Moonlight and Crimson Carpets

"Turns out surrendering to a possum is less humiliating than what comes after — standing in a pool of blood whilst your entire understanding of right and wrong drowns with your boot prints."

Minutes dragged by with no sign of Karl, each second stretching into something that felt elastic and wrong, time losing its normal consistency. My anxiety grew with each passing moment, building like pressure behind a dam, threatening to overwhelm the fragile control I was maintaining over my actions and decisions.

My eyes remained permanently trained on the house, scanning for any movement or hint of Karl's presence. The windows remained unchanged — no shadows passing across them, no indication that anyone was inside. The structure sat in darkness, inscrutable and silent.

Worry gnawed at the edges of my mind, making rational thought increasingly difficult. He has to be heading for the broken window of the back corner room, I surmised, recalling the one I'd hurt myself on earlier in the week during our initial investigation of the property.

The wound that was currently bleeding through its bandage, adding fresh blood to old stains, physical evidence of how this case kept circling back to this house, this location, this nexus point where everything seemed to converge.

Karl's behaviour had been increasingly obsessive about this place. I'd noticed it over recent days — the way his attention kept returning to Luke Smith's address, the frequency with which he mentioned wanting to examine the property more thoroughly, the intensity in his eyes when discussing potential evidence that might be found inside.

At the time, I'd attributed it to professional dedication, to the same drive that pushed all good detectives to pursue leads beyond the point where others might abandon them. But now, crouched in bushes watching him conduct what appeared to be an illegal entry into a suspect's residence, I couldn't help but fear he was on the brink of doing something regrettable.

Something that would end careers. Something that would contaminate evidence. Something that couldn't be undone or explained away or justified through appeals to the greater good.

The light breeze picked up slightly, rustling the leaves of the gum trees around my hiding spot. The sound was soothing in its normality — nature continuing its patterns regardless of human drama, wind moving through branches because that's what wind did, physics operating according to immutable laws whilst I crouched in bushes contemplating whether my partner was committing crimes.

The bright crescent moon shone in the clear night sky, providing surprising illumination now that my eyes had fully adjusted to the darkness. The stars were visible too — that particular Tasmanian sky that came from being away from major light pollution, the Milky Way a pale smudge across the darkness, constellations I'd learned as a child standing out with clarity that never failed to remind me why I loved this island despite everything.

For a moment, the tranquility of the environment felt like a mockery of my inner turmoil. How could the night be so beautiful, so peaceful, so utterly indifferent to the chaos churning through my life? How could the moon shine with such serene constancy whilst everything I thought I understood was collapsing into confusion and fear?

But the beauty also provided strange comfort — a reminder that the universe operated on scales far beyond my personal catastrophes, that whatever happened tonight would be infinitesimally small in the grand scheme of cosmic indifference, that there was something oddly freeing about recognising how little any of this mattered to anyone beyond the immediate participants.

Finally, driven by a blend of professional duty and personal concern that had become impossible to separate, my curiosity got the better of whatever caution remained. I have to know what Karl is up to.

The decision crystallised with sudden clarity. I couldn't stay hidden in these bushes indefinitely, watching an empty house whilst Karl potentially did something irreversible.

With a burst of determination that overrode my body's protests, I darted out from my hiding place. The movement was swift and low, trying to minimise visibility whilst maximising speed, following the same route I'd seen Karl take a few minutes earlier.

Each step was careful yet urgent, my injured knee throbbing as I crouched and manoeuvred up the small embankment leading to the row of houses. The incline wasn't steep, but in my current state every change in elevation felt like mountain climbing, muscles screaming at demands they didn't want to meet.

My boots found purchase in the dirt and damp grass, occasionally slipping slightly but never enough to send me tumbling back down.

It wasn't long before I reached the back fence of Luke's property. The boundary was marked by ageing wooden panels, weathered grey by years of exposure, some boards warped and loose.

Standing at almost full height, I cautiously peered over the fence. My hands gripped the top edge. My pulse climbed with anticipation and genuine fear.

No sign of Karl. No movement.

But he had to be here somewhere. Had to have entered the property with purpose. The question was whether he'd already gone inside — climbing through that very window, committing breaking and entering in pursuit of whatever obsession had driven him here — or whether he was still positioning himself, preparing to act.

My breath caught as something extraordinary happened — something that shouldn't have been possible, something that made my detective's brain stutter trying to process what my eyes were reporting.

The downstairs room lit up with a brief flash of colour.

Not the warm yellow of electric light being switched on. Not the blue-white of television or computer screen. But a burst of vivid, almost prismatic colour — blues and purples and greens swirling together in a pattern that hurt to look at directly, that seemed to vibrate at the edges of perception in ways that made my brain scream in protest.

The light lasted maybe two seconds — brilliant and impossible and utterly unlike anything natural or technological — and then faded back into darkness as quickly as it had appeared.

And in its wake stood a rather large man.

I stared at the room in confusion, trying to make sense of what I'd just witnessed. Maybe he had always been there, I told myself, trying desperately to rationalise the situation, trying to force my observations into frameworks that made sense.

Maybe the man had been standing in the darkness all along and I simply hadn't been able to see him until the light — whatever that light was — had illuminated his position. Maybe my exhausted brain was playing tricks, filling in gaps with hallucination born from stress and injury.

But even as I tried to convince myself of a logical explanation, some deeper instinct rejected the attempt at rationality. Because I'd been watching that room. Had been staring at it with focused attention. And that space had been empty — I was certain of it.

The man hadn't walked into frame from an adjoining room. Hadn't been crouched in a corner that my angle of observation had obscured. He'd appeared, as impossible as that sounded, as though the flash of light had somehow deposited him there.

You're losing it, I told myself firmly. Exhaustion and stress are making you see things that aren't real. There's a rational explanation. There has to be.

Either way, I knew this man was definitely not Karl. His silhouette was wrong — taller, broader through the shoulders, moving with different gait and posture. Karl's body was one I knew intimately, had studied from countless angles in countless contexts. This was someone else.

Someone who, perhaps, could be Luke Smith.

My cousin, apparently. The grandson Jane had kept secret. The man at the centre of our investigation.

And he was inside the house where Karl had presumably just entered.

I thought about calling out to warn Karl that he might be in danger, that he wasn't alone in the house, that whatever surveillance or investigation he was conducting was about to be compromised by the presence of the property's occupant.

But revealing my position could compromise both of us. Could alert Luke to the fact that he was being watched. Could create a situation where Karl's illegal entry was witnessed by a civilian who could testify against him.

The ethical calculations happened at lightning speed, weighing consequences against each other: Karl's safety versus operational security versus legal implications versus the increasing certainty that I was completely out of my depth in a situation I no longer understood.

I watched as the man — as Luke, I told myself, though part of me still wasn't entirely certain — headed for the stairs. His movements were purposeful, unhurried, suggesting he wasn't aware of any intrusion or danger.

If Karl's in there, he's about to get caught.

The thought sent ice through my veins. Whatever Karl was doing, whatever he'd hoped to find or accomplish by entering this house illegally, it was about to be interrupted in the worst possible way.

My hands trembled as I pulled out my phone, fumbling with the device as adrenaline made my fingers clumsy. The screen's brightness was blinding after the extended darkness, making me squint as I pulled up Karl's contact and hit dial.

Answer, I willed desperately. Answer your goddamn phone before Luke finds you and everything goes to hell.

The call connected, ringing once, twice, three times. Each ring felt like an eternity, time stretching impossibly as I watched Luke's silhouette reach the bottom of the stairs and begin climbing.

Four rings. Five.

And then, devastatingly, inevitably: "This is Karl Jenkins. I'm unable to take your call—"

"Answer your goddamn phone," I whispered urgently, ending the call before the voicemail could finish its recorded greeting.

There was no time for messages. No time for explanations that Karl wouldn't hear until it was too late. I needed to speak to him directly, needed to warn him now, and the voicemail was worse than useless.

Unable to see Luke clearly enough from my vantage point to identify him with certainty — and increasingly convinced that I needed to do something, anything, to prevent whatever collision was about to occur — my mind raced with desperate possibilities.

I could call Luke, I realised. If he answered, if his phone rang, it might distract him long enough for Karl to hear the sound and realise he wasn't alone, might buy precious seconds for Karl to hide or escape or at least prepare himself for confrontation.

My fingers fumbled with the phone, searching contacts for the name I'd added not even an hour earlier: Luke Smith. The contact information that the Vaucluse receptionist had scribbled for me, that I'd entered into my phone whilst still reeling from Jane's revelation.

With determination born from desperation, I pressed the call button, holding the phone to my ear whilst my heart hammered against my ribs.

The call connected. Started ringing.

"Shit!" The curse was soft but heartfelt when the call went straight to voicemail after a single ring — that particular response pattern that meant the phone was either off or set to immediately redirect calls, rendering my desperate attempt at distraction completely useless.

Of course it didn't work, I thought bitterly. Because nothing about this night has gone according to plan and why would this be any different?

But I couldn't give up. Couldn't accept that I was helpless to prevent whatever was about to happen. There had to be another option, another person I could call who might distract Luke or alert Karl or somehow change the trajectory of events currently unfolding.

Fighting with my trembling fingers, moving with speed that came from pure panic, I quickly searched for the next potential connection: Jamie Greyson.

Jamie who worked at Vaucluse. Jamie who visited Jane regularly with Luke. Jamie who was Luke's partner. Jamie whose contact information I'd also received from the receptionist, whose number I'd also entered into my phone.

Please, I thought desperately as I pressed call. Please answer. Please let this work.

The phone rang once. Twice. Three times.

And then, to my utter shock — to my complete and overwhelming astonishment — the call was answered.

"Hello?" The voice was male, uncertain, slightly breathless in a way that suggested the speaker had been moving or exerting themselves.

But it wasn't Jamie's voice. I'd never met Jamie, had no baseline for what he should sound like, but something about the tone and timbre was familiar in ways that made my stomach drop.

"Karl!" I whispered sharply into the phone, surprise momentarily overwhelming me, making my voice come out harsher and more urgent than I'd intended.

Karl answered Jamie's phone. Which means Karl is inside the house. Which means Karl has Jamie's phone. Which means—

The implications crashed through my consciousness like dominos falling, each conclusion leading to the next with horrible inevitability.

"You need to listen to me," I demanded, my voice trembling with fear that I couldn't quite suppress. "You need to get out, right now!"

I didn't wait for a response. Didn't give him time to ask questions or argue or do anything except hopefully act on my warning. I ended the call abruptly, knowing that every second mattered, that Luke was climbing those stairs and Karl needed to be gone before they encountered each other.

My hands were shaking so badly I almost dropped the phone. My breath came in short, sharp gasps that felt inadequate to my body's oxygen needs. The night air was cold against my face, but I was sweating, stress response overwhelming my body's normal temperature regulation.

Please let him get out, I prayed to whatever deity might be listening. Please let this be okay. Please don't let anyone get hurt.

Within seconds of ending the call — maybe ten heartbeats, maybe fifteen, time having lost all meaning in the surge of adrenaline flooding my system — a confrontation erupted from upstairs in the house.

The sounds were muffled by walls and distance but unmistakably violent. A heavy thud that resonated with the particular quality of body hitting wall or floor. A shuffle of feet against carpet. A clatter that might have been furniture being knocked over or someone grabbing for support and finding none.

My heart was pounding so fiercely I could feel it in my throat, in my ears, in my fingertips gripping the fence so hard it dug deep into flesh that no longer registered individual pains against the overwhelming surge of fear.

No no no, the mantra repeated in my head. Please no. Not this. Anything but this.

Without conscious decision, pure instinct driving movement, I followed the fence line just as Karl had done earlier. My body moved before my brain could properly evaluate whether this was wise or productive or anything except the desperate need to be closer, to understand what was happening, to somehow intervene if intervention was possible.

I moved quickly yet stealthily, my injured knee complaining with every step but overridden by the adrenaline that made pain feel distant and unimportant. The fence provided cover and guidance both, a solid structure to follow whilst staying low and hopefully invisible to anyone who might be watching.

As I neared the front of the property, there was one final, heavy thud from upstairs. The sound was different from the previous impacts — more final, more conclusive, carrying a finality that made my stomach clench with dread.

And then the house fell into an eerie silence that was somehow worse than the sounds of violence had been. Because silence meant conclusion. Meant the confrontation was over. Meant someone had won and someone had lost and I had no way of knowing which was which until I could see with my own eyes.

The quiet felt thick, loaded with implications I desperately didn't want to consider. It pressed against my eardrums, making me strain to hear any sound — footsteps, voices, breathing, anything that would tell me what had happened and who had survived intact.

But there was nothing. Just the rush of my own blood in my ears and the too-loud sound of my breathing and the distant ambient noise of the neighbourhood continuing its oblivious evening routine.

Ducking underneath the kitchen window, I paused, pressing my back against the brickwork whilst I tried to control my ragged breathing. The bricks were cold against my spine even through my jacket, and I could feel rough texture catching at the fabric, probably leaving marks that would be impossible to explain later.

My lungs burned from the exertion and the sustained adrenaline, each breath feeling inadequate despite coming too fast. I forced myself to slow down, to take deliberate inhalations that might calm my racing heart, might give me the presence of mind to think clearly about what I was doing.

You're about to enter a crime scene, the professional part of my brain pointed out with detached clarity. You're about to contaminate evidence. You're about to make yourself complicit in whatever happened inside.

But the personal part — the part that loved Karl despite everything, that couldn't abandon him even when he'd abandoned me countless times the past few days — overrode professional consideration with ease born from months of choosing him over duty.

Carefully, moving with the kind of slow deliberation that made every muscle protest, I peered over the window ledge into the darkened kitchen. My eyes, now fully adjusted to the night, could make out the basic shapes inside — countertops, what looked like a table, the vague outlines of appliances rendered colourless by darkness.

There was no sign of Karl or his attacker in the kitchen. No movement. No indication that either man had come this way.

Which means they've gone elsewhere in the house, or—

I cut off the thought before it could complete itself. There was no point in speculating when I could investigate. No point in imagining worst-case scenarios when reality waited just beyond these walls.

I moved further along the wall towards where I remembered the broken window being located. Each step felt simultaneously too loud and impossibly quiet, my boots making soft sounds against the ground that seemed to echo in the silence despite their actual minimal volume.

I paused again.

Last chance to turn back, I told myself. Last chance to be smart. To call for backup. To do this properly through official channels with proper procedures.

But even as the thought formed, I knew I wouldn't take that option. Couldn't. Because calling for backup meant explaining how I knew something had happened, which meant admitting I'd been conducting unauthorised surveillance, which opened doors to questions about why and what I'd seen and whether Karl's presence here was connected to official investigation or personal obsession.

And more immediately, calling for backup meant delay. Meant waiting for units to arrive. Meant precious minutes during which Karl could be bleeding out or destroying evidence or doing something else irreversible that I might prevent if I acted now.

Wincing in pain — my knee screaming at the abuse I was inflicting, my hand throbbing with renewed bleeding that had thoroughly soaked the bandage — I grabbed the top of the small fence that separated the front yard from the side area. The wood was rough and weathered, leaving imprints in my palms, but I hauled myself over with the desperate strength that came from adrenaline and determination.

My feet landed heavier than I would have liked, the impact sending jolts of pain through joints that were already beyond their tolerance for abuse. The landing lacked any grace or stealth, but at least I stayed upright, didn't collapse in a heap of exhausted detective.

Small mercies, I thought grimly.

Crouching down again — the movement sending fresh protests from my knee but necessary for minimising visibility — I cautiously approached the broken window. The glass caught moonlight, jagged edges glinting with dangerous promise. The opening was roughly at waist height, the frame empty where glass had been cleared away, though plenty of shards remained embedded in the wood like crystalline teeth.

I could see into the room beyond — darkness inside slightly less absolute than outside.

This is it, I realised. This is the point of no return. Once you go through that window, everything changes.

My hand moved instinctively towards my hip, reaching for the gun holster that should have been there, that was always there during official duties, that provided both practical protection and psychological comfort in dangerous situations.

My fingers grasped at empty space.

The realisation hit with sickening clarity: I'd come completely unarmed. Had left the station without my service weapon, without backup, without any of the tools that might keep me alive if this situation deteriorated further.

You stupid, stupid woman, I cursed myself. What were you thinking? You weren't thinking. You were reacting. And now you're about to enter a house where violence just occurred, where at least two men are present, and you have nothing to defend yourself with except your wits and your increasingly unreliable body.

But turning back wasn't an option. Not now. Not after coming this far.

Taking one last deep breath — filling my lungs with cold night air that tasted of eucalyptus and fear — I carefully began climbing through the broken window.

I went slowly, carefully, acutely aware of the remaining glass shards that waited to punish carelessness. My hands found the window frame, avoiding the worst of the jagged edges, taking my weight as I levered myself up and through.

My torso passed through first, upper body sliding into the darkness of the interior whilst my legs still dangled outside. For a moment I was suspended awkwardly, half in and half out, vulnerable and ridiculous and completely committed to a course of action that might get me killed.

Then my feet found purchase on the interior wall, and I was able to pull myself the rest of the way through, landing with a less-than-graceful thud on the floor inside.

I froze immediately, listening for any indication that the noise had alerted someone to my presence. My breathing sounded impossibly loud in my ears, harsh gasps that surely must be audible throughout the house.

But no footsteps approached. No lights switched on. No voices called out in alarm or challenge.

The silence held.

Slowly, allowing my eyes to adjust to the different quality of darkness inside, I moved toward the doorway.

Standing just outside the toilet at the top of the hallway — having navigated the bedroom and emerged into the corridor beyond — I held my breath, straining my ears for any hint of movement.

The house was engulfed in a thick, palpable silence that felt almost suffocating, like atmospheric pressure had increased, making each breath require conscious effort. The darkness was absolute in the interior hallway, no windows to admit moonlight, the space rendered nearly lightless.

Where's Karl?

The question echoed in my head as the blackness began to worm its way into my psyche. A knot of fear tied itself in my gut, my internal organs feeling like they were performing some anxious dance, churning with dread that felt both rational and overwhelming.

As I slowly moved into the open hallway, passing the doorway of the master bedroom, my senses were on highest possible alert. Every sound was amplified — the soft whisper of my clothing as I moved, the barely-audible creak of floorboards under my weight, my own breathing that seemed impossibly loud.

Suddenly, two small eyes flashing in the darkness caught my attention.

My heart stopped — actually felt like it seized in my chest for a moment — and I gasped involuntarily, pressing my back up against the wall with force that sent pain shooting through my already abused body.

There's no way I haven't been seen, I thought, panic rising like bile in my throat. Those eyes are looking directly at me. Whoever—whatever—is there knows I'm here.

Fear transformed rapidly into waves of abject terror. In that moment, vulnerability felt absolute. I desperately wished for a weapon, for anything that might give me some sense of protection, some means of defending myself against whatever waited in that darkness.

Without any sort of protection, a troubling thought crossed my mind with disturbing clarity: Would I be safer if I surrendered?

The calculation was tactical and terrible — weighing the odds of survival if I tried to fight or flee versus if I simply gave up, announced my presence, relied on professional courtesy or basic human decency to prevent violence.

Disturbingly, I concluded that surrender might actually be the safer option. At least it meant controlling the terms of engagement, preventing someone from feeling threatened enough to react with immediate aggression.

With a deep breath to steady my nerves — or attempt to, anyway, because my hands were shaking and my heart was racing and nothing about this felt steady — I made a decision that violated every tactical instinct I'd ever been taught.

I turned into the master bedroom, holding my hands up in the universal gesture of peaceful intent, palms forward and visible even in the darkness.

My sudden movement startled the eyes' owner, causing them to retreat further into the impenetrable darkness of the large room.

"I'm unarmed," I whispered, trying to keep my voice level despite the fear coursing through my system. "I come in peace."

I inched my way further inside, hands still raised, moving with the kind of careful deliberation that suggested non-threatening intent. My eyes had adjusted enough to make out vague shapes — the bulk of furniture, the rectangle of a window with curtains drawn, the general layout of the space.

The eyes blinked several times in rapid succession, catching what little light existed and reflecting it back with that particular quality of animal eyes in darkness.

And then realisation hit me with force that was somehow both relieving and humiliating in equal measure.

It's just a bloody cat.

Or wait—no. Not a cat. The body shape was wrong, too stocky and low to the ground. The ears were different. The eyes were positioned slightly differently than feline eyes.

Stupid fucking possum!

Relief washed over me with intensity that was almost painful, my body relaxing so suddenly that I nearly collapsed from the release of tension. I'd been terrified of a possum. Had contemplated surrender to a small marsupial that was probably more frightened of me than I'd been of it.

If I'd had any capacity left for laughter, the absurdity of it might have undone me completely.

The possum — perched on what I could now see was a bed — eyed me warily, clearly uncertain whether to bolt for safety or maintain its current position. Its nose twitched as it assessed me, tiny brain calculating threat levels with whatever limited cognitive capacity possums possessed.

"Sorry," I whispered to it, feeling oddly compelled to apologise for scaring it. "I'm just looking for someone. I'll be gone soon."

The possum didn't respond, which was probably for the best because if it had I would have known exhaustion had pushed me into actual hallucination.

Then heavy footsteps echoed up the hallway, snapping my attention back to immediate threat.

My heart, which had just begun to slow from the possum encounter, immediately accelerated again. Every muscle tensed, ready for fight or flight though my body was in no condition for either.

The footsteps were deliberate, unhurried, moving with the confidence of someone who belonged here rather than the caution of an intruder. They came from the direction of the stairs — someone ascending from the ground floor, heading towards the bedrooms.

Is it Karl? Is it the other man? I can't tell.

The darkness and the acoustic properties of the house made identification impossible. The weight and rhythm of the steps could belong to either man — both were large enough to make substantial noise when moving, both would produce similar sound patterns.

I pressed myself further back into the corner of the bedroom, trying to become invisible through sheer force of will. The possum watched me with continued wariness, probably questioning the sanity of this human who'd invaded its territory.

My breath caught in my throat as the footsteps paused. For a moment — stretching impossibly long — there was just silence. Whoever had climbed those stairs was standing in the hallway, perhaps listening, perhaps considering their next move.

Then the footsteps resumed, moving past the master bedroom doorway without pausing.

I caught a glimpse of silhouette — tall, broad-shouldered, moving with purpose but not alarm. The figure passed quickly, not looking into the room where I hid, focused on some destination further down the hall.

Relief flooded through me as I recognised the gait, the posture, the particular way Karl moved when he was concentrating on something.

Karl. He was alive. Mobile. Apparently uninjured enough to walk normally.

The relief was so profound I felt lightheaded, had to consciously remind myself to breathe because apparently my body had forgotten that breathing was necessary during moments of extreme stress.

The possum let out another low growl — that distinctive sound that was part warning, part territorial display — as Karl trod on a piece of broken glass in the other bedroom.

Shit, I thought, fear spiking again. If he investigates that noise, if he comes to check on the possum, he'll find me here.

My eyes darted around the darkness, scanning for a potential hiding spot in case Karl decided to investigate. The room offered limited options — under the bed, behind curtains, in the closet if there was one. None of them particularly effective if someone actually searched the space.

But thankfully — mercifully — he didn't come to check.

Karl continued on his way, apparently unconcerned by the possum's complaint.

I waited until the sound of his movement faded completely before allowing myself to release the breath I'd been holding. My hands were shaking — actual tremors that I couldn't control through force of will — and I pressed them against my thighs to try to still them.

He's okay, I told myself firmly. He's alive. He's moving. Whatever happened upstairs, he survived it intact enough to walk away.

But the relief was complicated by renewed questions. What had happened during that confrontation? Where was the other man — Luke, presumably? What was Karl doing now that had him so focused he'd missed the obvious signs of another person in the house?

And most pressingly: what was I supposed to do now?

Making my way over to the large bedroom window with movements that felt disconnected from conscious thought, I carefully extended my hand towards the Venetian blinds. My fingers trembled as they touched the fabric — some blend of synthetic material that felt slick and cold.

With gentle pressure, barely moving the fabric at all, I created the tiniest of gaps to peer through. Just enough to see outside without disturbing the blinds in ways that might be visible from the exterior, might alert anyone watching that someone was inside moving things.

The brightness of the moon outside was momentarily stunning after the absolute darkness of the house's interior. I had to look away immediately, squinting against the silvery brilliance that felt almost painful.

But that's not important right now, I told myself firmly, forcing my attention back to the critical task. I need to be certain that Karl leaves the property, and soon.

The longer he stayed, the greater the risk of something going catastrophically wrong. Of police being called by neighbours who'd heard the commotion. Of Luke — if that's who the other man was — recovering from whatever had happened during their confrontation and coming after Karl. Of evidence being contaminated beyond recovery. Of careers ending and criminal charges being filed.

The list of potential disasters was endless, and every additional minute Karl remained here multiplied the chances of one of them occurring.

Gently rubbing my eyes with my free hand — trying to help them readjust to the brightness outside — I turned back to the small gap in the blinds.

There he is.

Relief and anxiety warred within me as I caught sight of Karl's unmistakable silhouette. He was at the back fence now, the same fence I'd peered over earlier.

I watched as he jumped over the high wooden barrier with surprising agility. His body cleared the top with inches to spare, landing on the other side in a controlled crouch.

Then he was up and moving, crossing back over the road towards the scrubland where he'd initially hidden. His form was dark against slightly-less-dark background, a shifting shadow that moved with purpose and speed.

My eyes followed his figure as he jogged down the street, tracking him for as far as the window's angle allowed. He moved steadily away, looking for all the world like someone who'd just completed an evening run rather than someone fleeing the scene of what might be a crime.

Finally, inevitably, he disappeared beyond the limits of my sight, swallowed by distance and darkness and the curve of the road. Gone, but presumably safe, presumably heading back to wherever he'd parked his car.

"Well, that was lucky," I said aloud, the words directed at the only other living soul in the room — the possum, which had remained on the bed throughout Karl's passage, watching these strange human dramas unfold with the detached interest of an observer who found the whole species baffling.

The relief I felt was substantial, almost overwhelming. Karl had gotten out. Had left without being caught, without any obvious sign that neighbours had called police, without the confrontation I'd feared might occur if he'd lingered too long.

As I released the blind — letting it fall back into place with a soft whisper of fabric — the room was plunged back into darkness. The abrupt transition from moonlit brightness to near-total black made my eyes protest again, rendering me temporarily blind as they struggled to re-adapt.

And in that moment of transitional blindness, struck by a sudden realisation as I turned back into the room, my entire body went cold with fear.

There's still the unknown man.

How could I have forgotten? How could I have allowed relief over Karl's escape to push aside the more immediate concern about whoever else was in this house?

How could I have been so careless?

The confrontation upstairs had involved two people — Karl and someone else. Karl had left. Which meant the other person was still here. Somewhere in this house. Possibly injured. Possibly unconscious. Possibly dead.

Or possibly very much alive and aware that an intruder had been in his home.

The fear that flooded through me was qualitatively different from the earlier panic — this was the cold, calculated terror that came from recognising genuine danger, from understanding that I was alone in a dark house with someone whose status I couldn't determine and whose intentions I couldn't predict.

Creeping towards the doorway, I cautiously turned my ear to the hallway. Every sense strained to catch any sound — breathing, movement, the rustle of clothing.

The stillness was oppressive, cloaking the house in a fog that felt almost unnatural. No ambient noise of appliances running. No hum of electricity through wires. No distant sound of television or radio. Just absolute quiet that pressed against my eardrums until I almost wished for noise just to break the tension.

This is the perfect time to make an escape from the house, I reasoned with myself, trying to apply logic to a situation that had moved well beyond rational decision-making. Karl is gone. The house is quiet. If I leave now, quickly and quietly, I can get out without anyone knowing I was here.

It was the smart choice. The safe choice. The choice that prioritised self-preservation over curiosity or duty or whatever compulsion was keeping me rooted in place instead of fleeing back through that broken window.

But something held me back — a nagging need to know about the other man. To understand what had happened during that confrontation. To determine whether someone needed medical attention or was beyond help or was perfectly fine and I was worrying over nothing.

Was it Luke? The question had been gnawing at me since I'd first seen the figure appear in that flash of impossible light. That was, after all, whom I had initially come to visit.

The whole situation was baffling beyond reason. That flash of bright colour — blues and purples and greens swirling together in patterns. And then the man had appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, in a room I was certain had been empty moments before.

If the glass sliding door hadn't provided such an unobstructed view of the room inside, I might have easily dismissed the occurrence as just the light from a television or computer screen — some mundane explanation that made sense within normal parameters of reality.

But I'd seen it. Whatever it was. Had witnessed something that my brain couldn't properly categorise or explain, that violated basic assumptions about how the world worked.

The memory played over and over in my mind, each repetition hoping I'd missed something obvious, that a logical explanation would present itself and I could simply allow myself to go home, to put this entire nightmare of a day behind me.

But no such luck.

Just a quick look, I promised myself. Just enough to determine if someone needs help. Then I'm gone.

The rationalisation was thin — transparent even to myself — but it was enough to propel me forward. To override the screaming voice of self-preservation that demanded I flee immediately.

Body tense and every sense heightened to painful acuity, I began stalking across the rest of the upstairs floor. My movements were slow and deliberate, each footfall placed with excruciating care to minimise sound. The floorboards creaked occasionally despite my caution, small protests that seemed impossibly loud in the oppressive quiet.

I checked each room as I passed — methodically, thoroughly, the way I'd been trained.

No sign of the other man. No indication of where he'd gone or what condition he was in.

As I reached the top of the stairs, I paused to look down. Moonlight streamed through a bare window beside me, bathing the carpeted stairs in pale, ghostly illumination.

The stairs descended into deeper darkness — the ground floor receiving less ambient light than the upper level, appearing as a pool of shadow that my eyes couldn't fully penetrate from this angle.

I took a deep breath, steeling myself, and descended a couple of steps. The carpet muffled my footfalls but couldn't entirely eliminate the soft thuds of my weight on the stairs.

Something peculiar caught my eye down by my feet. I paused, crouching down despite the protest from my damaged knee, and gently rubbed my hand over what appeared to be a small hole in the wall.

The hole was roughly circular, perhaps the diameter of my thumb, punched into the plaster with force that had sent cracks radiating outward from the impact point. Plaster dust fell softly as I touched it, settling onto the dark carpet like snow, barely visible in the dim light.

Peering further down the staircase, I realised it wasn't just one isolated hole, but rather a series of them — punctuating the wall every few steps, creating a pattern that told a chilling story of violence.

At least now I know that Karl is unharmed, I thought, a small measure of relief cutting through the dread. If Karl had been the one injured in the confrontation, he wouldn't have been able to walk away as normally as he had. The holes suggested someone had taken significant trauma, and it apparently wasn't him.

Which meant the other man — Luke, presumably — had been on the receiving end of whatever confrontation had created this damage.

The thought should have brought relief. Should have made me feel safer, knowing that the potential threat had been neutralised. But instead it just made everything more complicated, more ethically murky, harder to reconcile with the person I'd thought I was.

With extreme caution, moving with the kind of slow deliberation that made every muscle protest, I continued descending the stairs. Each step was a calculated movement, my weight distributed carefully, testing each tread before fully committing to it.

As I reached near the bottom, I paused before taking the final step. Surveying the area ahead for any signs of movement or any indication of where the mystery man might be, I let my eyes adjust to the even deeper darkness of the ground floor.

My heart beat rapidly in the silence, the kind of quiet that felt too heavy, too deliberate. It's too quiet, I thought, unease creeping up my spine like cold fingers. Unnatural, almost.

Houses had ambient noise — the hum of refrigerators, the tick of cooling pipes, the creak of settling wood. But this house sat in absolute silence, as though even the building itself was holding its breath, waiting to see what would happen next.

With a deep breath to steady my nerves — or attempt to, anyway — I prepared myself for the final step.

The night had already shown me impossible things. Had already shattered my understanding of what was real and what wasn't. Had already transformed from routine investigation into something far stranger and more dangerous than I'd imagined possible.

One more step, I told myself. Just one more step and you'll know.

The carpet gave a slight squelch beneath my right boot as I cautiously stepped into the doorway from the stairs.

The sound was wrong — wet and organic in ways that carpet shouldn't be, suggesting saturation with liquid that had soaked deep into the fibres. I froze immediately, every sense focused on that single point of contact between my boot and the floor.

Instinctively, I looked down. At the bottom of the doorframe, clearly visible even in the limited light, there was a large patch of dark liquid. The stain spread outward from the threshold, a trail of it running down to meet the carpet in patterns that suggested flow and volume, that told stories of spillage and seepage.

In the silver light of the moon filtering through the windows, it was hard to discern the colour with complete accuracy. The moonlight rendered everything in shades of grey and shadow, stripping away the normal visual cues that would make identification certain.

But my instincts — honed by years of crime scenes and accident reports and the unfortunate familiarity with how blood looked in various lighting conditions — told me exactly what I was looking at.

It has to be blood.

The realisation came with sick certainty, my stomach dropping.

I rocked my foot again, listening to the squelch with horrified fascination. The sound was distinctive, unmistakable — the particular noise that only came from stepping in substantial liquid that had thoroughly saturated absorbent material. Judging by the sound and the size of the visible stain, a significant amount of blood had seeped into this carpet.

Enough to be concerning. Enough to suggest serious injury. Possibly enough to suggest fatal injury, though I tried desperately not to make that leap, tried to maintain hope that whoever had bled here was still alive somewhere.

A sense of dread began filling the air, seeping from my every pore like sweat, cold and clammy against my skin. My breathing became shallow, rapid, the kind of panic response that made clear thinking difficult.

The metallic smell was beginning to register now that I was paying attention — that distinctive, slightly sweet scent of blood that every officer learned to recognise, that never quite lost its capacity to trigger a visceral response no matter how many times you encountered it.

My mind raced, trying to piece together what must have happened. The confrontation upstairs. The sounds of violence. Karl leaving, apparently uninjured. Which meant...

This is Luke's blood. Has to be. Karl hurt him—maybe badly—and then left him here.

The implications crashed through my consciousness with devastating force. Karl hadn't just conducted illegal surveillance or breaking-and-entering. He'd engaged in violence that had resulted in injury significant enough to leave this much blood. Had possibly killed someone and simply walked away, leaving me to discover the aftermath.

And now I was standing here, literally in the blood, my boot prints creating evidence that would place me at the scene, that would make me complicit in whatever had occurred.

Oh god. What have we done? What has Karl done?