Infiltration

“When you reach out into the dark, you never really know if it’s an investigation or an invitation.”

Knowing that Sarah would be more than a little pissed at me for leaving her behind again, I made sure that I left the station before she arrived back. I slipped out through the rear exit, avoiding the bullpen and any colleagues who might question my early departure. The thought of running into her—even just seeing the guarded disappointment in her eyes—was more than I could stomach. But I had to. My plan for the evening was clear: to stake out Luke's house, to catch him in a criminal act that would justify an immediate arrest. This wasn’t just procedure anymore. It was personal. A silent vow had taken root, somewhere between Sharon Pafistis’ revelation and Claiborne’s pointed dismissal—one I couldn’t ignore.

The drive home barely registered. My hands steered while my mind spun through a thousand possibilities, a reel of hypothetical outcomes playing out with feverish speed. The usual landmarks of my route passed in a blur. I nearly missed my street—twice—jerking the wheel sharply at the last moment, drawing angry horns from fellow drivers I barely noticed. The faces of the missing men cycled through my thoughts like restless spectres: Jamie’s easy grin, Kain’s solemn stare, Nial’s open trust, Adrian’s elegant confidence. Their images flickered at the edges of my vision, accusing, urging, reminding me of what was at stake.

Once home, I went through my routine on autopilot—feeding Jargus, showering, grabbing a quick bite that I barely tasted. He padded alongside me, tail wagging low, more subdued than usual. Perhaps he could sense the tension radiating off me like static. When I opened the linen cupboard, he trotted off and returned moments later with a fresh towel in his mouth, tail wagging more enthusiastically now, as if to say, Here. I'm helping.

I crouched and scratched behind his ears, allowing myself a moment of stillness. "I haven’t been around for you much lately, have I?" I murmured, more to myself than to him. His eyes met mine—dark, patient, forgiving. He didn’t need words. Dogs never did.

Dressed in the darkest clothes I could find—black jeans, navy jumper, charcoal jacket—I paused by my bedside drawer, hand hovering over the handle. Inside lay my off-duty weapon. A part of me wanted it, needed it. But the thought of how badly this could go if I was caught, weapon in hand, staking out someone’s property… no. I closed the drawer with a soft click, forcing myself to trust my instincts instead of hardware.

I topped off Jargus’ water and scattered a few extra biscuits in his bowl—small penance for another lonely night. As I slung my coat over one arm, he followed me to the door, sitting with rigid posture like a sentry.

"I'll be back later, boy," I said, ruffling the fur at the base of his ears one final time. "Be good."

The door closed behind me with a hollow thunk that echoed in my chest. The air outside had cooled significantly, a creeping dampness settling over the street like a shroud. The clouds above were tinged lavender and bruised grey, dusk painting the sky with long, indigo streaks. The kind of twilight that made everything feel just a little… off.

I parked the car near the river Derwent, wedging it between two delivery vans in a way that would draw no notice. A short walk from there to Berriedale Road, uphill, unlit, discreet. Driving straight to Luke’s house would’ve been reckless. Too exposed. Too official.

The incline was steeper than I’d remembered, and the day’s accumulated fatigue began to rear its head. My thighs burned. Each step up the gravel verge felt heavier than the last, breath misting in short bursts, my boots crunching on loose stones and wet leaves. I forced myself to welcome the exertion—it was grounding, real. Not like the mess of half-formed suspicions and intangible connections spinning inside my skull.

Luke’s house loomed into view, a squat silhouette against the darkening sky, its windows catching what little light remained. I moved off the footpath and slipped into a line of dense shrubbery across the road, nestling into a pocket where I could see without being seen. Thorny branches scratched at my sleeves as I adjusted my position, crouching into an uncomfortable squat that sent a burning throb through my calves.

I waited.

And waited.

The minutes crawled by. Every so often, I shifted to relieve the ache in my legs or dislodge a sharp rock pressing into my thigh, but the discomfort kept me sharp. Kept me present.

Every sound in the neighbourhood felt amplified. The whine of a distant motorbike. The rhythmic creak of a swinging gate. A dog barking two streets away. Each one made me flinch, ears straining, heart rate quickening. Every silhouette that moved past a nearby curtain, every flicker of light that changed from room to room—my eyes tracked it all.

But the house remained completely quiet. Still. Ominous.

And yet the thoughts wouldn’t stop. They looped in maddening circuits, spiralling tighter and faster until they squeezed the air from my lungs. What was he doing in there? Was he watching me back? The darkness behind those blinds pulsed with imagined horrors.

My nightmare replayed with unsettling clarity—Gladys’ lifeless body spilling open like a split sack of grain, Luke’s blade slicing through her as though she were made of paper. I could still hear the voice, curling through my skull like smoke: Bye, Karl.

I blinked hard, squeezing my eyes shut as though pressure might erase the image. But it clung to the inside of my mind, sticky and persistent, as if burned there by some inner flame.

Under the shroud of night, I felt a strange mix of stealth and foolishness as I scanned the street for any signs of movement. A car passed, taillights fading into the gloom. I checked both directions again before stepping off the kerb and darting across the bitumen.

My heart thumped in my ears, a syncopated rhythm of nerves and adrenaline that echoed with each footstep. Gravel crunched faintly beneath my boots as I reached the head-high wooden fence encircling Luke's property. It felt like a border between worlds—reality on one side, something far darker on the other.

I rose onto tiptoe, fingers catching on the jagged top rail, the sharp edges biting into my skin. Splinters dug into my palms, but I barely noticed. Peering over, I scanned the backyard.

Still. Shadowed. Nothing moved, not even lights flickering behind closed blinds. The house squatted in the darkness, mute and monstrous, like a predator in ambush. Every brick and eave seemed charged with malevolence, holding its breath. Watching me.

A faint breeze stirred the gum trees that lined the rear boundary, and the dry whisper of their leaves sounded like murmured secrets just beyond comprehension. I swallowed hard, the air thick and tasting faintly of damp soil and something metallic—like blood on the back of the tongue.

A voice—my own, quiet and logical—surfaced in my mind. Is there really any need for this clandestine approach?

Maybe not. Maybe Claiborne had been right. Maybe I was chasing ghosts.

But the anger boiling in me said otherwise. The fury at being told to stand down. The injustice of watching lives vanish while bureaucracy tightened its grip. And beneath that anger was something worse—exhilaration. A perverse thrill that came with doing something I knew I shouldn’t. The line between justice and obsession was thinning, and I could feel myself sliding closer to the edge.

I began to move along the fence line, keeping low, my boots brushing softly through grass and gravel. Each step was calculated, deliberate. My breath came in shallow drags, just enough to keep me steady without giving myself away. The side of the house was quiet—no lights on in the windows, no glow beneath the doors. I continued until I reached the top of the driveway, the concrete gleaming faintly with moisture under the dim porch light.

I stared at Luke’s front door. It was unremarkable—plain white, worn in places, paint peeling from the frame—but to me, it was a barricade of secrets. My hand hovered above it, suspended in hesitation. Do I knock? Would he even answer?

But I already knew. I'd been here before. Knocked. Waited. Lied to. Dismissed. No more.

I took a step back, my brain whirring, then pulled out my phone. The blue glow lit my face like a ghost story around a campfire, casting shadows across my cheeks and under my eyes. I thumbed the brightness down, then opened my contacts.

And there it was.

Jamie Greyson.

Four syllables. A name that pulsed with unresolved history. That contact hadn’t been touched in years. Not since—

My thumb hovered over the name, reluctant. My throat tightened, the memory unspooling like a film reel: Jamie, flailing in the river, limbs frantic, face twisted in raw, primal fear. My hands closing around him, dragging him out—but too roughly. Too late. I’d almost—

I shuddered. The guilt rose like bile, bitter and choking. The sensation of river water in my lungs returned unbidden, the panic and shame almost indistinguishable.

What was I hoping to achieve by dialling that number?

Was it still active? Had Luke taken it? Destroyed it? Or would I hear Jamie’s voice—older, changed, or worse… nothing at all?

My thumb hovered over the call button, my chest constricting. Somewhere, beyond that door, Luke Smith was inside. Maybe watching. Maybe listening. Maybe waiting.

And I wasn’t sure if I was hunting him… or being drawn into something far darker than I could yet see.

Taking a deep breath, I tried to steady my nerves, focusing on the coolness of the air filling my lungs, the solidity of the ground beneath my feet. Each inhalation felt deliberate, forced—like dragging breath through cotton. My finger hovered above the screen, trembling slightly despite my best efforts to hold steady.

With a sense of inevitability, I pressed the call button. But when the dial tone began to ring in my ear, I couldn't bring myself to lift the phone. The thought of hearing Jamie’s voice—the boy I had once pulled half-drowned from a river, the man I had failed in more ways than one—felt like a lead weight pressing down on my chest. Was I calling a man, or a memory? Or worse—was I dialling the phone of someone already gone?

Instead, I held the device at chest height, the glow of the screen casting a faint halo in the dark. The seconds ticked by. Five. Six. Seven.

Around me, the world held its breath. No breeze, no passing cars, not even the rustle of leaves. Just the faint hum of blood in my ears and the rhythmic thud of my heart keeping time.

And then—a sound.

Faint, but unmistakable. The shrill tone of a phone ringing, muted by plaster and glass. My call was being answered by the house itself. The ringing echoed from inside Luke Smith’s home.

A jolt of electricity shot down my spine. My whole body went rigid, adrenaline flooding my system like a chemical tide. For a long, taut second, I just stood there, staring at the door, trying to rationalise it. Coincidence, I told myself. Maybe Jamie left his phone with Luke. Maybe he came by once. Maybe he dropped it.

Or maybe Jamie never left.

I stepped closer to the house, boots crunching softly over gravel. At the front window, I pressed my ear to the cold pane of glass. The chill bit through the skin, anchoring me to reality even as the surrealness of the moment surged around me like rising water.

Then the ringing stopped.

In its place, Jamie’s voice emerged from the answering service—calm, clipped, familiar. "Hi, you’ve reached Jamie—leave a message and I’ll get back to you."

I staggered back a half-step, as if struck. The sound of his voice—his real voice, not a memory or a hallucination—brought with it a storm of conflicting emotions: guilt, grief, hope. My breath hitched in my chest. Was he really here? In there, just metres from where I stood?

Or was his phone just a remnant, a breadcrumb left by someone who knew I’d come looking?

I redialled before I could talk myself out of it, my thumb jabbing at the screen like a reflex. Again the muffled trill rang out from inside the house, louder now, echoing faintly from deeper within the structure.

I ducked quickly toward the side of the property, moving with instinctive care. Each step felt exaggerated, like walking in a dream—conscious of every shift of gravel that could give me away.

Reaching the kitchen window, I kept low, crouching beneath the sill before slowly rising just enough to peer in.

There it was.

Jamie’s phone lay on the bench, screen lit, my number glowing as the call persisted. The device vibrated against the polished marble surface, sliding slightly with each buzz, a tiny movement that felt monumental in the silence. No hands reached for it. No voices called out.

The kitchen was immaculate. Too immaculate.

No clutter, no dishes, no evidence of use. It looked less like someone’s kitchen and more like a set. Staged.

Fake.

My gut twisted with unease.

I stayed frozen, my breath fogging the glass. Someone knows I’m here. The thought burrowed deep into my brain, lodging there like a tick. Had someone seen me arrive? Was I already exposed?

Every instinct screamed at me to move. To back off. To run.

But I couldn’t look away. Not yet. The possibility that Jamie was inside—alive, injured, trapped—held me there like an anchor. If he was inside, I had to know.

I cast a glance over my shoulder. The street behind me was deserted, streetlamps spilling amber light across quiet asphalt. No movement. No sound.

But that didn’t mean I wasn’t being watched.

Turning back to the window, I scanned the rest of the kitchen for movement. Shadows pooled in the corners, behind cupboards, beyond doorways that led deeper into the house.

Nothing.

The phone went dark.

Silence returned, thick and suffocating.

And I stood there in the dark, caught between the fear of discovery and the dread that Jamie—whatever was left of him—might be waiting for someone to find him.