Lies Across Adjacent Desks

"Nothing tests your ability to lie like sitting two feet from someone who knows you're lying but can't prove it yet."

Walking back to my desk felt like traversing a minefield—each step weighted with the knowledge that Karl would be there, that I'd have to face him, that we'd need to interact as though nothing catastrophic had transpired between last night and this moment.

The station hummed with its usual afternoon activity around me—phones ringing, conversations happening in adjacent cubicles, the regular sounds of keyboards clicking and printers whirring. All of it completely normal, utterly mundane, occurring in a world that existed parallel to but separate from the nightmare I was navigating.

My hair was still slightly damp from the shower, pulled back severely in a way that might suggest professional efficiency rather than a desperate attempt to look presentable after emotional an breakdown.

You can do this, I told myself with confidence I didn't remotely feel. You've already lied to Claiborne. You've already arrested Gladys whilst standing metres from a body you helped conceal. You can maintain a professional facade with Karl. You can pretend everything is normal.

But pretending with Karl felt different than pretending with Claiborne or Gladys or any of the other people I'd been deceiving. Because Karl knew—or at least suspected—more than anyone else. Because we had history that complicated every interaction. Because whatever had existed between us—partnership, friendship, something more—had been irrevocably damaged by the violence I'd witnessed and the choices I'd made in its aftermath.

As I approached our shared workspace, I could see Karl sitting at his desk, focused on his computer screen with the kind of concentration that might have been genuine or might have been performance designed to avoid acknowledging my approach.

"I see you got your gun back," I commented as I settled into my chair, attempting to sound nonchalant even as my heart rate accelerated with the simple act of speaking to him.

My voice came out steadier than I'd expected—professional and controlled, carrying just the right note of colleague-making-observation rather than anything heavier or more accusatory.

Good start, I acknowledged internally. Maintain that tone. Don't let him see how nervous you are. Don't give him any reason to question what you know or what you've been doing.

Karl didn't reply immediately. Instead he just looked at me—really looked, with intensity that made my skin prickle with the awareness of being assessed and evaluated.

Say something, I urged him silently whilst simultaneously dreading what he might actually say, what questions he might ask, what truths might emerge if this conversation progressed beyond surface pleasantries into actual substance.

But Karl remained silent, his expression giving away nothing beyond that searching quality, that sense of someone trying to read meaning from insufficient information, trying to determine whether I was a genuine colleague making an innocent observation or whether something else was happening beneath the surface.

"They didn't find anything," I started, forcing my voice to remain steady and convincing despite the roiling anxiety beneath the surface. "Nobody answered the door, and the premises were all secured."

Which is technically true, I thought with dark humour. Nobody did answer the door. The premises were secured except for the broken window I climbed through. I just left out the parts about illegal entry and discovering bodies and stealing evidence.

Karl's expression shifted subtly—puzzle pieces moving in his mind as he processed what I'd said and what I hadn't said, as he tried to reconcile my report with whatever he knew or suspected about the situation.

"So you didn't go inside?" he asked, his tone carrying genuine confusion mixed with something else I couldn't quite identify—relief? suspicion? hope that I was telling the truth and he hadn't been observed?

He wants to know if I saw, I understood with sick certainty. Wants to know if I discovered what he did, if I'm lying about not going inside because I actually went inside and found evidence he'd been there, found evidence of what he'd done.

"No," I lied directly, sitting down in my chair and pulling myself toward the desk with movements that tried for casual normality despite the tension making my muscles rigid.

I busied myself with settling in—adjusting my chair height, positioning my keyboard, moving papers around in ways that suggested someone simply getting comfortable at their workspace rather than someone desperately avoiding eye contact with a person who'd become both a partner and stranger simultaneously.

"Oh," I added, as though the thought had just occurred to me rather than being a carefully planned element of the deception I was constructing. I turned to look directly at Karl, making eye contact with effort that felt monumental, forcing myself to meet his gaze whilst delivering information that would confirm I'd been at the house even whilst denying I'd entered it.

"And the broken window has been fixed."

I watched his face closely for any sign of reaction—any tell that might give away his thoughts or reveal his knowledge of how that window had been broken.

Karl's face went through subtle transformations—surprise, confusion, concern, perhaps calculation about what my knowledge of the repaired window meant.

"Are you spying on me?" he asked, the question catching me completely off guard.

Fuck. The profanity screamed through my mind. He suspects. He's figured out that I followed him. That I know something. That I'm not being honest about my involvement.

My face went white—all the blood draining away in immediate, visceral reaction to being directly accused of exactly what I'd been doing.

"No," I said quickly—too quickly, with too much force. Breaking eye contact, I immediately turned back to my computer.

Smooth, I berated myself savagely. Very convincing. Nothing says "I'm definitely not spying on you" quite like going pale and refusing to look at the person you're supposedly not spying on.

"Sarah," Karl said gently, his voice shifting from accusatory to something softer—concern, perhaps, or genuine care that had survived despite everything that had happened between us.

Don't, I wanted to tell him. Don't be kind. Don't show concern. Don't remind me of why I fell for you in the first place. It's easier to maintain distance when you're harsh, easier to keep lying when I can justify it through your guilt rather than having to confront my own feelings.

But I couldn't say any of that without revealing too much, without opening doors that needed to remain firmly closed.

"I have a report to finish writing," I said curtly, my response deliberately cold and dismissive.

My eyes remained fixed on the computer screen, though I wasn't actually reading whatever was displayed there. The words were just shapes, meaningless symbols that gave me an excuse to avoid looking at Karl, to avoid seeing concern or suspicion or whatever else might be written on his face.

Karl let several minutes pass in silence after my dismissal.

I typed random words and then deleted them, made edits to documents that didn't need editing, moved files around in pointless reorganisation—anything to maintain the appearance of productive work whilst my mind raced through implications and scenarios and potential catastrophes.

"Sarah," Karl said softly, trying again to reach through the wall I'd erected between us.

I didn't look up, keeping my focus determinedly on the screen, my fingers moving across the keyboard in a semblance of productive work even though I was accomplishing nothing except avoiding conversation.

Please don't, I thought desperately. Please just let this go. Accept that I don't want to talk. Stop trying to connect with me when connection is the last thing either of us can afford right now.

"Luke arrived in Adelaide this morning."

The mouse in my hand stopped moving immediately.

Luke. My cousin. Jane's grandson. The person whose house had become a crime scene, whose address had become nexus point for violence and death and the complete destruction of my integrity.

Why Adelaide? The question formed immediately. Why now? What does he know? Is he running from something—or someone? Is he in danger or is he dangerous? Did he know about Cody Jennings? About Karl? About any of what transpired in his absence?

The implications multiplied faster than I could process them, each one opening new avenues of speculation and concern.

But I refused to look at Karl, to show any sign of how much that news affected me, to give him the satisfaction of knowing that despite my determination to maintain distance, I was still deeply invested in this case and its outcomes.

Don't react, I commanded myself firmly. Don't let him see that this matters. Don't give him any indication that you're connecting pieces he hasn't explicitly drawn for you.

I made mental note to remember this vital information about Luke, filing it away for later consideration when I could think about it properly without Karl watching my reactions and drawing conclusions from my responses.

Returning my attention to the screen—or at least making a convincing show of returning attention whilst my mind raced elsewhere—I kept typing meaningless words and deleting them. Kept moving files around. Kept performing the role of a detective doing her job whilst being anything but what I appeared to be.

And tried not to think about how long this facade could possibly hold before the weight of accumulated lies and stolen evidence and concealed bodies became too much to sustain any longer.