Father’s Care

“Trust is easy to give when you’re bleeding and tired. But later, when you’re crawling under your own bed to check if the world’s still intact—that’s when it costs you.”

Seating myself cautiously in the passenger seat of my father's car, I clutched my handbag tightly, as if it were a lifeline—its worn leather cool and familiar beneath my fingertips, a small anchor to the present. The seat was stiff beneath me, the upholstery creaked in places, exhaling a faint whiff of old tobacco and pine-scented cleaner. The door shut with a dull thud, sealing me inside with the man who’d once taught me how to ride a bike and later, how to keep my mouth shut in front of police officers. I stared straight ahead, jaw tense.

As the car pulled onto the highway, the tyres gave a low growl against the bitumen. I could feel the hum of the engine beneath my feet, steady and unrelenting. My spine remained rigid, braced for what I knew was coming.

"You don't look so well," my father observed, his voice tinged with concern. He threw a casual, quick glance in my direction, his eyes reflecting worry, before promptly returning his determined gaze to the road ahead. I could sense the unasked questions lingering behind his words.

I gave a noncommittal shrug, small and stiff, eyes fixed on the dashboard. Words felt too clumsy, too simple for what I was carrying. My skin was clammy, my mouth dry, and my insides curdled like off milk. I imagined what he saw in me now—bloodshot eyes, pallid skin, hair knotted like seaweed. I probably smelt faintly of holding cell and regret. And wine, probably. God help me.

"What happened? How did you manage to get yourself arrested?" my father finally asked.

I rubbed my brow with the heel of my hand, as though I might scrub out the memory if I pressed hard enough. The question hung in the air like smoke—unavoidable, invasive. How the hell am I supposed to explain the events of the last week to my father, let alone the last forty-eight hours? Where does one even begin? The words refused to organise themselves.

"I'm not sure," I said after a significant period of silence, the words barely audible. Hollow. Pointless.

He didn’t rush to fill the gap. That was one thing about my father—he understood the power of silence, used it like a scalpel. The engine ticked over rhythmically, blending with the faint drone of the wind pressing against the windows.

"I suspect there's a lot you haven't told us, Gladys," he finally said, sighing as we turned off the highway. His voice carried a note of resignation, as though he’d already made peace with the fact that he was only skimming the surface of something far deeper, far darker.

My eyes rolled almost involuntarily as I turned to the window, unable to face him. The trees along the roadside blurred together in streaks of eucalyptus green and dun brown, the odd trunk leaning like it was too tired to stand straight. I focused on them, on anything outside this steel capsule of confrontation.

"You have no idea," I muttered under my breath, not entirely intending for him to hear. The truth of it lodged in my chest, sharp and sore. I felt like a ghost haunting my own life, watching the countryside roll past while I sat there, hollowed out and aching.

The indicator began its steady tick-tick-tick as we approached a right turn, the sound amplified by the tension clawing at my nerves. Each click stabbed at my temples, sharp and deliberate, as if the car itself were counting down to something inevitable.

"I think I'm going to be sick," I said softly, the nausea coiling in my gut like something alive.

"You can hold it in for a few more minutes," my father said sternly, his voice firm yet not unkind. It was the voice he used when I fell off my bike the first time and scraped my knees—sympathy withheld just enough to keep me moving forward. I loved him for that, even if I hated it in the moment.

"Why didn't they ask for bail?" father asked, his question slicing through the silence as he turned the corner. It was a logical question, precise and uncomfortably close to the truth.

I gave another shrug, smaller this time. My stomach tightened. How do you explain that a police sergeant told you to run? That your life may or may not be in danger depending on who you talk to? The truth felt like a volatile liquid—dangerous, unstable. Best kept sealed for now.

But he's your father, a soft voice whispered in the corner of my mind. You can trust your father. Another voice, colder, reminded me: that's what got you into this mess in the first place—trust.

And between the two, I just sat there, torn quietly in half.

"You're not taking me home?" I asked, a note of confusion and apprehension tightening my throat as we sailed past the turnoff to my street. The familiar sign—scratched, slightly leaning—vanished in the rearview mirror like a small betrayal. My father kept driving, steady and silent, heading in the direction of my parents' house. My pulse quickened. This small deviation, this unexpected veering from the known, twisted the already fragile thread of control I was clinging to. Something wasn’t right. Again.

My father’s face, usually a map I could read without effort, had become inscrutable—drawn tight and blank. I saw him swallow hard, an involuntary gulp that seemed to ripple all the way through his neck and shoulders. That did nothing to soothe me. If anything, it fuelled the unease already clawing at my insides. His hands stayed fixed on the steering wheel, knuckles pale.

"What's happened?" I asked, sharper now, urgency creeping into my voice. My thoughts began to spiral, imagining a thousand possible disasters, each more ridiculous and terrifying than the last. Had something happened to Mum? Had I missed a funeral while I was locked in a cell?

The car slowed and pulled over to the shoulder. Gravel crunched beneath the tyres, and I stared at him as he shifted into park. The silence in the cabin deepened—oppressive, expectant.

Then he turned to me. His face was composed, but not in a reassuring way. There was something solemn there, something that made my stomach drop before he even opened his mouth. My chest tightened in anticipation, the way it used to before getting bad news at school. I suddenly felt five years old.

"Is Mum okay?" I asked. My voice was smaller than I wanted it to be, brittle with dread. The idea that she might not be—that something irreversible had happened while I was stuck behind bars—was more than I could bear to consider.

"Your mother is fine," he said. Relief surged through me like a wave. But then he added, "Mostly."

That one word yanked me back down into the undertow.

"What do you mean, mostly?" I asked, my voice rising slightly, the edge of fear sharpening it.

He exhaled through his nose, slow and heavy, as though he’d rehearsed what he was about to say but still wasn’t ready to say it. “I came to visit you last night,” he said, his voice weighted with implication. Lines cut across his forehead, deeper now, as though the concern had etched them there overnight.

He’d been to my house. Last night. My blood turned to ice.

Something definitely isn't right.

“Gladys,” he said, and his hand reached over, landing on my knee. His grip was firm—more grounding than comforting—and his eyes didn’t waver. “Your house has been burgled.”

"It has?" I echoed, my head leaning back against the seat as the shock rippled through me. My house. Violated. Invaded. My breath caught. “Why would—” But I didn’t finish the question. My mind was already racing.

Why would someone break into my house? Unless...

Unless they were looking for something.

Father continued, “Your mother hadn’t been able to contact you all day, so I came to check on you.”

I nodded faintly, more to myself than to him. That tracked. The image of my phone flashed into my head—switched off, battery dying in the bottom of my bag where I’d dumped it at Luke’s place. I'd panicked, convinced the police would trace it. That's what they always did on those grim little crime dramas I watched with a bottle of red and one cat on each knee. I’d imagined myself clever. Strategic. Invisible.

Now it all seemed impossibly stupid.

And then it hit me—the bedside table.

The Portal Key.

My heart jerked violently in my chest. I could picture it with horrible clarity, right where I’d left it. Unhidden. Unprotected. If they’d found it...

"Please, I need to go home," I said quickly, panic slipping into my voice despite my best efforts. I hated begging, but it came out of me unfiltered, raw.

"Okay," he said after a beat, his voice low and deliberate. “But we can’t stay for long. You can pack a few necessities, but that is all. You’re going to stay with us for a few days, Gladys.”

I nodded, swallowing hard, my throat dry as kindling. I wanted to protest—wanted to insist that I needed more time, that I wasn’t a child—but I didn’t. Because part of me, a part I didn’t want to admit existed, craved the safety of their house. Their warmth. Their steady routines and too-strong tea and threadbare cushions that smelt faintly of lavender and history. I needed to not be alone.

The thought of strangers rifling through my drawers, my shelves, my life, sent another wave of nausea through me. I pictured them standing where I slept, where Chloe and Snowflake curled up beside me at night. My sanctuary, reduced to evidence.

And yet... I also knew I had to see it with my own eyes.

Pulling into my driveway, a flutter of butterflies stirred in my stomach—not the pleasant kind, but the jittery, irritable sort that felt more like bats than anything poetic. An uneasy mix of apprehension and dread churned within me, the residue of adrenaline and residual alcohol making for a distinctly unpleasant cocktail.

Either those butterflies are ignoring the alcohol in my system, or they are drunk too, I mused, rubbing at my belly in a feeble attempt to soothe myself. The humour fell flat, even in my own head. My breath caught slightly as I stepped out of the car, the familiar thump of concrete underfoot feeling suddenly strange, like walking through a dream that had warped into something else.

My father followed behind me, silent, his presence more a shadow than a companion. The air between us was dense with unsaid things. The front steps stretched before me like a hill I didn’t want to climb. I took them slowly, each one heavier than the last, the handrail cold beneath my palm.

The key slipped into the lock with ease, which somehow made it worse. It clicked open with the same old smoothness, like nothing had changed at all—except everything had. The ordinary function of the door felt mocking in its familiarity.

"Gladys," my father said behind me, his voice low and edged with caution. It froze me mid-stride, my hand still resting on the doorknob.

"Yes?" I asked, turning slightly, trying to keep my voice steady, though I knew the fear was already leaking through.

"It's not pretty in there," he said. Just five words, but they landed with the weight of a wrecking ball.

I nodded once, not trusting myself to speak. My hand trembled as I pushed the door, but then I paused again, glancing back. A strange thought had surfaced.

"How did the intruder get in?" I asked, frowning at the still-perfect frame of the front door. No splintered wood, no kicked-in panels. That absence felt wrong, like a detail deliberately left out of a painting.

"The police aren't sure," he replied. His voice was flat, but something in it shifted—a quiet discomfort. That answer, or lack thereof, made my skin crawl.

I nodded again, my throat tight.

"Gladys," he said, halting me once more.

"Yeah?" I looked back, frustration bleeding through this time.

"Sergeant Charlie Claiborne was here. The police have a lot of unanswered questions."

My breath caught, pulse spiking.

"Sergeant Claiborne was here?" I echoed. The words felt foreign coming out of my mouth, like I’d bitten into something I didn’t order. If Charlie had been involved, this wasn’t just some opportunistic break-in. This was serious. Far too close.

"Yes," my father confirmed, solemn as a tombstone. "This is serious, Gladys. Please be careful."

I held his gaze for a heartbeat, then turned back to the door and pushed it open.

The air inside the house was different. Still, but not quiet. Tense. I stepped into the hallway and froze.

My home had been gutted.

Fist-sized holes punctured the plasterboard, irregular and frantic, like someone had gone through in a rage, searching—no, hunting—for something. Drawers were tipped, their contents vomited onto the floor. Cushions torn. Books thrown from shelves like they'd offended someone. The living room was a crime scene made personal.

I stood in the middle of it all, surrounded by the carnage of my once peaceful refuge. My throat closed up, not from dust, but from sheer emotional impact. This wasn’t just destruction—it was desecration. The violation of every quiet corner where I’d once felt safe. It wasn’t just the house that had been torn apart—it was me.

"Where's Snowflake?" I asked, the question bursting out before I could think. My voice wavered, tinged with fear. If anything had happened to her... I couldn’t—wouldn’t—cope.

"She's fine. Your mother is looking after her," my father replied, his tone softening just enough to crack my armour.

A tight knot in my chest loosened. My shoulders sagged as I let out a long, shaky breath, the kind you don’t realise you’ve been holding until it escapes you. For a second, just a second, I closed my eyes and imagined Snowflake curled up in Mum’s lap, purring and oblivious. That image, fragile though it was, held me together.

But only just.

Stepping through the debris of what had once been my sanctuary, I felt a bitter sting behind my eyes that I fought to contain. The sharp crunch of broken picture frames beneath my shoes, the displaced furniture, the gutted drawers—all of it hit me with the force of a gut punch. This wasn’t just a break-in. This was personal. The place I’d called home for the last decade now felt like someone else’s ruin, one I had been forced to wander through like a grieving trespasser. My throat tightened.

Photographs lay face-down, their frames splintered. Books I’d underlined, lived in, spilled across the carpet like wounded birds. My records, my journals, bits of my life—all thrown about with careless malice. Violation wasn’t a strong enough word.

I pulled my phone from my bag again, thumb trembling as I redialled. Still nothing. Straight to voicemail—Luke’s first, then Beatrix’s. Again. And again. Their silence echoed louder than any conversation could. Each failed connection only magnified my isolation. Like I was shouting into a void and hearing nothing back but my own ragged breath.

I made my way to the bedroom, the room that used to be a nest of calm and now looked like it had hosted a riot. As I feared, the Portal Key was gone. The smooth, slate-grey shape of it had been right there on the bedside table last time I saw it—half-buried beneath a magazine and the empty glass of wine I hadn’t washed. Now, there was only dust and a scuff mark.

It might still be here, I tried telling myself, clutching at the last fraying thread of hope. Maybe they didn’t know what it was. I dropped to my knees without hesitation, crawling awkwardly across the overturned rug and ducking beneath the bed. Cobwebs clung to my hair. I pushed aside old shoes and a long-forgotten hot water bottle, heart pounding like a trapped bird.

"Lost something?" my father asked from behind me, making me jump. His voice was soft, but it had that lilt of paternal worry that made my stomach twist.

"Just a USB drive," I said, far too quickly. My voice was thick with dust and unshed tears. It was a lie, of course, but a believable one. That’s what it would look like to him if he ever saw it—just an unremarkable bit of tech. Better he think it was something mundane than try to explain what it truly was.

He didn’t press. Instead, I heard the creak of his knees as he carefully lowered himself down beside me. The bed groaned faintly above us. It was strange, almost laughable—the two of us crouched on the floor like we were looking for a dropped contact lens, not trying to recover something that could unravel the very seams of our lives.

My eyes welled again. I blinked hard, trying to force it all back. But the pressure was too much. I sank back, resting on my heels, fingers curling against the floorboards. I felt exposed. Small. Like a child again, caught between mess and consequence.

"Gladys," my father said, more gently now, but serious all the same. “What the heck is going on?”

I bit down on my lower lip, trying to anchor myself in the sting of it. His voice was calm, but beneath it was fear. And rightly so. Because I had no good answers. Not ones that made sense. Not ones I could say aloud.

Even if I wanted to tell him—where would I start? With the truth? With words like Portal Key, or Clivilius, or people who might not be people at all? It all sounded like something I’d scribble in a notebook during a breakdown.

So I did the only thing I could. I reached out and grabbed his hand, fingers curling tightly around his. It was dry, warm, solid. Steady in a way I no longer felt.

"I love you, Dad," I said. My voice cracked on the words, rasped with exhaustion and the kind of grief that has nowhere to go. The kind that comes from not knowing what’s been lost—only that something has.

He didn’t reply straight away. Just squeezed my hand back. That was enough.

For now.