Solo Return in Sunlight

"The second time you climb through a window to contaminate a crime scene, you can't pretend it's panic — it's just commitment to your own destruction."

Sitting alone in the front seat of the patrol car, I reflected on my decision to leave Glen behind.

The lie to Claiborne had come easily — too easily, perhaps, another addition to the growing collection of deceptions that were accumulating like debt I'd never be able to repay.

Having had no intention whatsoever of actually taking Glen with me, I felt a familiar mix of guilt and determination settle in my chest. This was something I needed to do alone — to assess the scene before anyone else contaminated it further, to understand what evidence might exist that could implicate me, to figure out how badly I'd compromised myself during last night's catastrophic choices.

The guilt was sharp but manageable, pushed aside by more pressing concerns.

I drove towards Berriedale Road, the familiar streets of Hobart passing in a blur that I barely registered. My hands gripped the steering wheel with unnecessary force, knuckles white, the bandage on my right hand pulling uncomfortably against the fresh stitches of my wound beneath.

Everything looked normal — mundane morning traffic, people going about their ordinary lives, the city functioning exactly as it always did whilst my world had collapsed into chaos and criminality. The disconnect was dizzying, surreal, like existing in two realities simultaneously where one was banal normality and the other was nightmare dressed in daylight.

You're going back, the internal voice observed with something between horror and resignation. You're actually returning to the scene of multiple crimes you committed. This is either incredibly brave or spectacularly stupid, and you don't have enough distance yet to determine which.

The house appeared too quickly, materialising like something from a dream — or more accurately, a nightmare that refused to end upon waking. In daylight it looked ordinary, unremarkable, just another house on a street of houses.

Nothing about the exterior suggested what waited inside. No police tape cordoning off the scene. No forensic vans in the driveway. No indicators whatsoever that violence had occurred here, that a body was decomposing beneath the stairs, that this location represented the end of one person's life and the complete destruction of another's integrity.

I parked in the driveway, engine idling for a moment whilst I gathered whatever remained of my courage and professional composure. The house stared back with blank windows, revealing nothing, keeping its secrets behind walls and locked doors.

Last chance to call for backup, I told myself without conviction. Last chance to do this properly.

But "properly" had ceased being an option the moment I'd climbed through that broken window last night. "Properly" belonged to a version of myself who no longer existed, who'd been irrevocably transformed by choices that couldn't be undone.

I killed the engine and climbed out, boots hitting pavement with soft thuds. The morning air was cool against my face, carrying that particular quality of Tasmanian winter — crisp and clean and utterly indifferent to human drama.

My hand went automatically to check my service weapon, confirming its presence in the holster. The familiar weight was reassuring despite being completely inadequate to the threats I actually faced. No gun could protect me from consequences of my own actions, from evidence I'd left behind, from the inexorable grinding of justice that would eventually — inevitably — catch up to me.

Walking towards the house, I made my approach visible and deliberate, aware that neighbours might be watching, that appearing furtive or suspicious would only create problems. I was Detective Sarah Lahey, responding to a reported break-in, conducting official police business. Nothing unusual. Nothing to see here.

The performance felt hollow but necessary.

"Police," I called out authoritatively, approaching the front door with professional bearing that felt like a costume I was wearing, a character I was playing. My voice carried across the quiet street, announcing my presence for the benefit of anyone who might be listening — residents, potential witnesses, the universe itself bearing witness to my continued descent into criminality.

I knocked sharply on the front door several times.

No response came. No footsteps approaching from inside. No voice calling out acknowledgment or inquiry. Just silence, thick and oppressive, suggesting emptiness beyond the threshold.

"I'm responding to the report of a break-in," I announced louder, projecting my voice with the kind of authority that came from years of practice, from hundreds of similar announcements at hundreds of similar scenes.

The declaration was both truth and performance — I was genuinely responding to a reported break-in, even if my knowledge of what actually existed inside the house far exceeded what any anonymous caller could have reported. The irony wasn't lost on me, but I pushed it aside along with all the other uncomfortable truths I was accumulating.

I was already bending my agreement with the Sergeant by not bringing Glen, I acknowledged silently. But if there was anyone inside the house, they wouldn't know that. Wouldn't know I was alone, that I'd deliberately isolated myself from backup and witnesses, that I was operating well outside appropriate procedure.

And if the house was empty — as I strongly suspected — then my solitary presence would never need explanation.

I took a deep breath to steady my fraying nerves, the inhalation shaky despite my attempts at control. It seems that there is nobody home, again. The thought circled through my mind with a mixture of relief and fresh anxiety. So who called in the break-in?

That question had been plaguing me since Claiborne had delivered the information. An anonymous woman, he'd said. Which meant female voice, unwilling to provide identification, calling to report property crime but apparently nothing more serious.

Why report a break-in but not a murder? Who would have that information and choose to reveal only part of it?

The possibilities were limited and concerning. Someone who'd entered the house and seen evidence of forced entry but hadn't discovered the body. Someone who knew about the break-in because they'd witnessed it but didn't want to reveal their own presence or involvement. Someone with reasons for partial disclosure that I couldn't yet understand.

Or — the possibility that made my stomach clench with fresh dread — someone who knew exactly what was in that house and was playing games, creating circumstances that would force me back to the scene, testing to see how I'd react.

Paranoia, I told myself firmly. You're seeing conspiracy where there's probably just coincidence or civilian caution.

But the paranoia felt justified given how thoroughly my life had derailed from normal parameters, given how many impossible things had already happened, given that I was standing here planning to illegally enter a house containing evidence of my own crimes.

I was acutely aware of the need for caution as I moved around the side of the house towards the broken window. The memories of last night were still vivid, visceral, impossible to suppress despite my attempts to maintain professional distance.

The body in the cupboard. The blood on the carpet. The USB drive in my pocket. The phone that shouldn't be sitting in my own house.

Each reminder sent fresh waves of anxiety through my system, made my hands shake slightly, made breathing feel difficult despite the open air and unlimited oxygen.

As I approached the window, the scene looked very different in daylight. What had been menacing shadows and concealing darkness last night was now just ordinary exterior in full illumination. The broken glass caught sunlight, fragments glinting with almost beautiful brightness.

For a moment I just stood there, staring at the broken window, at the evidence of forced entry that I'd used twice now, at the threshold between outside and inside that represented so much more than a simple physical boundary.

Once you go through that window again, there's no pretending you're here in official capacity only, the internal voice warned. Once you enter, you're actively re-contaminating a crime scene you helped create. You're compounding your crimes with each step.

But what choice did I have? The anonymous call meant someone knew about the break-in, meant investigation was inevitable, meant that if I didn't control the narrative from the inside, someone else would discover evidence that could destroy me.

I need to assess what's there before anyone else arrives. Need to understand what I'm dealing with. Need to figure out if there's any way to protect myself — and Karl — from what's coming.

The rationalisation felt thin even to myself, but it was enough to propel me forward.

"I'm entering the house," I announced clearly, projecting my voice towards neighbouring properties, maintaining the fiction of proper procedure.

The declaration was more for the benefit of any eavesdropping, nosy neighbours than for anybody inside the house. Deep down I was certain the house was empty — that particular quality of silence that suggested no living presence, no occupation, just structure and contents waiting to be discovered.

But the performance had to be maintained, even whilst violating every other rule and regulation I'd ever been taught.

Regardless of my inner certainty, I instinctively drew my gun as I approached the window opening.

It was precaution ingrained through years of experience, an automatic response to entering potentially hostile space. The fact that the greatest threat in this house was evidence of my own crimes rather than armed suspects didn't change the reflex.

This time I managed to climb through the window with significantly more grace than my previous entries.

I landed softly on the other side — boots touching down on the interior carpet with barely a sound — and felt a faint flicker of satisfaction despite everything. Progress, I thought with dark humour. Small victories: not cutting myself on the same glass twice.

The satisfaction lasted approximately three seconds before being overwhelmed by the reality of where I was and why.

I shivered slightly — not just from the chill in the air but from the eerie silence that enveloped the house now that I was inside. The silence was different in daylight, somehow. Less oppressive but more expectant, as though the structure itself was waiting to see what I'd do, how I'd handle the return to the scene of my crimes.

With my gun poised and ready — theatrical gesture more than practical protection — I cautiously made my way into the hallway. Every sense was heightened, every sound amplified in the quiet of the space.

The familiarity of the layout did little to ease the tension that knotted my stomach. I'd been through these rooms before, had navigated this hallway in darkness, had memorised the geography through necessity and terror.

But seeing it in daylight was a different experience entirely. Details that had been obscured or invisible last night were now clearly visible.

I moved slowly, deliberately, through the upstairs floor. My eyes scanned each space, cataloguing details, looking for anything that had changed since last night, any evidence that someone else had been here, any indication that the situation was worse than I already knew it to be.

The master bedroom where I'd encountered the possum: unchanged, though mercifully the small marsupial was nowhere to be seen.

I remained alert, prepared for any surprises, any hidden threats that might reveal themselves — though I knew with grim certainty that the real threat was already contained in that cupboard downstairs, waiting to be discovered, waiting to destroy everything.

You need to go down there, I told myself, though every instinct screamed to flee, to run, to be anywhere except heading towards that ground floor where I'd made choices I could never take back.

But running wasn't an option. Not anymore. I'd committed to this course when I was called into Claiborne's office, when I'd driven here alone, when I'd climbed through that window for the third time.

All I could do now was see it through and hope — desperately, frantically — that I could somehow navigate this impossible situation without destroying myself completely in the process.