Absence

“Sometimes the loudest sound in the world is a phone that doesn’t buzz.”

The truck came to an abrupt, jerky stop, shuddering halfway over the lip of Luke's driveway. The uneven halt mirrored the chaos still whirring inside my head. We’d left behind the hardware store, and Beatrix. The absence of her presence in the passenger seat created an unnerving quiet—too quiet. The back end of the truck jutted out awkwardly onto the road, like it too was uncertain whether it wanted to be here. I stared ahead through the windscreen, unmoving, my eyes locked on the closed gate at the end of the driveway.

A vivid, intrusive image forced its way into my mind. Joel—motionless. Joel—lifeless. Joel—soaked in his own blood, his eyes open but empty. I could see the scene so clearly that it almost felt like it was happening all over again. That terrible moment in the truck bed had burned itself into the soft tissue of my brain, as if seared there by something hotter than fire—fear, maybe.

I realised I was gripping the steering wheel with both hands, my knuckles bone-white and trembling. The tremors had returned, small but insistent, rattling my body from the inside out. The comforting illusion that things might feel calmer without Beatrix beside me had shattered almost as soon as she’d slammed the door and walked away. I had thought her absence would be a balm. Instead, all it did was make the silence more oppressive.

Now I was truly alone.

Brody’s death wasn’t an accident.

The phrase rang out again in my head, echoing in a loop like a warped recording. It wasn’t just a memory anymore—it was a mantra. A warning. Jamie had spoken the words on the water bottle, but it was only now, in the stillness of the truck, that I understood the weight they carried. I chewed at the thought like a problem I couldn’t solve. It gnawed back.

And Joel—Joel’s death couldn’t be an accident either. I knew it. Deep in my bones, where fear lives. But if it wasn’t an accident… then what was it? And what else had Beatrix been keeping from me?

I shivered, the temperature inside the cab dropping perceptibly, though I knew it wasn’t the weather. The chill came from within.

With a sigh that felt as though it had travelled all the way up from my boots, I nudged the truck forward, easing it into the drive until it settled with a soft stop. The house stood ahead of me, silent and blank-faced, like it had no interest in offering me comfort. Its windows reflected only the greyness of the day. No light. No warmth.

I sat there for a long moment, unwilling to move. But eventually, out of muscle memory more than anything else, I opened the door and climbed out. My limbs felt heavy, every movement steeped in weariness.

I approached the house without conscious effort, nudging the front door open with the side of my foot. The door creaked slightly, just the way it always had when I used that trick to prevent Duke from slipping through. But this time, there was no furry blur rushing out. No paws skidding on floorboards. No eager bark of greeting. Just silence.

The absence hit me like a sudden punch to the ribs. The kind you don’t see coming.

They were gone.

Duke and Henri—Luke’s boys, not mine—but still. Their absence stirred something sharp in my chest, a wound I hadn’t expected to feel so deeply. I swallowed hard, fighting the sudden swell of emotion. They were just dogs, weren’t they? But they weren’t. They were part of the before. And now everything had shifted into an after I wasn’t ready to face.

That pang of loss nudged my thoughts to my own beloved companions—Snowflake and Chloe. My girls. My shadows. My heartbeat. The thought of them, curled up alone and confused in my house, pierced me in a way nothing else could. They needed me. And the idea that I might not make it back to them—that I might vanish into this strange, spiralling mess and never return—was unbearable.

I had to survive this. I had to outwit the chaos and claw my way through. If not for me, then for them.

But as I stood there on the doorstep of a house that had seen too much, I felt more fragile than I ever had. And very, very far from okay.

"You home, Luke?" My voice echoed slightly as I called out from the entryway, stepping cautiously through the front door. The house felt unusually still, as though it were holding its breath. The absence of familiar sounds—no murmured voices, no padding paws—made the atmosphere feel hollow, stripped bare of its usual domestic warmth.

A brief pause, then, “Yeah,” came Luke’s reply from somewhere deeper in the house, his voice faint and distant. “I’ll be right there.”

I hovered for a moment before stepping fully into the living room. My gaze swept across the space, and my heart sank under the weight of what was missing. There were no slobbery dog toys dotting the carpet, no tangled leash half-coiled in the corner waiting for its next outing. The floor, once so cluttered with life, looked almost clinical in its tidiness. It was as if someone had scrubbed the space clean of joy.

There were no crisscross vacuum marks—no sign of the last-minute tidy-ups Jamie used to make whenever I was expected. No faint aroma of spices or sweet things drifting in from the kitchen. Just cold, still air and silence.

Luke’s voice startled me from my thoughts as he emerged from the hallway. “How did you guys go?”

“Well,” I replied, pulling myself back into the present, though the living room still clung to my senses like a lingering perfume of grief.

“Oh, where’s Beatrix?” Luke asked, glancing around as if half-expecting her to appear behind me.

“She had other things to do,” I said, brushing the question aside. “I dropped her off home.”

“But you’ve finished all the deliveries?” he pressed, stepping more fully into the room.

“Yes,” I said, though the single word barely contained the chaos it represented. I couldn’t help the grimace that flickered across my face, a physical memory of vomit, stress, and badly crushed packages.

“Great, thanks,” Luke said with a nod, as though I’d just finished a casual favour rather than helped cover up a body and distribute evidence of a possibly murdered delivery driver.

Or not so great, I thought bitterly. But aloud I said, “And I’ve brought you the truck back with the shelving you asked for.”

“Thanks. I had completely forgotten about that,” Luke replied, his voice breezy, offhand.

I stared at him, incredulous. Forgotten? Already? Less than two hours ago, he’d phoned in a mild panic to request it. His nonchalance rubbed like sandpaper against my already-frayed nerves.

“Oh. And here’s a few pages on how to pour concrete,” I added, tugging the slightly crumpled papers from my handbag. “They’ve even got small diagrams.”

“I’m sure these will be very helpful,” he said, accepting them with barely a glance.

Glad to be shedding the last of my responsibilities, I dropped the truck keys into his open hand like they were burning my fingers. I was desperate to get home—to the peace of my couch, the warm weight of Snowflake and Chloe in my lap, and the normality of forgetting.

“I see the other truck is gone,” I remarked, nodding to the now-vacant patch of driveway. It felt like a relief to know it was out of sight—maybe even out of mind.

“Yeah,” Luke replied simply. “It’s all been taken care of.”

Taken care of. The words sent a chill down my spine. I didn’t ask for details, but I didn’t need to. I imagined the Portal, the flicker of that strange light, the body disappearing beyond comprehension. My stomach churned with the unease of it.

“We really should give him a proper burial,” I murmured as I climbed into the driver’s seat of my car. The words escaped before I could second-guess them. It felt like something I had to say, like a line drawn in the dirt between right and wrong.

“Burial?” Luke looked at me, confused. “We don’t have a body to bury.”

“You know what I mean,” I said sharply, glaring at him. “Like a memorial service.”

“A memorial service?” he repeated, as if the concept itself were foreign.

“Yeah,” I said, my voice cracking as a lump rose unbidden in my throat.

“But you didn’t even know him,” Luke pointed out, more puzzled than cruel.

That didn’t matter. It wasn’t about Joel himself anymore—it was about the loss, the fear, the sheer wrongness of it all. “It’s what Jamie would want,” I said, defiant, clutching the thought like a lifeline. Jamie had always been the moral compass in our messy little orbit.

“Okay,” Luke agreed at last, exhaling like I’d asked for something far more burdensome than a moment of decency. “Let’s meet back here at eleven tonight.”

I nodded, already turning the key in the ignition. I needed to leave. To regroup. To breathe.

“But let’s just keep it really short and simple,” Luke added, already turning toward the house.

I didn’t respond. I simply nodded again, the sound of the car door closing between us like a curtain falling on a particularly bleak play.

As Luke disappeared into the house, I reached for my phone and quickly tapped out a message to Beatrix:

Holding a memorial service for Joel at Luke’s house 11pm tonight. I’ll pick you up.

The reply came almost immediately:

No, I’ll come get you at 10:50.

Gladys,

So very sorry for scaring you last night. I panicked. I want to make it up to you. Let me buy you a new Shiraz.

Cody

The note from Cody, a simple apology scrawled on a piece of torn notepad paper, elicited another flickering smile from me—small, involuntary, almost shy. I let it fall gently from my fingers, watching as it fluttered back down onto the kitchen bench like a leaf on a breeze. The message didn’t need a second read. It was short, sincere, and just awkward enough to be unmistakably Cody. His attempt at making amends with a bottle of Shiraz felt almost absurdly quaint, given the blood-soaked madness we’d been tangled in.

Still, it was thoughtful. And oddly comforting.

With a soft creak, I opened the pantry door. The sound echoed in the quiet, empty kitchen like a whisper in a cathedral. I flicked on the small overhead bulb, casting a yellowish halo across the neatly stacked tins and dusty cereal boxes. Stepping forward, I poked my head inside, scanning the shelves with purpose.

There it was—third shelf, dead centre. The bottle. Cody’s gift.

It stood proudly among its more modest companions, its glossy label catching the light. The older bottles seemed to retreat behind it, dusty soldiers in a forgotten formation, as if making room for the newcomer. There was a subtle solemnity to it—a peace offering perched on a stage, waiting for its cue.

I reached out, fingers brushing the label, and that’s when I saw it—ten digits hastily scribbled in dark ink, curling up the side of the bottle like a secret tucked into the corner of a letter. For a moment, I blinked, confused. Then it clicked.

A phone number.

My breath caught in my throat. My heart gave a little leap—small, unexpected, and inconvenient. Could it be? Had Cody finally gotten a phone? The idea of him navigating modern communication felt oddly endearing, if slightly overdue.

A rush of something fluttered in my chest—excitement, curiosity, something warmer than either. I pulled my phone from the bench and opened a new contact entry. My fingers hovered for a split second before I began typing, carefully, reverently, as if entering the code to unlock something important.

When I was done, I stared at the saved name: Cody. Just that. No emoji. No extra notes. Just Cody.

I almost called him right then.

Almost.

But the memory of last night—his sudden appearance, the chaos, the questions he refused to answer—flickered like a warning in the back of my mind. And something else tugged at me too.

He’d been at Luke’s today.

But I hadn’t told him I’d be there.

My breath slowed. The edges of my vision seemed to narrow slightly. How did he know where Luke lived?

I glanced down at my fingers—still stained faintly red, the evidence of the day’s horrors clinging to me like a second skin. My thumb absentmindedly traced the outline of the label again. The cork looked ready to be twisted free, and the temptation to just drown it all in wine tugged at me hard. One sip, one glass, just something to dull the sharp edges of the day.

But I didn’t.

I took a breath. A long one. Then, slowly, deliberately, I slid the bottle back into its place. It nestled among the others with a quiet clink, vanishing into the half-light.

I needed clarity, not fog.

There were too many questions. Too many threads pulling in too many directions.

Cody. Luke. Joel. Brody. The Portal.

Everything was beginning to blur into something too large, too strange, too dangerous.

With a soft click, I closed the pantry door, sealing the bottle away—along with the warmth, the confusion, and the ache of wanting things to be simpler.

Wine and Cody would have to wait.

For now, I needed answers.

Momentarily refreshed from a long, hot shower that washed away some of the day’s grime and tension, I wrapped myself in the softest towel I could find and lingered for a few quiet seconds in the steam-hazed bathroom. The water had done its part—my muscles ached a little less, my mind a little clearer, though a dull pulse of anxiety still beat just beneath the surface.

Now curled on the couch, cocooned in a freshly laundered hoodie and leggings, I tucked my legs behind me and cradled my phone, my gaze fixed intently on the new contact name glowing on the screen: Cody. It was just a name. Just ten digits beneath it. But somehow, it felt like more. A tether. A small, fragile connection in a world that had recently felt too loud, too fast, and entirely out of control.

"What do you think?" I asked Snowflake softly.

She had claimed her usual spot in my lap within seconds of me sitting down, curling her body into a perfect, contented spiral. Her warmth was soothing against me, a familiar presence amidst the chaos of the past twenty-four hours.

"Do we still like him?" I asked, keeping my voice low, as though Cody might somehow hear it through the silence. I searched her face for an answer, as if she might offer some long-awaited wisdom.

Snowflake answered with a thunderous purr, loud and resolute. Her steady vibrations pulsed through my lap like a kind of feline affirmation.

"I hope you're right about that," I murmured, running my fingers gently along her soft fur. There was something sacred about moments like these—just me, Snowflake, and the quiet. She didn’t judge. She didn’t ask difficult questions. She simply was, and that was enough.

But her serenity was conditional.

The moment I paused, her head snapped upward in protest. Her expression was clear: Excuse me?

"It'll only take a second," I reassured her, reaching again for my phone.

I thumbed open the messages app and hesitated only briefly before typing my first ever message to Cody:

Memorial for Joel at Luke’s @11pm tonight.

Simple. Direct. Neutral. It didn’t betray too much—neither irritation nor emotion. It was safe.

I hit send.

And then I waited.

And waited.

The next five minutes stretched like elastic. My eyes didn’t leave the screen, hoping for the faint buzz or the brief flicker of movement that would signal his reply. The silence was deafening. I stared, willing the message to turn blue, or for three dots to appear—anything.

Snowflake, clearly unimpressed by my prolonged stillness, lifted herself from my lap with a huff, padding off with the quiet dignity only cats possess. She didn’t even glance back.

Now alone, I stretched my legs out along the length of the couch and lay on my side, propped slightly by a cushion. My hand, still loosely cradling the phone, fell against the armrest.

I told myself I’d close my eyes. Just for a few minutes. Just long enough to forget how hollow the room felt without Snowflake’s purr, or how much I hated waiting in silence. But even with my eyes shut, all I could see was the phone. Its black, blank screen stared back at me from the coffee table, stubborn and still. A silent sentinel in the soft-lit living room. Watching. Waiting. Like me.