Accomplice

"Shit! Where the hell are you, Sharon?" The words escaped as barely more than a whisper, harsh against the silence of my empty house. I stood at the front window, one hand holding the blinds aside, peering through the narrow gap at the street beyond. The fading light cast everything in shades of grey, shadows lengthening across pavements and gardens as evening crept closer.

It had been nearly an hour. Sharon had said fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes had stretched into twenty, then thirty, then forty-five, each passing minute winding the knot in my stomach tighter until I could barely breathe around it.

I checked my phone again. No messages. The last text I'd sent—"Nearly here?"—sat unanswered, the sight of it somehow worse than if she'd replied with bad news. At least bad news would be information. This silence was a void I kept trying to fill with increasingly dark possibilities.

Had something happened to her? Had whoever took our husbands decided she was asking too many questions, getting too close? Was she lying injured somewhere, unable to call for help? Or had she simply changed her mind, decided this was too dangerous, too reckless, and abandoned me to my vigil?

Each scenario played through my mind in vivid, horrible detail. I'd always had an overactive imagination—useful for directing drama productions, less so for maintaining sanity during a crisis.

I let the blind fall back into place and moved away from the window, unable to stand still. The lounge felt too small suddenly, the walls pressing in. I'd turned on only one lamp, leaving most of the room in shadow. Somehow the darkness felt safer, less exposed. As though whoever had been in my house, planting evidence and constructing lies, might be less likely to notice I was home if I didn't advertise it with lights.

Paranoid? Perhaps. But then, paranoia implied irrational fear. And there was nothing irrational about being frightened when your husband vanished and strangers had been in your bedroom, touching your things, staging a crime scene.

I caught my reflection in the mirror above the mantelpiece—a ghost of a woman, pale and drawn, dark circles beneath eyes that looked too large in a face that had grown gaunt over the past days. I barely recognised myself. The woman staring back looked hunted. Haunted.

My phone sat on the coffee table where I'd left it, screen dark and silent. I snatched it up and typed out another message: "Sharon? Please respond. Getting worried."

Send. Three little dots appeared immediately—she was typing. Relief flooded through me, dizzying in its intensity.

Then the dots disappeared. No message.

"Christ," I muttered, fighting the urge to hurl the phone across the room. What did that mean? Had she started to reply, then changed her mind? Been interrupted? Or was she deliberately leaving me in suspense?

A horn blared outside, sudden and jarring in the quiet street. I rushed back to the window, yanking the blinds aside without bothering with subtlety this time.

Sharon's car sat in my driveway, engine running, headlights cutting through the gathering dusk. Finally.

I grabbed my jacket from where I'd left it ready on the sofa, then paused, one arm half in a sleeve. My house keys sat on the side table, next to that photograph of Nial and me at the vineyard. I stared at them for a moment, metal glinting dully in the lamplight.

This was it. Once I walked out that door, climbed into Sharon's car, I'd be committed. No more waiting, no more passive hoping. We'd be taking action—possibly illegal action, certainly dangerous action.

The smart thing would be to stay home. Call Detective Jenkins again, leave another message, trust the system to work even though it had failed us repeatedly.

But I was done being smart. Done being patient.

I snatched up the keys, shrugged on my jacket, and headed for the door. My hand hovered over the lock for just a heartbeat—old habits, that last moment of doubt—before I twisted it and stepped out into the cold.

The evening air bit at my exposed skin, sharp with the promise of frost. Winter was tightening its grip on Hobart, the temperature dropping as the sun surrendered to darkness. I pulled my jacket closer and hurried down the path, gravel crunching beneath my boots with each step.

Sharon honked again, the sound impatient, almost aggressive. I could see her silhouette through the windscreen, rigid and tense, her hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel.

I reached for the passenger door handle, then froze.

Something felt wrong.

It took me a moment to identify what had triggered that instinctive alarm. Then I realised: Sharon wasn't looking at me. Her attention was fixed on the rear-view mirror, her head turning slightly as she scanned the street behind the car. Looking for something. Or someone.

My hand stayed on the door handle, but I didn't pull it open. Instead, I followed her gaze, turning to look down my quiet suburban street.

Nothing. Just parked cars and lit windows, the ordinary evening tableau of families settling in for the night. Mr. Pyke had finished his hedge trimming. The Kinghorn children had been called inside. Everything looked exactly as it should.

So why was Sharon watching the street as though she expected something to emerge from the shadows?

The horn blared a third time, making me flinch. I yanked the door open and slid quickly into the passenger seat, the interior warmth a shocking contrast to the cold outside.

"Everything all right?" I asked as I pulled the door shut, fastening my seatbelt with fingers that trembled slightly.

"Yeah." Sharon's voice was clipped, distracted. She still wasn't looking at me, her eyes moving constantly between the mirrors. "We need to move."

"You're an hour late. I was starting to think—"

"I got held up." She put the car in reverse, backing out of my driveway with more speed than seemed necessary. "Does it matter? I'm here now."

The sharpness in her tone stung. I studied her profile as she navigated onto the street, noting details I'd been too distracted to register properly at our first meeting. Her makeup was immaculate—foundation smooth and even, eyeliner perfectly applied, not a smudge despite whatever had delayed her. Her hair remained in that severe bun, pulled back so tightly it must have been uncomfortable. She was still wearing the charcoal grey suit from earlier, though she'd changed the blouse beneath—this one was darker, harder to see stains on.

Why had I noticed that? Why had my mind gone immediately to stains?

"Where were you?" The question came out before I could stop it.

Sharon's jaw tightened. "I told you. I went home to get Adrian's files, to find Luke Smith's details."

"That shouldn't have taken an hour."

"I had to search, Jenny." Her hands flexed on the wheel, that white-knuckled grip returning. "Adrian kept meticulous records, but they weren't exactly filed under 'mysterious disappearance.' I had to go through three years of project files before I found the right documentation."

It made sense. Of course it made sense. So why did some instinct keep whispering that she was lying?

We drove in silence, the only sounds the hum of the engine and the occasional rush of a passing car. Sharon's attention remained split—part on the road ahead, part on the rear-view mirror. I found myself watching the mirror too, trying to see what she saw, but there was nothing. Just other cars, other people going about their ordinary lives.

After five minutes, the silence became unbearable. I reached over and lowered my window a few inches, letting cold air rush in. It stung my face, made my eyes water, but the discomfort was grounding. Real. Something to focus on besides the mounting unease in my chest.

"Are you going to tell me the plan?" I asked, raising my voice slightly over the wind. "What exactly we're going to do when we get there?"

"We're going to get answers." Sharon's response was automatic, almost rehearsed.

"Yes, but how? Are we just going to knock on the door and—what? Demand Luke Smith tell us what he's done with our husbands?"

"If necessary."

"And if he's dangerous? If he's the reason they're missing, do you really think he'll just invite us in for a chat?"

"Then we'll call the police." Sharon finally glanced at me, just for a second. "Once we have proof. Once we have something concrete they can't dismiss."

"Sharon." I kept my voice level, trying to sound rational rather than frightened. "We don't know anything about this man. We don't know if he's even home. We're driving across Hobart to confront someone who might be completely innocent, or might be—"

"Might be what?" She cut me off, her tone suddenly sharp. "Might be guilty? Might have hurt them? Yes, Jenny. That's exactly why we're doing this. Because the police won't, and someone has to."

I closed my eyes briefly, trying to organise my thoughts. She was right—we needed to do something. But this felt increasingly like desperation masquerading as action, fear driving us towards recklessness rather than answers.

When I opened my eyes, Sharon was watching the rear-view mirror again. That constant checking, as though someone might be following us. I turned in my seat, looking through the back window at the road behind.

"Sharon. Is someone following us?"

"What? No. Of course not."

"Then why do you keep looking?"

"I'm just being careful." She adjusted the mirror slightly, her movements precise and controlled. "After everything that's happened, we can't be too cautious."

Cautious. That was one word for it. Paranoid was another. Though given our circumstances, was there really a difference?

I settled back into my seat, pulling my jacket tighter despite the car's heater working overtime. The warmth couldn't reach the cold that had settled into my bones, that pervasive chill of fear and uncertainty.

We'd left my neighbourhood now, joining the broader flow of evening traffic. The route was taking us north, towards the outer suburbs. I tried to orient myself, to figure out where exactly we were heading, but the streets all looked similar in the failing light.

"How did you know how to find Luke?" The question had been circling in my mind since Sharon's phone call. "You said Adrian did work for him years ago. But that must mean you have an address, contact details. How did you know it was the same Luke Smith the detective mentioned?"

Sharon's hesitation was barely perceptible, just a fraction of a second before she answered. "The paperwork had his full details. Address, phone number, ABN. It's him."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

But there was something in her tone—a brittleness, a too-quick certainty—that made my unease deepen. How could she be so sure? Luke Smith wasn't an unusual name. There must be dozens in Tasmania alone.

Unless she'd known who he was before today. Unless she'd been looking for him already.

The thought sent ice through my veins. I turned to study Sharon properly, taking in the rigid set of her shoulders, the almost mechanical way she drove, the constant vigilance. This wasn't a woman pursuing a lead. This was a woman executing a plan.

"Sharon." I kept my voice steady, though my heart had begun to race. "When did you first hear Luke Smith's name?"

"I told you. Adrian mentioned it on the phone, before he disappeared."

"And when you spoke to Detective Jenkins, he recognised the name immediately."

"Yes."

"So you've been thinking about Luke Smith for days. Before we even met. Before you knew about Nial."

"What's your point?" Sharon's tone had gone flat, defensive.

"My point is that you've been ahead of me this entire time. You already suspected a connection before we talked. You already had theories, ideas. And now, miraculously, you've found exactly where Luke Smith lives within a few hours of looking."

Sharon said nothing, just kept driving, her jaw set in a hard line.

"How long have you known where he lives?" I pressed. "Because it's starting to feel like you knew before today. Like you've been planning this."

"Does it matter?" Sharon's voice was barely above a whisper now. "Does it matter how I found him, or when? He's our only lead, Jenny. Our only chance of finding out what happened."

"It matters if you've been lying to me."

"I haven't lied." She shot me a look, fierce and defensive. "I've just... I've been one step ahead. That's all. Is that so terrible? Would you rather I'd sat at home waiting for the police to solve this?"

I wanted to argue, to demand the full truth, to insist she pull over right now and explain everything. But what would that accomplish? We were already committed, already speeding towards whatever confrontation awaited us. Turning back now would mean abandoning our only lead.

And she was right about one thing: someone had to do something.

Even if that someone was making increasingly questionable decisions.

Even if the woman beside me seemed to be keeping dangerous secrets.

We'd reached the Brooker Highway now, the main artery cutting through Hobart. Sharon merged into traffic, her movements confident despite the tension radiating from every line of her body. We were heading north, towards Berriedale and the outer suburbs.

I recognised this area. I'd been here before, years ago, visiting a friend who'd lived somewhere near the roundabout at the top of Berriedale Road. The memory felt distant, belonging to a different version of me—one who went to dinner parties and worried about normal things like whether the wine she'd brought was nice enough.

That Jenny felt like a stranger now.

As we veered off the highway onto Berriedale Road, I watched Sharon navigate the turns with an ease that sent fresh alarm bells ringing. She wasn't checking a GPS. Wasn't glancing at street signs or slowing to read house numbers. She knew exactly where she was going.

"You've been here before," I said quietly.

Sharon's hands tightened on the wheel, but she didn't respond.

"Sharon. You've been to this house before. Haven't you?"

The silence stretched between us, thick with implications. Finally, Sharon exhaled slowly, her shoulders dropping slightly.

"Yes. I came earlier today. This afternoon, while you were still at school."

The admission should have brought clarity. Instead, it opened up a dozen new questions.

"Why?" I managed. "Why would you come here alone before meeting me?"

"Because I needed to know if he was home. If this was even worth pursuing." Sharon's voice carried a defensive edge. "I wasn't going to drag you across Hobart on a wild goose chase."

"And?"

"And nobody was home. The house was dark, no cars in the driveway. So I waited for evening, assuming he might return after work."

It made a certain logical sense. But the fact that she'd withheld this information, that she'd let me believe we were pursuing a lead together when she'd actually been operating alone, felt like a betrayal.

"You should have told me," I said quietly.

"Would it have changed anything? Would you have stayed home?"

No. She was right. I wouldn't have. But that wasn't the point.

"We're supposed to be in this together," I said. "Partners. That was the whole point of meeting today, of sharing what we knew. But you're still keeping secrets."

"I'm trying to protect you."

"I don't need protecting. I need the truth."

Sharon's jaw worked silently for a moment before she spoke again. "The truth is that I don't know what we're walking into. The truth is that this could be dangerous, and I've been trying to assess the risk before involving you fully. The truth is that I'm terrified, Jenny. Absolutely fucking terrified. But I'm more terrified of doing nothing and losing Adrian forever."

The raw emotion in her voice cut through my anger, replacing it with something more complex—understanding mixed with apprehension. We were both terrified. Both desperate. Both making decisions that might be monumentally stupid.

At least we were making them together.

Even if I wasn't entirely sure I could trust my companion.

A few hundred metres past the roundabout, Sharon signalled and guided the car into a small parking area across from a residential street. She manoeuvred us to the far end, then turned the car so we faced back towards the road. The headlights illuminated empty tarmac and a rubbish bin overflowing with takeaway containers.

Sharon killed the engine but left the keys in the ignition. The sudden silence felt heavy, weighted with everything unsaid.

"That's the house," she said, nodding towards the row of properties visible across the road.

I leant forward, peering through the windscreen. "Which one?"

"The two-storey on the corner." She pointed directly at it. "Brick construction, large windows. See it?"

I did. An unremarkable house, distinguished mainly by its size and position. A weathered timber fence surrounded the property, the palings slightly askew in places. Nothing about it screamed danger or suggested anything sinister. It looked like a thousand other suburban homes—ordinary, anonymous, forgettable.

"How do you know that's the right house?" My voice sounded strange in the enclosed space, too loud despite speaking barely above a whisper.

Sharon didn't answer immediately. The silence stretched long enough to be uncomfortable, and I turned to look at her. She was staring at the house with an intensity that bordered on obsessive, her features carved in shadow and the faint ambient light from the street.

"Sharon. How do you know that's Luke Smith's house?"

"I came by earlier," she repeated. "I already told you that."

"Yes, but how did you identify it? If nobody was home, if you didn't speak to anyone, how can you be certain?"

"The address matches the one in Adrian's files."

But something in her delivery felt rehearsed, too smooth. I studied her profile, searching for tells. Years of watching students lie about missed homework had honed my ability to spot deception, and Sharon was setting off every alarm I possessed.

"You're lying," I said flatly.

"I'm not—"

"Yes, you are. I can hear it in your voice. You didn't just check the address against paperwork. You did something else. What?"

Sharon's hands remained on the steering wheel despite the engine being off, her knuckles white with pressure. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely audible.

"I looked through the windows."

The admission hung between us. I waited for her to elaborate, but she remained silent, staring at the house across the road.

"You what?"

"The property has a corner block location. Good sight lines from multiple angles. I walked the perimeter, looked through the windows where I could. Making sure."

"Making sure of what?"

"That it was worth pursuing. That there was... evidence."

"Evidence of what, Sharon?"

She turned to look at me then, and in the dim light, her expression was unreadable. "That something happened there. Something bad."

Ice flooded my veins. "What did you see?"

"I'm not certain. That's why we need to get closer. To confirm."

"Sharon, if you saw something that suggests a crime, we need to call the police right now. Not investigate ourselves."

"And tell them what? That I trespassed and looked through someone's windows? They'll arrest me for stalking or harassment, and this entire lead will be shut down before we get any answers."

She had a point, though it didn't make me feel any better about our situation. We were already past the point of sensible choices, already operating in a grey area between desperate investigation and illegal activity.

"What exactly did you see?" I pressed.

Sharon's gaze returned to the house. "Signs of disturbance. Furniture overturned in one room. What might have been blood on a wall, though the light was poor. It could have been nothing. Could have been paint or... I don't know. But something happened in that house. Something violent."

The words settled over me like a shroud. If she was right, if there had been violence in that house, then we weren't just pursuing answers anymore. We were potentially approaching a crime scene.

Or walking into a trap.

"We should call Detective Jenkins," I said, even as I knew Sharon would refuse.

"And say what? That I illegally surveilled a property and maybe saw something suspicious? He'd tell us to go home and let the professionals handle it. And then nothing would happen, just like nothing's happened for days whilst our husbands are missing."

"If there's evidence of a crime—"

"If. Maybe. Possibly. I don't know what I saw, Jenny. That's why we need to look properly. Get inside, find proof, then call the police with something concrete they can't ignore."

Get inside. She'd said it so casually, as though breaking and entering was a reasonable next step. As though we were somehow entitled to violate someone's home because our husbands were missing.

But the terrible truth was that I was already considering it. Already weighing the risks against the potential rewards. Because Sharon was right about one thing: the police weren't helping. The system had failed us. If we wanted answers, we'd have to find them ourselves.

Even if that meant crossing lines we couldn't uncross.

"This is insane," I said quietly. "You realise that, don't you? This is completely insane."

"Yes." Sharon finally released the steering wheel, her hands dropping to her lap. "But I'm out of sane options. Are you?"

I thought of Nial. Of Sammy asking when Daddy would come home. Of the empty wardrobe and the planted evidence and the gnawing certainty that someone was constructing a lie I was supposed to believe.

"No," I admitted. "I'm not."

Sharon nodded slowly, as though I'd just confirmed something she'd already known. "Then we do this together. We watch the house, we wait for full dark, and then we get closer. See what's really there. And if we find proof that Luke Smith is involved in our husbands' disappearances, we document it and call the police immediately. Agreed?"

It wasn't a good plan. It was barely even a plan at all. But it was action, and action felt better than the crushing helplessness of the past days.

"Agreed," I heard myself say.

Sharon reached for her door handle, then paused. "Jenny. Whatever we find in there... whatever we see... we have to be prepared. It might not be good news."

I understood what she wasn't saying. Our husbands might be dead. We might find bodies, or evidence of bodies, or proof of violence that ended in death rather than disappearance.

"I know," I said quietly. "But I have to know. Not knowing is killing me slowly. At least this way, I'll know the truth."

Even if the truth destroys me.

Sharon opened her door, the interior light momentarily flooding the car before she stepped out into the darkness. Cold air rushed in to replace her, carrying the scent of evening—damp earth and distant woodsmoke and something else, something that might have been my imagination but smelled vaguely like decay.

I sat in the passenger seat for a long moment, staring at the house across the road. Lights had begun to come on in neighbouring properties as evening deepened into night. Normal people settling in for normal evenings, completely unaware that two women sat in a car nearby, planning to break into their neighbour's house.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out, half-expecting a message from my mother or the school or someone from my real life, the one that existed before this nightmare began.

Instead, it was a reminder I'd set days ago: "School play rehearsal 4pm Friday."

Friday. Tomorrow. I was supposed to help supervise rehearsals tomorrow afternoon, just like I had every Friday for the past month. The Year 8s were doing Peter Pan, and they needed all the help they could get with blocking and projection.

The normality of it felt obscene. How could school plays and rehearsal schedules still exist in a world where my husband was missing and I was sitting in a car preparing to commit a crime?

But that was life, wasn't it? The world didn't stop turning just because yours had shattered. Tomorrow would come regardless, and I'd either be at that rehearsal pretending everything was fine, or I'd be... what? In a police cell? In a hospital? Dead in Luke Smith's house?

I deleted the reminder and opened the door.

The cold hit me immediately, sharp enough to make me gasp. I climbed out, closing the door as quietly as possible, and looked across the car's roof at Sharon. She stood in shadow, her features barely visible, but I could feel the intensity of her gaze.

"Ready?" she asked.

No. Not even slightly. But I nodded anyway.

Sharon started walking. I followed, my boots crunching softly on gravel, my breath puffing out in visible clouds.

Every instinct I possessed screamed at me to stop, to turn back, to get back in the car and drive home to safety. This was wrong. This was dangerous. This was the kind of decision that ruined lives.

But I kept walking.

Because the alternative—going home, climbing into that empty bed, staring at the ceiling whilst Nial's absence screamed in the silence—that was unbearable.

At least this way, I was doing something.

Even if that something might destroy me.

Even if the woman walking ahead of me might be leading me into danger rather than towards answers.

Even if every step took me further from the person I'd been and closer to someone I didn't recognise.

I kept walking.

And with each step, the point of no return receded further behind me, until turning back wasn't an option anymore.

Until there was nothing left but forward, into the darkness, towards whatever truth waited in that ordinary suburban house.

Towards whatever end Sharon had planned for us both.