Somewhere Past the Border

"They always talk about crossing the line like it’s a moment. But it’s not. It’s a drift. And one day, you look down and realise the ground’s gone."

Resting my back against the cool metal of the shed, I felt utterly spent—not just tired, not merely exhausted, but hollowed out, as if someone had reached inside me and scooped out everything essential, leaving only a shell that looked like Sarah Lahey but contained nothing recognisable as human anymore.

The corrugated iron was cold against my spine even through my shirt, leaching heat from my body in a way that felt appropriate, almost comforting in its punishment. The day's events had sapped every ounce of energy from me—physical, emotional, psychological—until I existed in a state of depletion so complete that I barely felt real anymore, barely felt present in my own skin.

Officers had begun scouring every inch of the Jeffries' property and the dense wilderness beyond, their voices calling Karl's name echoing through the bush like some kind of ritual invocation, as if saying his name enough times would make him materialise from the shadows. But to no avail. The bush had swallowed him—or he'd fled successfully—and despite the swift arrival of backup, they'd found nothing. Not a trace. Not a footprint. Not a shred of evidence that Karl Jenkins had ever been here at all.

I'd watched the search from various vantage points, unable to participate effectively, unable to do much beyond stand and observe and feel my sense of reality continuing to fragment. Officers had given me strange looks—concern mixed with something else, something that might have been suspicion or might have been pity. I couldn't tell anymore. Couldn't read the social cues that usually came so naturally. Everything felt distant, filtered, as if I were experiencing life from behind thick glass.

I hadn't been able to give coherent statements to the responding officers. My account of events had come out disjointed, confused, full of gaps I couldn't explain and details that didn't quite align. I'd seen the officers exchange glances, seen them making notes that I knew would be flagged for review, for deeper investigation into why Detective Lahey's story didn't quite hold together.

Because it didn't. Because I was lying by omission, concealing by selective memory, protecting Karl even now when protection was the last thing he deserved, when protection might make me complicit in something so dark that no amount of loyalty could justify it.

"Don't worry, Sarah. We'll find Karl," Sergeant Claiborne reassured me, his voice confident as he leaned against the shed beside me, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body, could smell the coffee he'd been drinking and the faint scent of his aftershave mixed with sweat and exertion.

His tone carried that particular quality of false certainty that experienced officers develop—the ability to project confidence they don't feel, to reassure witnesses and victims and traumatised colleagues with promises that might not be kept but which serve a purpose in the moment.

I wanted to believe him. God, I wanted to believe him so badly it hurt, wanted to accept his words as truth, as prophecy, as guarantee. But doubt and fatigue clouded my thoughts, made everything uncertain, made every statement feel like a question wearing the costume of an answer.

We'll find Karl. But what would we find when we found him? A man pushed too far by stress and trauma and the accumulated weight of too many cases? A murderer who'd crossed lines that couldn't be uncrossed? A victim of circumstances beyond his control? Or something else entirely, something I couldn't yet comprehend because I was too close to it, too involved, too compromised by my own feelings and my own guilt to see clearly?

And what would happen to me when we found him? When the full scope of what had happened came to light? When they started asking the hard questions about what I knew and when I knew it and why I stayed silent? I'd lose my badge—that was certain. Might face charges myself. Might discover that the woman I thought I was had never really existed, that Sarah Lahey the detective had always been a fiction, a performance, a lie I'd told myself to feel better about the compromises I was making.

The air had turned cooler, carrying with it the scent of eucalyptus and earth and something else I couldn't quite identify—decay, perhaps, or just the accumulated smell of too many bodies trampling through the property, stirring up dust and disturbing soil that should have been left undisturbed.

I'd been sitting here for... how long? Time had lost meaning somewhere around the first hour of the search. Minutes felt like hours. The present moment stretched and contracted according to no logic I could follow. I'd checked my watch several times but the numbers refused to organise themselves into information, remained simply marks on a dial that my brain couldn't process into understanding.

Claiborne's presence beside me was both comforting and oppressive. He represented everything I should have been—integrity, honour, dedication to truth regardless of personal cost. His history with Professional Standards, his reputation for doing things by the book even when it hurt, even when it cost him friendships and created isolation—it was everything I'd failed to embody.

And yet here he was, showing me kindness, offering reassurance, treating me like a colleague who'd had a bad day rather than what I actually was: a detective who'd enabled violence, who'd covered for crimes, who'd chosen love over law and was now paying the price in psychological currency.

Suddenly, a young officer approached us, his face alarmingly pale, his features washed out in the late afternoon light until he looked like a ghost, like something already dead delivering news from beyond.

"Sergeant!" he called out breathlessly, his voice carrying that edge of urgency that made my stomach clench with anticipatory dread even before I knew what he was going to say.

Claiborne turned toward the officer, his attention shifting away from me for a crucial moment. I caught fragments of their conversation—something about additional units being deployed, about securing the perimeter, about witness statements still being collected from Louise and dealing with the press who'd already begun to gather at the property gates.

"Sarah," Claiborne said, turning back to me, his tone firm yet gentle, carrying that particular blend of authority and compassion that good supervisors develop over decades of managing traumatised officers. "You're exhausted. Go home. I've got it from here."

Go home. The words should have been simple, straightforward, an order that made sense. But where was home anymore? The flat I shared with no one, filled with furniture I'd accumulated but never really chosen? The bed where Karl had lay beside me, where we'd fucked and fought and pretended we were normal people living normal lives? The kitchen where I'd made coffee at 3 AM whilst reading case files, trying to piece together truths that now felt like elaborate lies?

I didn't have a home. I had places I slept between cases, spaces I occupied between disasters, addresses that appeared on official documents but carried no resonance of safety or comfort or belonging.

His words penetrated the haze of my exhaustion nonetheless, cutting through the fog that had settled over my thoughts like morning mist on the Derwent. I realised then how worn out I truly was, both physically and emotionally—not just tired from today but from weeks of this case, from months of carrying secrets, from years of becoming someone I didn't recognise when I caught my reflection unexpectedly in windows or mirrors.

My body felt heavy, as if gravity had increased specifically for me, as if the earth was pulling harder on my mass than on everyone else's. Each movement required conscious effort, each breath had to be deliberately drawn. The simple act of standing upright seemed to require more energy than I possessed.

Nodding in silent agreement—because speaking felt impossible, because my voice had abandoned me somewhere between the shed and the car—I climbed into the vehicle. My limbs moved with the jerky, uncoordinated movements of a marionette operated by an inexperienced puppeteer, each action requiring conscious thought rather than flowing naturally from intention to execution.

Claiborne watched me settle into the driver's seat, his expression a mixture of concern and relief. He tapped the roof of the car twice—a gesture of dismissal, of trust, of believing I would do what I'd been told. Then he turned back toward the manor, already moving on to the next crisis, the next decision, the next problem that needed solving.

The car seat felt wrong beneath me, too firm or too soft or too something, the familiar space suddenly alien, as if I'd never sat here before, never driven this vehicle, never been the person who climbed behind this wheel hundreds of times to respond to calls and chase suspects and pretend she was doing good in the world.

As I started the engine, the weight of the day's events pressed down on me with renewed force, crushing me into the seat, making my chest tight and my breathing shallow. The dashboard lights glowed in the gathering darkness, their familiar green and amber illumination seeming to pulse with accusation, as if the car itself recognised what I was about to do, what I was about to become.

Through the windscreen, I could see Claiborne's back as he walked toward a cluster of officers near the manor's entrance. He wasn't watching me anymore. Wasn't monitoring my departure. Had already moved on, trusting that I would follow orders, that exhaustion would drive me home like a sensible person, like someone who still had boundaries, who still recognised limits.

But I wasn't that person anymore.

My hands shook on the steering wheel as I began to pull away, gravel crunching beneath the tyres. In the rear-view mirror, I watched Jeffries Manor recede, the building already being swallowed by shadows, the sandstone façade turning grey in the twilight, windows reflecting the last light of the dying sun.

I should go home, I thought, even as my hands turned the wheel in the wrong direction, even as I found myself heading not toward home but toward Berriedale, toward Luke's house, toward whatever was pulling me there with the inexorable force of gravity, of fate, of self-destruction.

The rationalisation came easily, the lies I told myself smooth and practiced: I just need to check on it. Just need to see if there's been any development. Just need to confirm Karl isn't there. It's on the way. It'll only take a minute.

But underneath the rationalisations, I knew the truth. I was going because I couldn't not go, because some part of me needed to be there, needed to witness whatever was unfolding, needed to be present for the next chapter in this nightmare even though I knew—knew—that being there would only make things worse.

The radio crackled occasionally with traffic from other units, snippets of communication that formed a running commentary on the city's ongoing chaos—domestic disturbances, traffic accidents, shoplifting reports, all the mundane tragedies and petty crimes that comprised normal police work, that seemed impossibly distant from the nightmare I'd been living.

The suburbs began to blur past my windows as I drove, streetlights flickering to life in the deepening gloom. I was heading toward Luke's house like a moth to flame, like something compelled by forces beyond conscious choice, like someone who'd already accepted that destruction was inevitable and was simply tired of prolonging the anticipation.

I'd disobeyed a direct order. Claiborne had told me to go home, and I was driving in the opposite direction, toward the one place I absolutely shouldn't be.

The evidence would be there. My blood. My fingerprints. The physical proof of my presence at a death scene I'd never reported, never documented, never acknowledged.

But more than that, Karl might be there.

I just need to see. Just need to know.

By the time I consciously acknowledged that I wasn't going home, wasn't following orders, I was already most of the way there.

The twilight deepened around me.

And I drove on toward Luke's house.

Toward whatever waited there.

Unable to stop.

Unable to turn back.