hand. “Enough.” Her tone was sharper than usual. It was the edge of someone trying to regain order in a storm. “I know you’re shocked. I know you have a hundred questions. But you need to listen very carefully right now.”

The team fell quiet, though their gazes still burned with confusion and concern. Lilia, who had been watching them closely, leaned forward in her chair, her voice steady with authority that carried years of experience.

“What we told you stays in this room,” she said firmly. “It is not gossip. It is not fuel for speculation. Rio’s history is hers alone, and she shared it—through us—because it was relevant to the case. That’s it. If anyone treats her differently because of this, you’ll be answering to me.”

Alice nodded quickly, Jen following suit with a more measured but equally serious dip of her head. Billy swallowed and straightened a little in his chair.

Agatha continued, her gaze sweeping across each of them. “From this moment forward, we treat this case like any other. Finding Luna is our priority—our only priority. Whatever you feel about Rio’s past, keep it professional. She is part of this team. She wants to be part of this investigation. But you need to understand that this won’t be easy for her. She might be more fragile than usual.” Agatha’s throat tightened slightly as she spoke, but she forced her voice to remain even. “That means being mindful. Sensitive. Give her space when she needs it. Don’t push unless it’s necessary.”

Billy frowned softly. “But… can we ask her questions? I mean—if her experience could help us understand what Luna might be going through…”

Lilia was the one to answer this time. “Yes. If it’s relevant to the investigation, you can ask. But weigh your words carefully. Don’t pry for curiosity’s sake. Don’t make her relive more than she has to. She may very well be the key we need, but she’s not just a witness. She’s your colleague. She’s Rio. And she is one of ours.”

The reminder seemed to land. Alice glanced at Jen, who gave her wife’s hand a quiet squeeze under the table. Billy gave a small, solemn nod, his earlier eye-linered wide-eyed shock tempered now by determination.

Agatha leaned back slightly, letting out a breath. “Good. Then let’s move forward. We’ll regroup in the bullpen and start going through Brown’s files. Somewhere in Hazel Sinclair’s case, there’s a thread we need to pull. And if this bastard really is back, we don’t have time to waste.”

The team rose almost in unison, chairs scraping softly against the floor as they gathered their things. The stunned silence of earlier had shifted into something steadier, more resolute. They were still shaken, still pale from the story, but their training and loyalty to the case were kicking back in.

As the team filed out of the conference room, the air hung heavy with what had just been revealed. Nobody spoke much—too many pieces to process, too many truths that had been quietly dropped into the room like grenades.

Jen lingered at the threshold, her hand brushing the doorframe as she glanced back toward the corridor where Rio had disappeared only moments before. Her lips parted, the words escaping as if she hadn’t meant for anyone to hear them. “She’s stronger than I can even wrap my head around.”

Agatha heard it. Of course she did—her ears always tuned when it came to Rio, especially now. But she kept her face impassive, a detective’s mask, even as something inside her chest pulled tight and twisted. Strength. Yes. But at what cost?

She was about to follow the others when a hand caught her wrist—firm but still gentle. Lilia.

“Harkness,” the Director said quietly, waiting until the room was nearly empty before continuing. “You okay?”

Agatha lifted her eyes, blue cutting into hazel, and for a moment she considered lying, brushing it off with the usual steel. Instead, she exhaled, almost weary. “I can’t wait for this case to be over.”

It wasn’t an answer, not really, but it was what she could give.

Lilia studied her in silence, weighing what was said and what wasn’t. The woman had spent years reading people; Agatha wasn’t easy to read, but she wasn’t impenetrable either. “I’m here if you need to talk,” she said finally, her voice low and measured. “It’s not just Rio in this. It’s your family too. And if you’d rather not talk to me, I can make sure there’s a therapist on the case.”

Agatha’s jaw tightened at the word therapist. She hesitated, then nodded once. “It might be good for Rio, yes.”

But Lilia shook her head, her tone sharpening. “I’m not talking about Rio. She’ll have one, that’s already decided. Non-negotiable. I’m talking about you, Agatha.”

For a long beat, silence stretched between them. Agatha’s gaze dropped, then lifted again, her features softening into something almost defensive. “I’m okay.”

The words were practiced, automatic. Too fast.

Lilia narrowed her eyes, unconvinced. She had seen Agatha shoulder unbearable things before, carrying them in silence until the weight bent her. She knew that stubborn streak too well. But pressing her now would get her nowhere.

“Mm.” The director released her wrist, though her eyes never left her. “If you say so.”

Agatha gave a curt nod, already shifting her weight to leave, but Lilia’s voice followed.

“I’ll be keeping an eye on both of you.”

Out in the bullpen, the familiar rhythm of work slowly reasserted itself. Alice powered up her computer, fingers already moving to pull up the digitized copies of Hazel’s file Brown had sent over. Jen began laying out hard copies on the central table, sorting them into neat stacks—witness statements, timelines, photos, anything that might hold weight. Billy, though still looking unsettled, grabbed a marker and started scrawling a fresh timeline on the whiteboard, his handwriting hurried but precise.

Lilia moved through the room with quiet purpose, watching as they all immersed themselves again in the work. She caught Agatha’s eye briefly, giving the slightest nod—a silent acknowledgment that things were holding steady for now.

Agatha opened a new document as though it were any other day, though she could still feel the absence of Rio beside her like a missing limb. The chair where her wife usually sat seemed too empty, too stark against the clatter of papers and the hum of machinery. She clenched her jaw, willing herself to focus. There would be time to check on Rio soon, but for now, she had to keep the others anchored.

“All right,” she said, her voice cutting through the rustle of pages. “Let’s start from the beginning. Hazel Sinclair vanished twenty-six years ago. Detective Brown believes what happened to her and what’s happening to Luna are connected. So until we prove otherwise, we work on the assumption that they are. Go through everything with a fine-tooth comb. Patterns, names, places—anything that links the two cases. Let’s move.”

The bullpen came alive again, the low buzz of determination settling in. The case was back at the center. But under the surface, the weight of Rio’s absence still pulsed quietly, a reminder that this was no ordinary investigation.

 

 

Chapter 13

Notes:

It's getting pretty niche, lol.

 

By the time Rio returned, the bullpen was already humming with a specific kind of  of quiet intensity that accompanied a big case. Alice had three monitors open, each displaying different portions of Hazel Sinclair’s old file. Jen was bent over the table with a highlighter in hand, marking witness statements, while Billy scribbled fresh notes onto the whiteboard timeline he’d started earlier. Agatha sat at the table, flipping through crime scene photos with the detached focus of someone forcing her emotions into the background.

The sound of the door opening drew every eye at once. Rio stepped inside, shoulders squared but her face still pale. Señor Scratchy padded faithfully at her side, brushing against her leg before settling himself under the nearest desk as if he understood the tension in the air.

“Hey,” Rio said softly, her voice still unsteady. She glanced quickly around the room before choosing the same position as earlier—on the ground, cross-legged, her back against the edge of the bullpen table. It kept her close, part of the circle, but also gave her the comfort of distance.

The others exchanged brief glances, silently negotiating who should speak first. Finally, it was Jen who broke the silence, her tone deliberately calm. “We’ve been going through Hazel’s files. There are… gaps. Questions that might connect to what you lived through. If you’re ready, we’d like to ask you a few things.”

Rio nodded once, bracing herself. “Go ahead.”

Billy, hesitant but earnest, leaned forward. “Do you… do you think Hazel could’ve been there too? With you and your sister?”

The question hung heavy in the room. Rio drew in a slow breath before answering, her hands twisting nervously in her lap. “No,” she said at last. “At least, not in a way I would’ve known. We could barely see each other. The doors stayed closed, the walls were thick. Even Naya and I were separated most of the time. We weren’t allowed to talk unless he wanted us to. If there was another girl… we could never have known.”

Alice chewed on her lip, her fingers hovering above her keyboard. “So you never heard another child? No voices, no crying?”

Agatha’s stomach knotted. The phrasing was innocent enough, investigative, but the way Rio’s shoulders drew tight made Agatha want to cut the question off before it even landed. She forced her jaw still, hands folded on the table, nails pressing crescent moons into her palms.

Rio shook her head slowly. “Not once. That’s the thing—he was meticulous about silence. If you broke it, there were… consequences.” Her voice caught, lowering at the end, but she pushed through, forcing steadiness. “You learned quickly not to. That’s why I don’t think Hazel was there at the same time as us. It was so quiet that I could hear every creak of the floorboards, every faucet drip. The house itself felt alive, whispering where everyone was at all times. And I never heard anyone but the three of us.”

Jen leaned forward, tapping her pen against her notebook in a sharp, restless rhythm. “But you said at the same time.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “You think maybe Hazel could have been there before you?”

Agatha stiffened. The words were fair, logical, but they scraped across her nerves like sandpaper. Rio hesitated—of course she did, dragged into memories she’d locked away for survival. Agatha wanted to cut in, redirect, shield. But she stayed still, her face unreadable to the others, while inside her heart was slamming against her ribs.

For a moment, Rio didn’t answer. Her gaze slipped downward, unfocused, not on the files scattered across the desk but somewhere far older, darker. She seemed to weigh whether to speak at all, then finally let the words come out, low and hesitant. “When I first got there… when Naya and I were brought in… my room already had clothes. Little girls’ clothes. Folded into neat stacks. Each set in a different color. And one of them looked like it had already been worn. But it wasn’t our colors.”

The bullpen went still. Every pair of eyes fixed on her, the weight of the detail sinking in.

“Worn?” Alice echoed carefully, as though afraid to push too hard.

“Your colors?” Jen asked almost at the same time.

Agatha’s fists clenched harder under the table. They didn’t realize how each question chipped at Rio, pulling her deeper into things Agatha herself had spent years coaxing her away from. But this was necessary—damn it, it was necessary. For Luna. For Naya. For every child who might still be in danger. She stayed silent, though guilt churned like acid in her gut.

Rio nodded. “Yes. Folded neatly, but used. A few sizes too big for us back then. Some seams fraying, a button missing from one dress. I remember the smell—soap, but faint, not fresh. Like it had been washed over and over again.” She swallowed hard, her throat working against the memory. “They weren’t for me or Naya though. So maybe there was another child there before us.”

She drew in a shaky breath, then continued, more deliberate now, as if piecing together fragments she wished she could forget. “He always color-coded us. I was green. Naya was red. He said it was because the colors meant something, that they represented truths older than the world. Together, we could be infinite; apart, just tools. He used to say our joining him was inevitable. But that we weren’t complete yet.”

Her hand flexed on the edge of the table, knuckles pale. “There were four other colors folded in the dresser. But we could only wear our own. Green for me, red for Naya. The set that looked worn was blue. He wouldn’t let me touch it. Said it didn’t fit me. That it never would.”

Lilia, who had been listening quietly by the doorway, finally stepped forward. “The blue set could mean Hazel,” she said gravely. “She would’ve been a little older than you back then.”

Agatha’s chest constricted even further, as if a snake had wound itself around her torso and was slowly squeezing her harder and harder. She thought of Hazel, eight years old, scared and alone. She thought of Rio, also eight, thrust into a nightmare. Smae with Luna. How many children had walked into that same house before anyone noticed?

Billy looked puzzled. “But what does that mean? Those colors?”

Rio gave a little shrug without meeting his gaze, the faintest curl of bitterness ghosting her mouth. “I don’t really know. He only ever explained pieces. It was just weird to me and never made sense. He said there were six true entities at the origin of everything, and we were his living embodiments. His perfect jewels.” She spat the last words like they tasted foul. “He said I was like Time. Because, according to him, he had seen me first and I was the beginning—years before he took us—and that he could feel I’d be the end too. He always joked that I would be the Death of him.” Rio said with a bitter laugh. “He never really liked me.” And then, darker. “Or maybe he liked me too much.”

The detective’s hands curled tighter. She wanted to tell them to stop, to tell Rio she never had to explain herself to anyone, not even for a case. But Rio pressed forward. “Naya was Reality. Because she was the best at turning lies into truths. And that she was the most malleable and unpredictable one, like the Aether.” A humorless smile. “Thanos always fancied himself a poet. It suited him, in his twisted way.”

Alice’s fingers finally began to move, rapid over the keyboard, trying to capture every word. “If we can connect that to any mythological structure, we might be able to trace his patterns, understand his motives.” Her eyes flicked up. “Rio, do you remember the other colors?”

Rio closed her eyes. Agatha, watching her from across the table, felt her own chest tighten with the urge to reach out, to steady her. These were things Rio had never shared—not even in their most private hours—she had been holding these pieces in silence for years, and now she had to bleed them out in a roomful of colleagues.

When Rio spoke again, her voice was steady, but it carried the weight of old wounds. “Beyond my green, Naya’s red, and the blue… there was purple. Yellow. And orange.”

Jen scribbled furiously, muttering, “That guy is so fucked up, holy shit.”

Billy looked between them, his young face clouded with both confusion and dread. “So Hazel could have been there before Rio and Naya. Worn the blue set. And then… gone.” His voice faltered as the implication set in. “But what happened to her if she wasn’t there with you?”

That was the question none of them wanted to voice aloud, but it lingered heavily. Agatha’s eyes flickered briefly to Rio, who had gone very still, her hands clutched tightly in her lap. Agatha spoke before the silence could stretch too long. “We don’t know yet. That’s why we go through everything with Hazel’s file. Maybe she was taken somewhere else. Maybe she… maybe she didn’t make it. Either way, this detail matters. It points us toward Thanos repeating schemes.”

The name made Rio flinch again, though she tried to hide it. Señor Scratchy shifted closer under the desk, laying his large head across her legs. She dropped one trembling hand to his fur, anchiring herself with the familiar comfort.

“I can give you more details,” Rio said quietly, staring at the floor. “About the clothes. About the room. But don’t expect too much—I never dared to ask or keep things in my head for too long. Forgetting was safer.”

Jen’s expression softened, her voice gentle. “Whatever you can give us is more than enough, Rio. Don’t push yourself past what you can handle.”

Rio gave a small nod of acknowledgment, though she didn’t lift her gaze.

Lilia cleared her throat, her voice measured but commanding. “All right. Everyone note this detail in the record. The possibility that Hazel Sinclair was once in that house, before Rio and Naya, is significant. It ties these cases together in a way we can’t ignore. Until we prove otherwise, we operate on the theory that Thanos took Hazel and now Luna too.”

Pens scratched, keys clicked, the board filled with new notes, getting back into the thick of it And Rio, still seated on the floor with Scratchy’s head in her lap, stayed silent, her thoughts far away, caught between past and present.

Only Agatha didn’t move. Not right away. She kept her gaze on Rio, who had lowered her head slightly, dark hair hiding part of her face. To anyone else, she looked composed, steady even. But Agatha could see the small signs—the rigid way her shoulders held, the way her thumb pressed hard into the edge of the table.

Agatha’s heart screamed to close the distance, to reach across and fold Rio into her arms, to pull her home and into their bed where the world couldn’t touch her. She wanted to smooth back her hair, kiss her temple, murmur against her skin that it was over, that she’d never have to say these words again. That no one would ever make her relive that house.

But Agatha stayed still. She had to. They couldn’t afford to let the team see what they really were to each other. If Rio broke, Agatha had to sit there, hands locked in her lap, expression schooled into professional calm. If Rio bled out memories she hadn’t spoken in twenty years, Agatha had to pretend she was just her colleague, listening like everyone else. But deep down she knew she wouldn’t be able to do so. If Rio did break, there would be no boundaries strong enough to keep her away.

The knowledge clawed at her insides. Every instinct demanded she protect, shield, love out loud. And instead, she had to act as though she wasn’t quietly breaking right alongside her. A dark part of her mind kept whispering to her that maybe Rio breaking wouldn’t be such a bad thing if it meant it was strong enough of a reason for her to break her promise to keep their marriage under wrap. She almost couldn’t remember why they had made that promise in the first place. But guilt immediately shut that thought down. She’d rather break herself than see Rio break. And selfishly, she knew she couldn’t handle having eyes on her too if their marriage was revealed like that in those circumstances.

So she forced herself back into motion, collecting the scattered pages in front of her and sliding them into a neater pile. Work. Focus. Do the damn job. She’d lived with restraint this long; she could endure it a little longer. For Rio’s sake. For Luna’s.

Still, as she rose from her chair and followed the others back into the flow of the bullpen, she felt the tremor of her own exhaustion pressing at the edges. The revelations had cut through her too—deeper than she’d expected. She had spent years helping Rio shoulder the ghosts of her past, and now those ghosts were stalking their bullpen in full daylight, demanding attention, demanding to be spoken of.

She wasn’t doing so well either, though she’d never say it out loud. Not here. Not now. Her colleagues didn’t need to see the way her composure frayed when it came to Rio, how much it gutted her to listen without being able to comfort.

She told herself she would hold on until nightfall. Until work was done for the day. Then, and only then, she would take Rio home, lock the door, and do what she couldn’t do here: gather her wife in her arms and keep her safe, if only for a few hours.

From the doorway, Lilia’s eyes tracked her as she moved through the room. The director said nothing, but she saw it—the fractionally slower steps, the faint clench of Agatha’s jaw, the way her gaze lingered too long on Rio before she forced herself to look away. It wasn’t the sharp-eyed detective on display now; it was someone strung taut, running on sheer willpower.

Lilia’s expression gave nothing away to the others, but she shifted, leaning against the frame as though she intended to stay a while. Quietly, she adjusted her stance so that Agatha would see her if she looked up, a silent reassurance that someone was watching her back too.

When Agatha finally sat at her desk, flipping through reports she wasn’t truly seeing, she felt the weight of Lilia’s gaze across the bullpen. Not intrusive, not pitying—simply steady. A reminder that she wasn’t as subtle and discreet as she thought.

For now, Agatha kept her head down and did the work, heart tethered across the room to Rio. But a part of her breathed easier knowing Lilia had noticed, and that if she faltered, someone else might catch her before the mask slipped too far.

But Lilia didn’t miss the way Agatha kept her head bowed, gaze carefully away from her direction whenever she looked up. Avoidance was a language Lilia spoke fluently.

After another ten minutes of watching her soldier through, Lilia straightened from the doorway and made her decision. She crossed the bullpen, tapping Agatha’s desk lightly with two knuckles. “With me, Harkness.”

Agatha didn’t look up immediately. She shuffled a few papers together, slid a pen across the desk, gave the impression of finishing something urgent. “Director—”

“Now,” Lilia cut in, tone calm but brooking no argument.

The others looked up briefly, curiosity flickering, but the authority in Lilia’s voice ended any question. Agatha pushed to her feet and followed, her spine straight, every movement neat and clipped. The perfect detective, even as Lilia saw the faint stiffness in her shoulders, the weariness she tried to iron out of her walk.

Inside the office, Lilia closed the door behind them, muffling the bullpen noise. She gestured toward the chair opposite her desk. “Sit.”

Agatha hesitated for half a heartbeat before lowering herself into the seat. Her blue eyes finally lifted, steady but guarded. “If this is about Rio’s testimony, she gave you everything she could. She—”

“This isn’t about Rio,” Lilia interrupted gently, lowering herself into her own chair. “This is about you.”

Agatha blinked once, slow, and then looked away, jaw tightening. “How many times do I need to repeat myself? I’m fine.”

Lilia leaned forward, resting her forearms on the desk. Her hazel eyes held steady, quiet but relentless. “No, you’re functioning. That’s not the same thing.”

Agatha’s mouth opened, then shut again. She hated being read like this, hated even more that Lilia could do it so easily. “We don’t get the luxury of falling apart,” she muttered.

“Maybe not in the middle of a case,” Lilia allowed. “But when this is over? Yes, we do. And you’re going to take it.”

Agatha’s head snapped back toward her, incredulous. “Lilia—”

The director raised a hand, cutting her off. “Listen to me. I’ve seen you push past the limit before, and I’ve let it slide because you always pull through. But this isn’t just another case. This is your family on the line, whether the others know it or not. I’m not blind, Harkness. I see you carrying Rio’s pain on your back as if it’s yours—and I know damn well it feels like it is. But if you break down in the middle of this, if you burn out, you’re no good to her, and you’re no good to Luna.”

Agatha swallowed hard, her composure wobbling for just a second. She dropped her gaze to her hands, knuckles pressed tight together in her lap. “I can keep going until it’s done,” she said quietly.

“I know you can,” Lilia replied. Her voice softened, but there was steel under it. “The question is: should you? And the answer is no. Not without an end point.” She let the words hang, then added firmly, “No matter how it ends, when this case is closed, you and Rio are taking a break. Time away from the station. A chance to actually heal instead of patching yourselves up with duct tape and caffeine.”

Agatha gave a small, humorless huff. “You think time off will fix what’s broken in us?”

“No,” Lilia said simply. “But it’ll stop you from breaking further. It’ll give you space to breathe. Space to just be with her without all this circling overhead.”

Silence stretched. Agatha leaned back in her chair, arms crossed tight. She hated admitting weakness, hated it even more when someone else spotted it first. But she couldn’t deny the truth of Lilia’s words.

Finally, her shoulders sagged, the tiniest surrender. “You’re not giving me much of a choice, are you?”

“Not when it comes to the people under my command,” Lilia said. Then, softer, “Or the people I care about.”

Agatha’s throat constricted at that, unexpected and unwelcome. She blinked hard, drew in a breath, then nodded once. “Fine. When it’s over, we’ll… we’ll take the break.”

“Good,” Lilia said, leaning back at last, as if the decision was final. “I’ll make sure the department can handle things without you. Don’t worry about that.”

Agatha managed a ghost of a smile. “They’ll enjoy the peace and quiet while we’re gone.”

Lilia chuckled lightly, then sobered, her gaze catching Agatha’s again. “Just make sure you make it in one piece. Both of you.”

For a moment, Agatha almost let herself say thank you. Almost. Instead, she rose, tugged her jacket straight, and slipped the mask of the detective back into place. “We’ll finish this case first.”

But as she left the office, the promise of a reprieve—however temporary—settled in her chest. Not really comfort yet, but a light in the distance that still felt unreachable.

When she stepped back into the bullpen, the low hum of activity washed over her at once—the scrape of chairs, the staccato rattle of Alice’s keys, the measured rhythm of Jen’s pen against her notebook, Billy muttering theories under his breath as though trying them on for size. The room had the taut stillness of a bowstring pulled tight, and Agatha slid back into it as though nothing had happened in Lilia’s office, as though she hadn’t just been asked point-blank if she was going to hold it together.

She was. She had to.

She crossed toward her desk, her eyes sweeping over the controlled chaos. Maps of Westview’s outskirts were spread across the central table, red circles drawn around potential hideouts. Screens glowed with grainy stills from traffic cameras, timelines branching in blue marker across the whiteboard. Every clue they’d chased had led them a step closer, but not close enough. Luna was still missing. And Thanos—her knuckles tightened just thinking his name—was still a shadow moving just out of reach.

She set her shoulders and was about to lower herself into her chair when her phone buzzed in her pocket. Agatha almost ignored it—work came first, always—but habit made her check. A quick glance, no more.

It was from the family group chat. Nicky.

Nicky: Mom, Rio. You will NOT believe what just happened.

A pause, then the little gray dots blinking as he typed again.

Nicky: So I’m in chem, right? And we’re doing the vinegar volcano thing, except Adam misread the instructions and dumped the ENTIRE bottle of baking soda in at once. It exploded all over Mr. Lagier. Like, full head-to-toe foam monster. He slipped. He fell. He swore in French. It was beautiful. I think he’s considering early retirement.

A photo came through. Blurry, obviously taken too fast, but clear enough to see their harried chemistry teacher standing drenched in fizzing foam while half the class cackled in the background.

Agatha snorted. Out loud. She couldn’t stop it—the sound just broke free, startling in its brightness after hours of grim silence. Her mouth curved before she could help it, her blue eyes softening, the image of her son’s gleeful mischief cutting through the weight pressing on her chest.

For one precious beat, she wasn’t Detective Harkness calculating patterns on a map. She was just a mother, proud and amused, picturing Nicky doubled over in laughter, typing too quickly with sticky fingers.

She looked up instinctively, the smile still ghosting across her face.

Rio was already looking down at her own phone, that same message lighting her screen. And Rio was smiling too. Not the tight, guarded smile she wore in the bullpen, not the practiced expression that let her survive under scrutiny. No, this one was real—open and warm and alive, curling the edges of her mouth, softening her dark eyes until they gleamed.

For a second, Agatha couldn’t breathe.

Their gazes met across the room. No words, no gesture, just a glance. But it was enough. A line stretched taut between them, invisible to everyone else—between Agatha at her desk and Rio on the floor with her laptop, between detective and criminologist, between wife and wife, mother and mother. A reminder of the home that waited outside these walls, of ramen bowls on the stove and homework spread on the kitchen table, of laughter echoing down their hallway.

Agatha held her eyes for a heartbeat longer than was safe, then forced herself to look back at the map, her lips pressing together to contain the smile threatening to break again.

Her phone buzzed once more.

Nicky: PS: Don’t worry, I didn’t get caught filming. I’m a ninja.

Agatha bit back another laugh, lowering her head as if studying her papers, though her shoulders shook with the effort of keeping it silent.

She typed quickly, her thumbs moving on muscle memory.

Agatha: Nicky, stop texting in class before your ninja skills fail you. Focus.

She hit send and locked her phone, but it buzzed again almost instantly.

Nicky: Relax, Mom. I’m a professional.

From across the bullpen, Rio let out the faintest huff of laughter, quickly disguising it with a shake of her head. To the rest of the team, it probably looked like nothing—a private joke, maybe, or a stray thought. But Agatha knew.

She flicked a glance up, only to see Rio already typing, her dark hair falling into her face as her thumbs moved deftly across the screen.

A new message appeared.

Rio: You’ll show us how to make one this weekend, okay? Maybe we’ll take you to the arcade or the movies. You pick. Just promise no exploding volcanos there.

Agatha’s throat tightened at that—simple words, but the unspoken promise behind them was heavier. This weekend. After the case. The quiet assertion that they would get through it, together, and that their son would still have both of them to come home to.

Nicky replied instantly with a string of celebratory emojis and:

Nicky: Yes!! Movies then arcade then food. It’s a date.

Agatha smiled down at her phone, then slipped it back into her pocket before she could give herself away further. But the warmth lingered in her chest, soft and steady, taking the sharpest edge off the day.

She bent back over the maps, pencil in hand, her detective mask in place once more. Yet inside, she carried the echo of that glance, that exchange, that fragile thread of normalcy weaving its way through the chaos. The shadows weren’t any less long. But Nicky was safe, still silly, still theirs. And Rio too.

For the first time all day, Agatha felt her feet under her. Felt the weight shift from unbearable to simply heavy. Heavy, she could carry.

 

---

 

The station was busy in the afternoon, the steady hum of activity filling the bullpen as phones rang, papers shuffled, and the low murmur of voices mixed with the tapping of keyboards. Everyone was deep in Hazel’s files when the desk sergeant walked in, an envelope in hand.

“This came in about twenty minutes ago. No return address,” he said, dropping it onto the corner of Alice’s desk.

Something in his tone made everyone look up. The envelope was cream-colored, thick paper stock, like something bought at a boutique stationary store. No stamp, no sender, just “Westview PD” written across the front in neat, precise letters.

Agatha’s eyes narrowed. “Where was it dropped off?”

“Mailbox right outside. No cameras caught the delivery. Looks hand-placed.”

Rio had stilled, her gaze fixed on the envelope like it might strike her. Scratchy shifted at her side, sensing her tension.

“Open it,” Lilia instructed, her voice clipped but calm.

Alice carefully slid a finger beneath the flap, drawing out a postcard. The front was a pastoral scene—two diverging paths in a yellowish wood, painted in soft watercolor hues. Across the bottom was the title: The Road Not Taken – Robert Frost.

Rio paled considerably. “Naya painted that,” she whispered under her breath, but loud enough for the team to hear.

No doubt anymore about who was behind it all.

Alice flipped it over. On the back, in neat, flowing script, the poem was written out in full. Every line, every stanza, perfectly transcribed. And at the bottom, instead of a signature, there was a small, deliberate sketch: an orange crescent moon.

For a moment, silence reigned.

“Moon,” Billy said softly. “Luna.”

The realization struck like a lightning bolt, but Rio was already reacting. Her face had gone paler, her hands trembling. She didn’t need to read the poem—she knew every word. “It’s him,” she whispered. Her voice cracked. “He made Naya and me learn this by heart. Our first night. It was the very first thing he forced us to memorize.”

Agatha felt the air leave her lungs. Of all the poems… She reached instinctively for her wife’s hand, but Rio had already curled into herself, clutching her elbows as if bracing against a physical blow.

Agatha’s mind reeled backward, to their kitchen, back when what felt like a million years ago—Nicky hunched over his homework, groaning about a stupid poem. The Road Not Taken. Rio sitting beside him, gently coaxing him through the stanzas. Agatha had teased him about complaining, but she remembered the flicker in Rio’s eyes, the way her voice had tightened slightly when she analyzed the lines with him after breaking down privately.

“It’s a message,” Lilia said firmly, breaking through the silence. “He’s taunting us. He knows we’re looking. And he wants Rio to know he’s watching.”

“More than that,” Jen added grimly, scanning the card again. “It’s confirmation. He has Luna. He signed it with her name. In orange. That’s one of the colors Rio said was in the wardrobe.”

Billy rubbed a hand through his hair, looking pale himself. “So he’s… what? Playing a game? Like he wants us to chase him?”

“Yes,” Agatha said sharply, her jaw tightening. “That’s exactly what this is. He’s leaving breadcrumbs. A puzzle. He wants Rio involved, front and center.” Her eyes slid toward her wife, who hadn’t spoken again, her chest rising and falling shallowly. “But he underestimated something.”

Rio blinked at her, dazed. “What?”

“That you’re not a child anymore. You’re not powerless. You’ve survived him once, and now you have us. He’s not in control this time.”

Rio swallowed hard, trying to anchor herself with Agatha’s voice. She forced her gaze back to the card, though her hand was white-knuckled around her wedding ring under her shirt. “He never did anything without meaning,” she said quietly. “Every poem, every lesson… it was always meant to be a symbol. A test. If he chose this poem again, it’s not just to torment me. He’s trying to tell us something. Two roads. A choice.”

Alice tilted her head, eyes darting to the digital case files spread across her monitors. “Maybe he’s hinting at a location. Something with two paths, a fork, a divide. A literal road not taken.”

“Or,” Jen countered, “it could be about us—forcing us to choose between options. Maybe he’s setting up a trap.”

“No,” Rio said softly, shaking her head. “He’ll want it to be poetic. That’s who he is. It won’t just be a random intersection. It’ll mean something to him. Somewhere symbolic. Somewhere that fits the imagery.”

Agatha rubbed her thumb over the back of Rio’s hand under the table. Her wife’s voice was steady, but Agatha could feel the tremor still running through her. “And he’ll expect you to understand it.”

The group fell into thoughtful silence, each turning the words over in their minds.

Billy broke it. “So what do we do now?”

Lilia set her jaw, taking the card from Alice and holding it up like evidence. “We treat this for what it is: a declaration of war. He’s reaching out to us, taunting us, daring us to play. Fine. We’ll play—but on our terms. First step is combing through possible locations that fit the poem’s imagery. Alice, pull up maps of old forested areas, nature trails, anything in Westview County that references a split or a fork.”

Alice nodded and her fingers flew across the keyboard.

“Jen, Billy—you two start going through past files of missing children. See if there’s any connection between their last known locations and sites like that. We’re looking for patterns.”

“And me?” Rio asked, her voice steadier now though her knuckles were still white.

Lilia met her eyes. “You tell us everything you remember about how he used this poem with you and Naya. Any details, no matter how small. If he’s repeating the pattern, you’re our best chance at predicting his moves.”

For a moment, Rio hesitated. But then she nodded. “All right.”

Agatha leaned closer, lowering her voice so only Rio could hear. “He wants this to be a game. We’ll make it one he loses.”

Rio’s lips curved faintly, though her eyes stayed shadowed. “Let’s hope Luna can hold on long enough for that.”

The postcard sat on the desk between them, its painted woods glowing faintly under the fluorescent light. Two roads diverging, a choice to be made.

And somewhere out there, a little girl waiting.