The Distance Between Warnings

“Some warnings don’t sound like alarms. They sound like someone using your first name.”

The cold bite of the corridor air hit me like a slap, waking my senses as I moved with purpose through the station. The weight of responsibility clung to me—urgent, inescapable. Louise’s words echoed on a relentless loop in my mind: “I believe that Luke may have done harm to both of them.” There was no room for delay. I needed Karl, and I needed him now.

Her certainty haunted me. This wasn’t speculation. This was conviction. And she wanted Karl. Specifically Karl. That detail stuck like a thorn under the skin.

I moved quickly, dodging around staff and clutter as the station buzzed with its usual morning rhythm—phones ringing, reports shuffling, half-muttered conversations rising and falling in pockets of busyness. It felt wrong. Too normal. Like the building hadn’t yet realised that something was beginning to shift beneath its foundations.

He was almost certainly still at home, shaking off the haze of last night’s drinks, his blinds drawn tight against the light, his phone probably buried under yesterday’s clothes. The Karl I knew could be brilliant, but unpredictable—especially the morning after a ‘few drinks with the boys’.

I yanked my mobile from my pocket, the device momentarily slick in my grip, as though mirroring my growing agitation. My thumb hovered for a beat, then pressed his name in my favourites list. The line connected, and the ringing began. One tone. Then another. And another.

"Come on. Pick up, you bastard," I muttered through clenched teeth, my voice barely more than a growl. The longer it rang, the more my composure frayed, each unanswered tone like a countdown ticking toward something irreversible.

Finally—

"Yeah?"

His voice arrived in a lazy slur, rough with sleep—or maybe hangover. Either way, it was unmistakably Karl. My jaw clenched.

"Where the hell are you, Karl?" I whispered, but the whisper was loaded—every syllable laced with frustration and panic. My nerves were on edge. My partner—my damn partner—was asleep while this case was already on the boil.

"I'm still at home. The alarm didn't go off," he replied, voice dull and unconvincing. A weak lie, thrown out more out of habit than effort. I could almost hear him rubbing a hand over his face, eyes still half-shut.

"Bullshit," I snapped. "I know you went out with the boys last night." No time for games. No space for sugar-coating. There were lives at stake—two of them, if Louise was to be believed. And Karl was lounging in his flat like it was a Sunday morning.

There was a long, heavy sigh at the other end of the line—a sound I knew all too well. A reluctant admission wrapped in fatigue.

"What is it, Sarah?" he asked, and I could hear the shift in his tone. He’d picked up on the urgency now. Even Karl, in his half-conscious state, knew when something was different.

"You need to get your ass down to the station right now," I said, voice hard, no room for discussion. The urgency buzzed just beneath my skin, electric and raw. Whatever this was, it wasn’t routine. It wasn’t paperwork. This was the moment—the kind of case careers are built on or destroyed by.

"Can't it wait until later?" he groaned. I could hear him dragging himself upright, the creak of his bed or couch beneath him. Still resisting. Still not fully present.

"No, Karl, it can’t. This could be your big case." I hit him where it counted—his ambition. The thing that kept him hungry even on his worst days.

Silence. A beat. Then another. The pause stretched just long enough to make my stomach twist.

"Fine. I'll be there in half an hour," he said finally, his voice stiff with reluctant resolve. Then the line went dead.

I stared at the phone a second longer than necessary, its blank screen reflecting my strained expression. The silence after the call felt louder than the ringing had been—a hollow, pulsing quiet that mirrored the pressure building in my chest. Thirty minutes. Too long. But better than nothing.

"Crap," I muttered under my breath, jamming the phone into my coat pocket with more force than needed.

As I turned, I nearly collided with Sergeant Claiborne. He stood directly behind me, silent and unannounced. His presence was like stepping into a shadow—unexpected and faintly unsettling.

“Sarah, be careful,” he said quietly. His voice was low, firm, but laced with something unfamiliar: concern. The words lingered in the corridor air, vague and loaded, a sentence with no clear subject. My instinct bristled.

I turned fully to face him, eyes narrowing slightly as my mind tried to unpick his meaning. Be careful. Of what? Of who? Was it a comment on my handling of the interview? A warning about Louise? Or something else entirely?

Before I could ask, Claiborne continued, his tone shifting into something more clipped, more procedural. "Pay very close attention to what they both say and do," he instructed, voice tightening with intent. His gaze locked onto mine, hard and unwavering. "I want to read and approve your notes before you do the official filing."

"Of course, Sergeant," I replied, trying to match his tone with professionalism, though a trace of apprehension crept into my voice despite my best efforts. "I'll have my notes on your desk within an hour after we finish up the interview."

It was a promise made too quickly, and I knew it. Even as I spoke, my mind raced ahead to Karl—late, hungover, barely coherent on the phone. I hadn’t even told him about the interview yet. The words I’d just offered Claiborne felt like currency spent without checking my balance. A knot of unease tightened in my gut.

"Thank you," Claiborne said simply. His voice softened, almost sincerely, but the echo of authority never quite left his posture. He turned and began walking away, his steps deliberate, calculated. I watched him go, the tension in my shoulders refusing to ease.

Had I overpromised? Had I just inadvertently undercut my partner? The thought nagged at me, sharp as a splinter under the skin. Karl might not say it outright, but he’d feel it. And I couldn’t help but wonder—was Claiborne testing me?

“Detective Lahey," Claiborne called back, just as he reached the end of the corridor.

"Yes, Sergeant?" I replied, masking the flicker of tension that pulsed through me again.

"I've known the Jeffries for a long time. This case is of particular interest to me. That's all."

His words were simple, but their weight lingered. That's all—as if to suggest that should be the end of my curiosity. But it wasn’t. Not even close. His phrasing, his familiarity with the family, the unspoken history—it all painted a picture half-drawn, its missing details forming the shape of something much larger than he was letting on.

With a dismissive wave of his hand, he turned again and continued towards his office, the conversation over on his terms.

I exhaled slowly, closed my eyes for a moment and inhaled deeply, trying to steady myself. It isn't really that big of a deal, I told myself, mentally filing away the interaction. Pre-reading case notes wasn’t unprecedented, especially on cases with sensitive connections. If anything, it made sense. He’d read them after filing regardless—it was just a matter of timing. And control.