Rougher Waters

"Sometimes the best intelligence comes from what people don't say. The gaps between words, the careful silences—that's where you find what actually matters."

The Commodore needed a proper clean—had needed one for weeks, if I was honest. But between the Telegraph assault case eating up my evenings and Helen's book club commandeering the garage last weekend, I hadn't found the time. Or the motivation, really. The car worked. Got me where I needed to go. The rest was cosmetic.

Besides, I'd spent most of last Friday in the workshop instead, finally getting the rigging right on the HMS Bounty model. Three months of work and the bloody mizzen mast had been sitting at the wrong angle the entire time. Had to dismantle half the superstructure to fix it. Worth it though—the thing looked proper now, historically accurate, the kind of detail that separated hobbyists from craftsmen.

Helen had poked her head in around lunchtime, asked if I was planning to emerge before dinner. I'd promised I would. Hadn't quite managed it. She'd brought me a sandwich anyway, left it on the workbench with that look that said she wasn't angry, just resigned to the fact that I'd lose track of time when the ships had me.

"You're allowed to have interests," she'd said that night over a reheated dinner. "Just occasionally I'd like those interests to include me."

Fair point. We'd been meaning to take that weekend trip to Bruny Island she'd been mentioning. Maybe next month. After the auditors finished their review and things settled down at the station.

Detective Lahey sat in the passenger seat clutching her bag like a shield, staring out the window as we pulled away from the Pafistis residence. Sharon's silhouette was briefly visible in the doorway of the colonial place before the tree-lined street swallowed the view.

Jenkins had asked me to collect her. Actually asked—sent me a text whilst I was finishing up witness statements on the Telegraph assault, said he'd had to bail on the Pafistis interview and could I swing by to give Lahey a lift back to the station. The request had been unusually direct for Jenkins, who typically preferred to handle his own arrangements.

I'd been about to knock off early for once—rare occurrence, that. Had plans to stop by the maritime antique shop on Elizabeth Street, see if they'd gotten any new ship's chronometers in. Been looking for a decent nineteenth-century piece to add to the collection, something with provenance if possible. The bloke who ran the place had promised to ring if anything interesting came through, but he'd been saying that for months.

Instead, here I was playing taxi service. Ah well. The shop would still be there tomorrow.

The past few days had seen Jenkins off his game—showing up hungover again this morning, scattered, making decisions that suggested his head wasn't quite where it should be. Not like him. Jenkins was methodical to a fault, proper procedure incarnate. Something had him rattled.

And Lahey... Christ, she looked absolutely knackered—that particular quality of exhaustion that went beyond just needing sleep. The kind that settled into your bones, made your movements slightly too careful, your reactions slightly too slow. I'd seen it in blokes coming off double shifts, in coppers dealing with cases that ate at them, in my old man after particularly brutal fishing seasons.

She had stitches on her hand—I'd noted those earlier—and she'd taken a knock to the head recently. Concussion, someone had mentioned. Yet here she was, still working, still pushing through like admitting weakness might crack something fundamental in her foundation.

My knee was giving me grief again. The old injury from a tackle gone wrong during a foot pursuit back in 2009, some dickhead fleeing a domestic who'd decided running through Knocklofty Reserve in the dark was a good idea. I'd caught him—always did—but came away with a knee that clicked when the weather turned cold and ached when I'd been sitting too long.

Which was basically always these days. Too much desk work, not enough movement. Helen kept suggesting we go for evening walks together, get some exercise that wasn't job-related. I kept meaning to say yes. Kept finding reasons not to.

Battery Point's streets rolled past—historic cottages with their neat gardens, glimpses of harbour between buildings, afternoon light doing that thing where it filtered through established trees and made everything look like a postcard. Pretty enough, if you were the sort to notice. Helen would've appreciated it. She had an eye for that kind of thing, the aesthetic details I tended to miss.

I noticed the architecture sometimes. The Georgian proportions, the way these old places had been built to last. Solid craftsmanship. Same principles that went into the model ships—attention to detail, respect for proper technique, taking the time to do things right even when shortcuts would've been easier.

Modern building didn't have that same quality. Everything prefabricated, rushed, designed to look good for five years then fall apart. Like modern policing, really. All about image and process rather than substance and results.

Lahey wasn't noticing the scenery, I reckoned. Her attention was elsewhere—trapped in whatever loop coppers got stuck in when cases went sideways and bureaucracy tied your hands whilst bad blokes walked free.

The silence stretched between us, getting uncomfortable. I wasn't much for quiet. Never had been. Dad used to say I'd been born talking and hadn't shut up since, which was rich coming from a man who could hold court for hours with fishing stories but couldn't tell you he loved you if his life depended on it.

The temperature gauge on the Commodore was running slightly hot. Not critical, but higher than normal. Probably needed coolant. Add it to the list of things I'd get to eventually.

"So," I said, breaking the silence like you'd crack ice on a windscreen, "rough day at the office, eh?"

The question came out somewhere between genuine inquiry and fishing for information—a habit I'd developed, always probing, always testing, seeing what people would reveal if you just gave them an opening. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it made people clam up harder. Worth a try though.

"Something like that," Lahey replied, her tone carefully neutral, offering nothing.

Classic Lahey. Give her credit—the woman knew how to keep her cards close. I'd tried cracking that professional mask plenty of times over the years, usually got nowhere. She'd perfected the art of answering questions without actually saying anything, the kind of conversational deflection that probably served her well in interviews but made casual chat bloody impossible.

We drove in silence for maybe thirty seconds. Felt longer. The Commodore's engine rumbled beneath us, that familiar sound that meant everything was working well enough even if it wasn't perfect. Bit like me, really.

My stomach reminded me I'd skipped lunch. Again. Had meant to grab something from the station canteen but the Telegraph assault witness statements had taken longer than expected. Three contradictory accounts of the same incident, each witness absolutely convinced they were telling the truth whilst describing completely different events.

That was the job, though. Sorting through conflicting narratives, finding the thread of truth buried beneath self-interest and faulty memory. Like archaeology, Helen had once said. Except the ruins were still warm and the artefacts bled.

"Karl looked pretty rough this morning," I continued, keeping my tone deliberately casual. "Showed up late, hungover. Not like our boy, is it?"

I watched her reaction from my peripheral vision—the slight tensing of her shoulders, the way her grip tightened fractionally on that bag. Hit a nerve there. Interesting.

"We had a big case day yesterday," she said carefully, voice level as a spirit bubble. "Forest pursuit. Physical exertion. Long hours. Takes its toll."

I made a noise—half grunt, half chuckle—that acknowledged the explanation whilst simultaneously dismissing it. "Yeah, I heard about that. Chasing shadows through Myrtle Forest. Sounds like a right cock-up if you ask me."

And I had heard about it. More than heard about it, actually—I'd been the poor bastard who rocked up to the scene after they'd buggered off, left to secure Gladys Cramer's abandoned car and oversee the processing after a massive storm rolled through. Stood there half caked in mud whilst CSI did their thing, wondering why two detectives had abandoned a crime scene mid-investigation to chase a suspect through the bush in pathetic weather.

The mud had gotten everywhere. Ruined a perfectly good pair of work shoes—second pair this year. Helen had made pointed comments about buying quality footwear that could handle the job when I'd come home tracking mud through the kitchen. She'd been right, obviously. She usually was about practical matters. Didn't make replacing them any less annoying when the budget was already tight.

Professional opinion? Questionable decision-making, that. But I wasn't going to hammer Lahey about it now. She looked like she'd been hammered enough already.

Still. Worth a gentle prod to let her know I'd noticed the mess they'd left behind.

She didn't respond to my observation. Just kept staring out the window as we turned onto Davey Street, heading back towards the station. The harbour appeared between buildings—blue water catching afternoon light, boats bobbing at their moorings like they didn't have a care in the world.

Made me think of Dad. He'd be out there in weather like this if he were still alive, checking cray pots, reading the water the way other blokes read newspapers. The Alida Rose was long gone—sold after he died, Mum needing the money more than sentiment. I'd thought about buying a small boat myself over the years. Never quite pulled the trigger. Between the mortgage, Helen's student loans from her policy degree, and the cost of maintaining the house, recreational boating remained firmly in the "someday" category.

Besides, I had the model ships. Close enough. Less maintenance, no risk of drowning.

Peaceful scene, the harbour. The kind of thing that should've been calming but probably just made Lahey's churning thoughts worse by contrast.

I knew that feeling. The world going about its business, all pretty and unconcerned, whilst you're drowning in the mess of human ugliness that was our daily bread. Sometimes the disconnect made it worse.

"How's the head?" I asked, shifting gears—conversationally and literally as I downshifted for a light. "Heard you took a proper knock the other day. And the hand too, yeah?"

The question was genuine. I'd noticed the injuries this morning. Now, seeing her exhaustion more clearly, the pieces connected. Head injury plus physical trauma plus pushing through without proper recovery equalled a disaster waiting to happen.

Dad had nearly killed himself doing exactly that. Took a knock on the Alida Rose back in the nineties, thought he was fine, kept working because fishermen didn't have the luxury of sick days. Three weeks later he'd collapsed on deck. Subdural hematoma, the doctors said. Nearly died because he was too bloody stubborn to admit he needed rest.

I'd been maybe fifteen when that happened. Spent a week thinking I was about to lose my old man, watching Mum try to hold it together whilst maintaining the fiction that everything was fine. Learned something about ignoring warning signs that day. About how stubbornness and pride could kill you just as dead as any criminal.

Should've learned that lesson better, probably. My own health wasn't exactly a priority. The GP had been making noises about my blood pressure at the last check-up, wanted me to consider medication. I'd said I'd think about it. Hadn't thought about it. Easier to pretend the problem didn't exist than deal with admitting I was getting older, less invincible, more like Dad than I wanted to acknowledge.

"I'm fine," Lahey said automatically.

"Bullshit," I replied bluntly, not bothering to soften it. "You've got that look. The one people get when they're running on fumes and sheer bloody-mindedness. Seen it plenty of times. Usually right before someone makes a stupid decision that lands them in hospital."

She turned to look at me properly then—first time since getting in the car that she'd actually met my eyes instead of treating me like part of the upholstery. I kept my focus mostly on the road but caught enough of her expression to read the reassessment happening behind those tired eyes.

Good. Let her see I wasn't just the crude dickhead she'd written me off as. I could be that bloke when it suited me—hell, I was that bloke more often than I should be. But I wasn't only that.

"I'm managing," she amended, and I heard the marginal increase in honesty. Small win.

"Yeah, you and every other stubborn bastard in the department," I muttered. "Managing right up until you're not, and then someone else has to pick up the pieces."

We stopped at a red light, the Commodore idling with that faint rattle that suggested something under the bonnet wasn't quite right. Probably the timing belt. Maybe the alternator. One of those things I'd get to eventually when it became critical rather than merely concerning.

The bloke in the ute next to us was eating a meat pie whilst driving, sauce dripping onto his shirt. Multitasking at its finest. Made me properly aware of how hungry I was. Should've grabbed lunch. Would definitely need to stop for something before heading home. Helen was working late tonight—some policy briefing she'd mentioned this morning—so I'd be fending for myself for dinner anyway.

I used the pause to properly turn my head and look at Lahey—really look, with the full detective's eye I usually reserved for suspects and crime scenes. Took in the pallor beneath her complexion, the careful way she held her injured hand, the subtle tension around her eyes that spoke of pain being actively managed and suppressed.

"You should take proper time to recover from head injuries," I said, and I made sure there was zero mockery in my voice. This wasn't the time for games or point-scoring. This was someone who needed to hear hard truths from someone who'd learned them the expensive way.

"My old man took a knock on a fishing boat back in the nineties. Thought he was fine. Kept working. Three weeks later he collapsed on deck. Subdural hematoma they said. Nearly died because he was too bloody stubborn to admit he needed rest."

I offered the anecdote straight—no drama, no expectation of response. Just information that might be useful, might make a difference, might keep her from making the same mistake Dad had made.

"I saw a doctor," she said. "Got cleared for active duty."

"Cleared doesn't mean healed," I countered, and I let a bit of edge creep back into my voice because sometimes you had to be blunt to get through stubborn copper walls. "Just means they reckon you won't drop dead immediately. Big difference."

The light changed. I rolled forward, merging back into traffic with the automatic competence of someone who'd driven these streets so long I could probably do it blindfolded.

A delivery truck cut me off—standard Hobart driving, that. Everyone in a hurry, nobody properly indicating. I let it go. Wasn't worth the aggravation. Pick your battles, Dad used to say. Save your energy for the fights that matter.

"So what's the story with the Pafistis case?" I asked, shifting topics because I'd pushed the injury angle as far as it would go without becoming nagging. "Karl buggered off and left you there to handle the grieving widow solo?"

The question contained judgement—I wasn't trying to hide that. Because abandoning your partner mid-job was a shit move, no matter what urgent business called you away. Partners looked after each other. That was the basic bargain. Karl had broken it, and I wanted to understand why.

"He went to secure arrest warrants for Luke Smith," Lahey explained, and I heard the defensive edge trying to creep into her voice. "We got phone records linking Smith to multiple missing persons. Plus ATM footage showing him using Jamie Greyson's card after his alleged disappearance. It was time-sensitive."

"And Claiborne knocked it back," I finished, demonstrating that station gossip travelled faster than official communications. "Typical."

Because of course he had. I'd heard Karl in Claiborne's office earlier, walls being thin as tissue paper in this place. Heard the sergeant shut it down, heard Karl's frustration bleeding through even the closed door. Not surprising, really. Claiborne operated cautiously—some would say too cautiously, prioritising political ramifications over immediate action.

The auditors were coming next week. That was part of it too—Claiborne being extra careful, not wanting anything controversial on the books when external reviewers started poking through our case files. Made sense from a career perspective. Bloody frustrating from an actual policing perspective.

I'd need to have my files absolutely spotless before they arrived. The Battery Point burglary was fine—open and shut, everything documented properly. But the Telegraph assault had loose threads that would attract attention if I wasn't careful. Needed to re-interview those witnesses, tighten up the statements, make sure there were no procedural gaps the auditors could exploit.

"You knew?" Lahey asked, and I caught genuine surprise in her tone.

I shrugged, the gesture making my shirt strain at the shoulders in that familiar way that told me I'd put on a few kilos lately. Helen had been making comments about takeaway frequency. Might have a point.

The shirt was getting genuinely uncomfortable though. Tight across the chest, buttons pulling slightly. I'd been meaning to buy new work clothes for months. Keep putting it off because shopping was torture and I hated spending money on things that felt like admitting defeat.

Maybe I'd just lose the weight instead. Start those evening walks with Helen. Get back to something resembling fitness.

Who was I kidding? The workshop was more appealing than exercise, the model ships more interesting than cardiovascular health. And I could probably squeeze another six months out of these shirts if I was strategic about which ones I wore when.

"Heard Karl in Claiborne's office earlier. Walls are thin. Sergeant's got his reasons, I'm sure. Probably wants more evidence before authorising action against someone who might have resources to make the department look bad if we balls it up."

"So Luke Smith just... walks around free whilst we dot i's and cross t's," Lahey said bitterly.

"Welcome to modern policing," I replied with dark humour that came from eighteen years of experiencing exactly this shit. "Where the forms matter more than the bodies. Well, until there's enough bodies that someone important notices. Then suddenly everyone's asking why we didn't act sooner."

The bitter truth of it settled between us like sediment in disturbed water.

We drove in silence again, but this time it felt different. Less hostile. Less like I was poking at her defences for sport. More like two coppers who understood the frustrations of the job even if we approached it from vastly different angles.

A couple walked past on the footpath, young, laughing about something, entirely unconcerned with the weight of the world. Students, probably. University types. That brief window of life where your biggest problem was an essay deadline or what to have for dinner.

I'd never had that window. Went straight from school to helping support Mum after Dad's stroke nearly killed him, then to university whilst working part-time security at a warehouse, then straight into policing. Never got the carefree youth bit. Sometimes I wondered what that would've been like. Most of the time I figured I hadn't missed much.

"You and Karl," I said eventually, testing waters I knew were treacherous, "you make a good team. Professionally, I mean."

"We work well together," she acknowledged carefully, neutral territory.

"Better than well," I continued. "You see things he misses. He provides structure you sometimes skip. Complementary skills. Makes for effective investigation."

It was accurate. I'd watched them work cases over the years, had seen how they functioned when they were in sync. Lahey's intuitive leaps balanced by Karl's methodical procedure. Her willingness to push boundaries complemented by his careful adherence to rules. When they worked properly as partners—when personal complications didn't gum up the machinery—they were genuinely effective.

Better partnership than I'd ever had, honestly. I'd cycled through various partners over the years, never quite finding that rhythm. Most of them found me... difficult. Fair assessment, probably. I wasn't easy to work with. Too set in my ways, too resistant to feedback, too willing to cut corners when I thought the corners didn't matter.

Meant I worked solo more often than not these days. Suited me fine, mostly. Except when it didn't.

"Though lately..." I trailed off deliberately, leaving space for her to fill.

She didn't. Just kept staring out the window.

Fair enough. I wouldn't have filled that silence either if our positions were reversed.

"Lately you both seem off," I finished when the silence stretched too long. "Out of sync. Like partners who aren't quite partnering anymore."

The observation was accurate—I'd seen enough to recognise dysfunction where partnership should be. Something had shifted between them recently, some crack in the foundation that was widening into a proper fault line. Jenkins' distance. Lahey's barely-concealed hurt. The careful way they avoided certain topics, maintained professional boundaries that felt performative rather than natural.

"We're fine," Lahey said, and the lie was so transparent I almost laughed.

I snorted instead—a sound that conveyed exactly how unconvincing I found the assertion. But I didn't press. She'd given me the brush-off, fair enough. I wasn't her mate or her therapist. Just the bloke giving her a lift because her partner had asked me to.

The petrol light had been on since this morning. I'd been meaning to fill up all day, kept putting it off. Now seemed as good a time as any—kill two birds with one stone, get petrol and maybe grab something to eat whilst I was at it.

I took a sudden turn—pulled into the servo instead of continuing straight toward the station.

"Need petrol," I explained, cutting the engine. Then, almost as an afterthought because I'd noticed she looked half-starved: "Want anything? Coffee? Food? Reckon you look like you could use both."

The offer was practical rather than manipulative. No subtext, no angle. Just recognising someone running on empty and suggesting they refuel. Simple as that.

Plus I genuinely needed coffee myself. Hadn't had one since the morning brew that was now a distant memory. The servo coffee wouldn't be great—never was—but it'd be hot and caffeinated, which was the baseline requirement.

Her stomach growled audibly—perfect timing, really.

"Coffee would be good," she admitted. "Thanks."

I nodded and climbed out of the car, my knee protesting the movement with that familiar click-and-ache that meant weather was changing. Rain coming, probably. Could feel it in the joint like a barometer.

The servo was one of those modern ones, all bright lights and pre-packaged food that claimed to be fresh. The coffee machine looked reasonably clean, at least. I'd seen worse.

Grabbed two large coffees—flat white for her because I'd noticed that's what she drank at the station, long black for me because that's what I'd been drinking since before coffee became fashionable and I wasn't about to start getting fancy now. Added a cheese and bacon roll from the hot food cabinet because it looked halfway decent. Grabbed a sausage roll for myself whilst I was at it.

The total came to more than I'd planned to spend, but whatever. Small price to pay for basic human decency. And I'd been planning to spend money on food anyway, so might as well make it count.

The kid behind the counter couldn't have been more than eighteen, looked half-asleep despite it only being mid-afternoon.

"Busy day?" I asked whilst he processed the payment.

"Yeah nah," he replied with impressive eloquence. "Pretty quiet."

Riveting conversation, that. I took the coffee and food, headed back to the car.

When I returned, Lahey looked surprised by the paper bag. Good. Let her be surprised. Let her see that occasionally I did things without expecting immediate return on investment.

"Cheese and bacon roll," I said, handing her the coffee and bag. "You look like you need actual food, not just caffeine."

"I'm alright—" she started to protest, and I interrupted because I'd heard this song before from coppers who thought admitting hunger was somehow admitting weakness.

"Sarah," I said, using her first name deliberately—without mockery, without innuendo, just straightforward address. "Eat the bloody roll. You're running on empty, you've got injuries that need fuel to heal, and you're about to walk back into whatever shitstorm is waiting at the station. Take the win."

She looked at me for a moment—properly looked, like she was reassessing something fundamental about who she thought I was. Then she pulled the roll from the bag and took a bite. I saw the moment the food hit her system, saw that subtle relaxation that came when your body got what it desperately needed.

"Thanks," she said around the mouthful, and the gratitude sounded genuine rather than obligatory.

I started the car, sipping my own coffee whilst navigating back onto the road. The long black was decent enough—servo coffee had improved over the years, or maybe my standards had dropped. Either way, it was hot and strong and doing the job.

The sausage roll could wait until I got to the station. Not safe eating and driving, whatever that dickhead in the ute thought. Besides, the pastry would shed everywhere and I'd already committed to not cleaning the car this week.

"Yeah, well. Can't have you collapsing on shift. Paperwork would be murder."

The deflection was pure instinct—I'd said something genuine, shown actual concern, and now needed to retreat behind humour before it got uncomfortable. This was how I functioned. How I protected myself from the vulnerability that came with actually caring about people. Easier to be the crude dickhead everyone expected than risk connection and potential rejection.

But I thought maybe Lahey understood it better now. Saw beneath the deflection to recognise what lay underneath. And if she didn't, well, at least she was eating.

We drove the remaining blocks to the station in what felt like companionable silence—her eating her roll and drinking coffee, me handling the car with the easy familiarity of someone who'd driven these streets for nearly two decades.

The radio was off. Usually was. I'd never been one for music whilst driving. Needed the quiet to think, to process, to let the day settle into coherent narrative. Helen liked to fill silence with NPR or classical stations. I preferred the hum of the engine, the rhythm of traffic, the mechanical meditation of driving without distraction.

Traffic was light for this time of day. Made the commute almost pleasant, relatively speaking.

As we pulled into the station car park, I felt that familiar discomfort rising—the sense that I should say something, address the elephant that had been sitting between us since the locker room incident.

Christ, I hated this kind of thing. Apologies and emotional honesty made my skin crawl. Give me a violent offender or a hostile witness any day over having to examine my own behaviour and admit fault.

But Claiborne's dressing-down had been clear. I'd crossed lines. Made Lahey uncomfortable. Been the departmental problem everyone tolerated but nobody actually liked. And whilst part of me wanted to dismiss it as oversensitivity, as modern PC bollocks, another part—the part that sounded uncomfortably like Helen when she was disappointed rather than angry—knew I'd genuinely fucked up.

I cleared my throat deliberately—a sound that meant I was about to say something difficult.

"Look," I began, then paused, wrestling with phrasing that didn't come naturally. "I know I'm... not everyone's favourite person around here. I know I've..." Another pause, longer this time. "I've crossed lines. Said shit I shouldn't. Done things that were... inappropriate."

The admission hung in the air between us, more honest than anything I'd said to Lahey before. Maybe more honest than I'd been with anyone lately except Helen, who had a way of cutting through my bullshit when necessary.

I didn't look at her. Kept my eyes fixed through the windscreen at the station's back entrance, at the familiar brick and concrete that had been my workplace for eighteen years.

Eighteen years. Christ. Sometimes felt like yesterday I'd walked through those doors as a probationary constable, nervous and eager and convinced I was going to change the world. Other times felt like a lifetime, like I'd always been here, would always be here, until they carried me out horizontal.

"But I'm not blind," I continued, forcing the words out because I'd started this and needed to finish it. "I see when people are struggling. When something's off. And whatever's happening with you and Karl—that's your business. I'm not going to... I'm not going to make it harder than it already is."

"I appreciate that," she said quietly, and I heard genuine meaning beneath the words.

I nodded, killing the engine but not immediately moving to exit. Sat for a moment with my hands still on the steering wheel, feeling the residual heat from the engine vibrating through the chassis.

My hands were getting older. Hadn't noticed it happening, but looking at them now—proper looking, not just glancing—I could see the age. Veins more prominent, skin looser, the beginning of that papery quality that old blokes' hands had. Dad's hands had looked like this in his fifties. I was only forty. Too young to see my father in my own hands.

"My dad used to say that the ocean doesn't care about your problems," I said suddenly, the words coming without conscious decision. "It's just there. Does what it does. You either learn to navigate it or you drown. People are a bit like that too, I reckon. Some of us are rougher waters than others. But we're all just trying to stay afloat."

The maritime metaphor came naturally—Dad's fishing heritage bleeding through into how I understood the world. The sea had been his classroom, his workplace, his church. He'd taught me to read weather patterns and understand tides, to respect forces larger than yourself whilst still finding ways to work with them rather than against them.

People were like that too. Some smooth and predictable. Some turbulent and dangerous. All of us just trying to navigate without capsizing.

I'd been dreaming about the Alida Rose lately. Odd, that—hadn't thought about that boat properly in years, but the past few weeks I'd had recurring dreams where I was aboard her, younger version of myself helping Dad haul pots in weather that shouldn't have been safe to work in. Dreams where the boat felt more real than my actual memories, where I could smell the diesel and salt spray, feel the deck rolling beneath my feet.

Helen said dreams like that meant you were processing something. Working through unresolved stuff. I'd told her it probably just meant I'd had too much cheese before bed.

"Your dad sounds like he was a wise man," Lahey offered.

I snorted. "He was a stubborn bastard who nearly killed himself by ignoring warning signs. But yeah, sometimes he got things right."

We sat there for another moment—two colleagues who'd never quite been friends.

"You should take tomorrow off," I said finally, practical advice that I knew she wouldn't take. "Properly off. Not working from home, not checking emails, not thinking about cases. Your brain needs recovery time."

"Can't," she replied automatically. "Too much happening with Luke Smith investigation."

"Sarah," I said. "You're no good to anyone if you burn out completely. And you're heading that direction. I've seen it enough times to recognise the signs."

I had. Seen coppers push themselves past breaking point, seen the consequences when they finally cracked. It wasn't pretty. And whilst Lahey and I weren't mates, I respected her competence enough to not want to see her destroy herself through stubbornness.

Also didn't want to deal with the paperwork if she collapsed on shift. That'd be a nightmare—incident reports, OH&S reviews, probably an investigation into why nobody had noticed she was struggling. Claiborne would have my arse for not flagging concerns earlier.

Practical self-interest combined with genuine concern. Both could be true simultaneously.

"I'll think about it," she said, which was copper-speak for 'I'm not going to do that but I appreciate the concern.'

I nodded. It was the best I was going to get. I grabbed the door handle, then paused because there was one more thing that needed saying.

"For what it's worth," I said, not looking at her because eye contact made this kind of thing even more uncomfortable, "Karl's an idiot if he doesn't realise what he's got in you as a partner. Professional capacity, I mean," I added quickly, that familiar discomfort with genuine sentiment making me retreat into clarification.

But I meant it. Whatever personal complications existed between them, Lahey was a good copper. Sharp, dedicated, willing to push when pushing was needed. Karl was lucky to have her as a partner, and if he couldn't see that through whatever fog was currently clouding his judgement, that was his failure.

"Thanks, Glen," she said, and this time the gratitude was completely genuine—not polite social performance but real appreciation.

I nodded once, sharp and decisive, then climbed out of the car with my characteristic lack of grace. My knee clicked again—definitely rain coming. Needed to remember to take the umbrella tomorrow. Always forgot the bloody thing, ended up soaked half the time.

Back to being the Glen everyone expected—loud, taking up space, moving through the world like I owned it even when I didn't.

I heard her gather her things and follow. As we approached the back door, I held it open—automatic courtesy, ingrained habit from decades of being raised by a mother who'd taught me basic manners even if I didn't always employ them.

"After you," I said, and there was no subtext, no leer, no moment of uncomfortable proximity. Just a colleague holding a door for another colleague.

She walked through, and I followed, letting the door swing shut behind us. My mind was already shifting to whatever awaited inside—case files, witness statements, the comfortable routine of work that made sense in ways people increasingly didn't.

The station smelled like it always did—stale coffee, cleaning products that didn't quite mask institutional mustiness, the particular odour of too many people in too small a space. Comforting in its familiarity. Home away from home, for better or worse.

I started to move ahead. Got maybe halfway down the corridor before I realised Lahey had stopped, was standing there near the door like she had something more to say.

For half a second I considered waiting, turning back, seeing what else needed addressing between us.

Then I decided against it. We'd had our moment—whatever bonding time the universe had allocated for Glen Crosswell and Sarah Lahey in one afternoon, we'd used it up. She'd gotten her lift, her coffee, her food, and my awkward half-arsed apology for being the department's resident problem. I'd done my good deed for the day, ticked the box Karl had asked me to tick by collecting her.

We were square. Time to get back to being who we actually were rather than whatever temporary truce we'd managed in the car.

I kept walking. Needed to reheat that sausage roll that had gone completely cold.

Behind me, I heard Lahey's footsteps eventually resume, heading in the opposite direction. Back out the way we'd come.

Not my problem, I warned myself before I could stop myself in my tracks and turn around. Not my business.

I'd done what Karl had asked. The rest was up to them.

Small victories in a job full of losses. I'd take them where I could get them.