The Company We Keep

“Every secret starts out looking ordinary. It’s the silence around it that gives it shape.”

The front door gave its familiar creak as I pushed through, the sound barely registering over the cacophony still rattling around in my skull. Voices, theories, glances loaded with meaning I couldn't quite parse—all of it spinning like debris in the aftermath of a storm I hadn't seen coming.

But the moment I crossed the threshold, stepping from the external chaos of the world into my small sanctuary, something shifted. Not peace, exactly. More like the dulling of sharp edges. The flattening of adrenaline into something heavier, more manageable. Exhaustion dressed up as calm.

I moved through the lounge on autopilot, muscle memory guiding me towards the kitchen—that strange little heart of my house where chaos and order cohabited in passive-aggressive truce. My keys landed on the bench with their familiar clatter, bouncing amongst the detritus of my week: case notes curling at the edges, a crusted cereal bowl I'd promised myself I'd wash days ago, and the mail I kept pretending not to see.

The sound was ordinary. Safe.

I paused, letting my gaze sweep over the kitchen with a mixture of resignation and mild disgust. Dirty dishes loomed like tiny monuments to every meal I hadn't had time to finish properly, lined up in disorderly ranks along the counters—relics of exhaustion, evidence of a life lived in the margins between cases and sleep.

I considered them for a moment, weighing the effort required to restore order against my rapidly depleting reserves of willpower.

Not tonight.

Instead, I reached for a glass from the cupboard above the sink, the movement automatic, ritualistic. The sound of water splashing from the tap into the vessel was oddly soothing—mundane, measured, unlike the chaos still churning through my thoughts. I drank slowly, letting the coolness anchor me, watching the level drop with each swallow.

Cradling the half-empty glass with both hands as though it might still spill, I stepped into the dining room. The scene there hadn't changed either. The pile of unironed clothes slouched across the table like abandoned corpses, wrinkled and defeated. I pushed them aside with the back of my hand, fabric rustling like dry leaves in autumn, and cleared just enough space for my water glass. A small island of order in an untidy sea.

I stood still for a moment, letting my gaze rest on the surface of the water, watching it settle into perfect stillness. My breath had started to even out, and with it, the weight of the day pressed down—full and heavy and undeniable.

And then I remembered it.

My hand moved to the inside of my coat like a thief checking on stolen treasure, fingers seeking the roughly folded scrap of paper I'd filched from Sergeant Claiborne's desk like a rookie spy with too much caffeine and not enough sense.

The moment my fingertips brushed its creased edges, a flutter of nerves rippled through my stomach. Ridiculous, really, how such a small, crumpled object could command such power over me. I could almost swear it had been whispering to me the entire walk home—luring me, daring me, baiting me with its secrets.

What could possibly be scrawled on this torn-up scrap that warranted such secrecy? A name? A location? A confession? Coordinates to a shallow grave in the bush somewhere?

My heart ticked louder in my ears.

I pulled the note free and stared at it.

Still folded. Still harmless.

And yet, I hesitated.

With a carefulness that belied the storm churning behind my ribs, I unfolded the scrap, smoothing it flat on the dining table as though it might crack apart if handled too roughly. The paper was cheap, yellowed slightly with age or handling, soft along the creases—like something once discarded, now suddenly precious. My fingers lingered at the edges, hesitant, almost reverent.

A secret waiting to be unveiled.

I leaned in, scanning the content with narrowed eyes, my breath catching in anticipation.

Two words.

That was it.

Two bloody words.

I stared at them, willing them to bloom into meaning, to transform into something worthy of all this drama. But the words just sat there, inert and unapologetic, mocking my expectations.

Killerton Enterprises

Is that it?

The thought arrived unbidden, soaked in disappointment thick as syrup. My heart sank like a stone dropped into shallow water, the splash barely worth noticing. All the tension, the sneaking around, the moment of daring in Claiborne's office—Glen's sudden arrival, my fumbling cover-up, the fear that had sent my pulse racing—for this?

A scrap of ambiguity with all the drama of a footnote in someone else's thesis.

I sighed and let myself sag back in the chair, the wood creaking in sympathy. A short stack of case notes rested atop my closed laptop, and I nudged them aside with the edge of my hand, perhaps more forcefully than necessary. They slid to the floor in a disorderly pile, pages whispering against each other in a dry, papery sigh.

I ignored them. The mess was familiar. Comforting, even. This house had long since given up any pretence of order.

But this note? This felt other. Different. Wrong in a way I couldn't quite articulate.

Anticlimax aside, I couldn't let it go. Something about the way Claiborne had possessed it, the way Louise had looked at him during the interview when she thought no one was watching—it was too strange, too deliberate. Too loaded with something unspoken.

If this note was a red herring, it was one they'd gone out of their way to protect.

A little Google search wouldn't hurt. I could allow myself that much before heading to Jane's. She'd understand if I was a few minutes late. She always did.

The laptop whirred to life with its usual reluctance, its fan grinding softly like a pensioner clearing their throat after too many cigarettes. The familiar startup chime rang hollow in the quiet of the room, somehow emphasising the emptiness rather than filling it.

I drummed my fingers on the table as I waited, the tick of the wall clock on the far wall nudging me along like an impatient tap on the shoulder. Come on, come on.

Finally ready, the browser opened, cursor blinking expectantly in the search bar.

I inhaled, steadying myself. "Well, here goes," I muttered, my voice barely more than a whisper. I glanced again at the note, those two maddeningly vague words, and began typing—slowly, deliberately, as if the keyboard might somehow translate mystery into meaning.

K-I-L-L-E-R-T-O-N

E-N-T-E-R-P-R-I-S-E-S

I hesitated before hitting Enter, hovering just long enough for doubt to creep back in, for the rational part of my brain to ask what the hell I thought I was doing. Then I pressed it, committing myself to whatever came next.

The search unfolded.

The first page of results loaded, and I scanned through the usual suspects: Wikipedia, LinkedIn, news articles, corporate profiles. Nothing jumped out as particularly unusual or noteworthy. But one match stood out simply by virtue of being first—the official website.

Killerton Enterprises - Building Tomorrow's Infrastructure

I clicked the link, pulse quickening slightly despite my best efforts at cynicism, hope sparking in the dust of my disappointment like a match struck in the dark.

The screen shifted, and a sleek corporate homepage resolved into view. Professional. Polished. The kind of website that cost more to design than I made in six months.

At the top, rendered in bold, confident typography: KILLERTON ENTERPRISES. Capitalised like it mattered. Like the name alone carried weight.

Beneath it, a tagline: Excellence in Construction Since 1874.

I skimmed the page, brow furrowing with each line, taking in the carefully curated corporate image they presented to the world.

Based in San Francisco, California. A global leader in construction and civil engineering. Founded in 1874 by Francis Killerton—over a century and a half of operation, which was impressive in its own right. Currently helmed by Bill Killerton, no doubt some fourth or fifth-generation corporate heir who'd inherited his great-great-grandfather's empire along with the family jawline.

Their portfolio was extensive: state buildings, highway systems, bridges, commercial developments, residential projects. Everything from government infrastructure to luxury condominiums. They'd even branched into renewable energy and sustainable development, riding the wave of environmental consciousness that had swept through corporate boardrooms in recent years.

The "About Us" section waxed poetic about their commitment to innovation, sustainability, and excellence. Their leadership team boasted impressive credentials—MIT graduates, Stanford MBAs, industry veterans with decades of experience. They supported educational initiatives, funded scholarships, sponsored research in sustainable engineering practices.

On the surface, it all looked impeccably legitimate. Boring, even. Just another massive construction conglomerate with deep pockets and deeper roots in American industry.

And that was it.

Just a boring, beige company with a lot of concrete and history.

I blinked at the screen, feeling the disappointment settle more heavily now.

Had this—this—been the paper that had passed between Sergeant Claiborne and Louise Jeffries like it was dipped in blood? Like it contained state secrets or evidence of high treason?

A construction company?

A perfectly ordinary, entirely legitimate, utterly unremarkable construction company?

My lips curled into a dry, humourless smile. I leaned back in my chair, arms crossed, staring at the ceiling with its water stain that vaguely resembled Australia if you squinted hard enough. If this was what secrets looked like in real life, then every thriller novel I'd ever devoured should come with a full refund and an apology letter.

Still, my instincts wouldn't let it go entirely.

There had to be more. There had to be a reason Claiborne had kept this note, had treated it with such care, such secrecy. Had hidden it on his desk where it didn't belong.

What weren't they saying?

I clicked through to the company history page, scanning for anything unusual. Francis Killerton had founded the enterprise shortly after returning from travels in Europe and the Middle East—a common enough story for entrepreneurs of that era. The company had grown steadily through the generations, weathering the Great Depression, contributing to wartime infrastructure during both World Wars, expanding globally in the post-war boom.

Each successive Killerton had left their mark: George's innovative engineering techniques. Edward's early adoption of sustainable practices. Robert's international expansion. Thomas's modernisation efforts. James's embrace of digital transformation.

And now Bill, the latest custodian of the family legacy, pushing into smart infrastructure and renewable energy with the zealous enthusiasm of someone trying to prove they weren't just riding on their ancestors' achievements.

It all read like a corporate hagiography—sanitised, celebratory, carefully constructed to present the company in the best possible light. No scandals. No controversies. Not even the usual whispers of corner-cutting or safety violations that plagued most construction firms at some point in their history.

Too clean, perhaps? Or just genuinely clean?

I couldn't tell.

The laptop's glow illuminated my face in the evening light, and I realised I'd been staring at the screen for longer than I'd intended, clicking through page after page of corporate blandness, searching for something—anything—that would justify the secrecy, the careful passing of that note, the look in Louise's eyes.

But there was nothing. Just facts. Dry, boring, corporate facts.

My gaze flicked to the clock on the wall, and with a jolt of guilt, I realised I was late. It was my night to cook dinner at Jane's. I'd promised. No excuses this time, I'd said. She'd been patient with my increasingly erratic schedule, my cancelled plans, my distracted presence even when I was physically there.

She deserved better than another broken promise.

With a reluctant exhale, I closed the laptop. The soft click of it shutting felt like the end of something.

Possibly the beginning of something, too.

I folded the note carefully, tucking it back into my coat pocket rather than leaving it on the table where anyone who happened to visit might see it. Not that anyone ever visited, but still. Better safe than sorry.

The name echoed in my mind as I gathered my things: Killerton Enterprises.

Boring. Legitimate. Entirely unremarkable.

And yet.

And yet something about it didn't sit right. Like a tooth that aches just enough to notice but not enough to warrant immediate attention. An itch you can't quite reach.

I grabbed my keys, gave the disaster of my kitchen one last despairing glance, and headed back out into the evening.

As I locked the front door behind me, I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd just brushed against something significant without quite seeing it clearly. Like walking past a stranger on the street and only realising hours later that you knew them.

Killerton Enterprises.

Why did Sergeant Claiborne have that name on his desk?

Why had Louise Jeffries looked at him the way she had when discussing her missing brother and son?

What possible connection could a California construction company have to missing persons in Hobart, Tasmania?

The questions followed me to the car, settled into the passenger seat beside me like an uninvited companion, rode with me through the darkening streets towards Vaucluse and the normality I kept promising to prioritise but never quite managed to maintain.

Killerton Enterprises.

Two words that meant nothing.

And possibly everything.