The House That Waited Too Quietly

“Some houses don’t creak—they hold their breath. Waiting for someone to open the wrong door.”

"CITY632, approaching the Jeffries property now," Sarah relayed into the radio, her voice steady but laced with a barely restrained excitement that echoed the tension crackling inside me.

Every fibre of my body was alert, my senses sharpened by the weight of possibility hanging just beyond the next bend in the road. The adrenaline that had hit me back at the car park hadn't faded—if anything, it had intensified, coiling tighter in my chest with every kilometre we travelled north through Hobart's outskirts towards Granton.

"Copy that, CITY632. Proceed with extreme caution. Backup is on its way," came the dispatcher's reply, the low static underscoring the warning like a ghostly drumbeat.

The words settled over us with added gravity, a reminder that this wasn't just another routine disturbance. Backup. They were sending backup. That meant command took this seriously—took Luke Smith seriously. After too much time of chasing shadows and interviewing witnesses who saw nothing, heard nothing, knew nothing, we were finally closing in on something real.

The tyres gripped and skidded in short bursts as I manoeuvred the car up the rocky incline, the dirt road weaving through eucalyptus and dry brush like a reluctant path to truth. Each turn of the wheel tightened the coil in my chest. It wasn't fear—not exactly—but the kind of taut anticipation that comes from knowing everything could pivot in an instant.

Granton itself had disappeared behind us—the scattered houses, the handful of shops, the quiet riverside town that most Hobart residents barely noticed as they drove past on their way somewhere else. Out here, the landscape opened up into that peculiar Tasmanian blend of pastoral beauty and untamed wilderness. Paddocks gave way to native bush, and the Derwent River glittered in the distance, winding its way towards the sea.

Despite the endless hours of training, despite years of case files filled with the worst of what people are capable of, I was still human. And being human meant feeling the tremors of the unknown, especially when the stakes kept climbing.

I had already crossed lines chasing Luke Smith—bent rules, broken others—and now, every step felt like a chance to make things right. Or at the very least, not make them worse. The face beneath the stairs at Luke’s house. The crack of bone. The weight going limp. I shoved the memory down, locked it away in that mental compartment where all the things I couldn't afford to think about went to die.

Not now. Not when we were this close.

As we cleared the final curve, Jeffries Manor emerged from the treeline, and I felt my breath catch despite myself.

The sandstone façade stood proud and immaculately kept, its new extensions tastefully blending into the historical core of the house. You could see where old money met new ambition—the original colonial structure with its Georgian symmetry, augmented by modern wings that suggested wealth without flaunting it. A wide balcony framed the second storey, wrought iron railings catching the afternoon light. Manicured hedges traced the driveway like silent sentinels, their geometric precision a stark contrast to the wild bush we'd just driven through.

The place was calm. Too calm.

We pulled up beneath the wide arms of a towering gum tree, the dappled sunlight flickering across the windscreen like restless spirits. I killed the engine, and the sudden silence was almost oppressive. The contrast between the idyllic elegance of the property and the tension vibrating through the air was disorienting. Beneath the surface charm, something felt off—like a stage set waiting for the actors to step into their tragic roles.

Sarah was already reaching for her door handle, her every movement efficient, methodical. She stepped out and scanned the area with the practiced eye of someone who'd walked into enough volatile situations to know that appearances meant nothing. Her hand drifted automatically to her hip, hovering near her service weapon.

"No gun. Not yet," I said firmly, stepping out to join her, my boots crunching on the gravel drive.

She glanced at me, a flicker of surprise in her eyes—or perhaps it was concern. We both knew Luke Smith was potentially dangerous. We both knew people had vanished. But I also knew Louise, knew this property, knew that going in hot could escalate a situation that might still be containable.

Sarah didn't argue. Just nodded once and let her hand drop to her side.

I appreciated that about her—her ability to switch gears, to read the nuance in a moment without question. It was one of the things that made us work well together, both professionally and... otherwise. She trusted my judgment, even when it might not align with textbook procedure.

The decision to go in unarmed wasn't just about optics—it was a tactical call. A show of restraint could mean the difference between de-escalation and bloodshed. We weren't storming a barricade; we were investigating a report. A disturbance call. A woman who claimed Luke Smith was on her property. For all we knew, Louise had simply panicked, seen someone she recognised, and made assumptions.

Though my gut told me otherwise.

And after everything we'd seen, we needed this to be clean—for the case, for the department, for ourselves. Too many questions already. Too many bodies. Too many disappearances that didn't add up. If we could bring Luke in quietly, get him to talk, maybe some of this would finally start making sense.

As we approached the front entrance, a gentle breeze rustled the nearby trees, the sound oddly reminiscent of whispered voices. The late afternoon light slanted through the leaves, casting moving shadows across the sandstone walls. I could smell eucalyptus and something floral—perhaps from the gardens that wrapped around the property's eastern side.

I glanced back at the driveway, the car sitting silent and waiting like a witness.

Whatever lay behind that door, I intended to face it on my own terms—calm, clear, and by the book.

For once.

I raised a hand to Sarah, a silent signal honed through a thousand moments like this. No need for words. She moved into step behind me without hesitation, our strides synchronised, measured, cautious. The gravel crunched softly beneath our boots, each step deliberate. The air was thick with tension, the kind that clung to your skin, that you could taste in the back of your throat like copper.

We approached the house with the poised wariness of predators who knew all too well they could become prey. My eyes swept the property—windows, doorways, sight lines. Training kicking in. Where would someone hide? Where would they run? The manor had multiple exits, I knew that from previous visits. The main entrance we were approaching, side doors leading to the gardens, the rear of the property that opened onto more bush.

Then, before we could even reach the front door, a voice sliced through the stillness—sharp, urgent, unmistakably distressed.

"He's in here!"

We spun in unison, instinct leading the movement. Muscle memory from countless calls, countless moments where everything could go wrong in a heartbeat. My hand moved automatically to my hip, fingers brushing the empty space where my weapon would normally sit. Right. We'd made a choice. Stick with it.

Our eyes landed on the figure of Louise Jeffries standing outside a shed I'd never paid much attention to before—a substantial outbuilding to the left of the main house, probably twenty metres from where we stood. The sun was behind her, casting her shadow long across the lawn, making her seem both larger and more fragile than she actually was.

She was clutching a large kitchen knife—her knuckles white against the handle, her arms shaking despite the weapon she brandished.

My gut dropped a fraction.

Louise. Louise Jeffries. Successful accountant, devoted mother, woman who'd organised charity fundraisers and sat on boards and navigated Hobart's social circles with grace. Standing on her own property, holding a bloody kitchen knife like she was prepared to use it.

Her posture was erratic, straining between the bravado of someone who believed she'd regained control, and the visible tremble of someone already far beyond their threshold of fear. Her face was flushed, hair dishevelled—so unlike the composed woman I'd known for years. She'd been crying, I could see that even from this distance. Mascara streaked down her cheeks, eyes wild with something that looked like equal parts terror and determination.

"Want to use those guns yet?" Sarah murmured beside me, the edge of dark humour in her voice barely masking her readiness.

Her hand had twitched unconsciously towards her holster, but she held position. She was sharp, always ready to respond—especially when the situation teetered on the verge of chaos. I could feel the tension radiating off her, the same coiled energy I felt in myself. Every instinct screaming that this could go bad. Fast.

I gave her a sideways glance—quick, wordless, appreciative—but didn't bite. There was no time for banter, even the kind that helped settle nerves. Even the kind that usually made these moments more bearable.

"We need to de-escalate this," I said lowly, careful to keep my tone level, controlled. "Keep your hands visible."

We approached the shed with slow, deliberate movements, making sure our intent was clear: we weren't a threat. Not to her. Not yet. Open palms, steady pace, non-threatening body language. Everything by the book.

"Louise Jeffries," I called, projecting calm authority whilst keeping my voice gentle. Not aggressive. Not demanding. Just... present. "It's time to hand the knife over."

She didn't immediately respond, only waved the blade in front of her in what she probably thought was a threatening arc. But it wasn't. It was desperation made physical. The knife wasn't steady in her grip—it wavered, the tip describing small circles in the air. Her eyes were wild with emotion, darting between Sarah and me and back to the shed door behind her, as if she expected Luke to burst out at any moment.

Her body was quivering from the effort of keeping herself together. I could see it in the tension of her shoulders, the way her legs seemed barely able to support her weight. This wasn't a woman in control. This was a woman who'd reached her breaking point and found reserves she didn't know she had.

"I've got the bastard trapped inside," she said, the words straining between triumph and panic. Her voice cracked on 'trapped,' nearly breaking into a sob before she caught herself. "He's in there."

Luke. She meant Luke. Had to be. My pulse spiked, that familiar surge of adrenaline sharpening everything. Time seemed to slow, details crystallising with hyper-clarity—the way Louise's chest rose and fell with rapid, shallow breaths, the bead of sweat trailing down her temple, the slight tremor in her knife hand.

I glanced at the shed door—it was closed but slightly ajar, a sliver of darkness visible through the gap. Old timber, green paint peeling in places. A simple barrel bolt lock on the outside, currently thrown but rendered useless by the door being open a crack. My pulse quickened, the familiar buzz of adrenaline awakening every nerve ending. If Luke was really in there...

This was it. Weeks of investigation, dead ends, nightmares, and now we were twenty metres from the man himself. Trapped in a shed by a terrified woman with a kitchen knife. It would be absurd if it weren't so bloody serious.

Sarah stepped forward with her trademark quiet confidence, not rushing, just being present. She had a gift for this—diffusing situations through sheer calm. Where I sometimes came across as too intense, too focused, Sarah had a way of making people feel heard. Safe, even.

It was enough. Louise hesitated, her eyes meeting Sarah's, and something in her posture shifted. The knife lowered slightly, the threatening arc becoming less certain.

Then slowly, reluctantly, she handed the knife over to Sarah, who took it with gentle hands and immediately slid it into her jacket pocket. Out of play. One less variable.

The instant the blade left her hand, it was as though the courage sustaining Louise disintegrated. Whatever adrenaline or fury had been holding her upright simply... evaporated. Her knees buckled slightly, and tears spilled down her cheeks—no longer the angry, determined tears of someone in crisis, but the broken, exhausted tears of someone who'd run out of fight.

"I can't find Brianne!" she sobbed, clutching at Sarah's arm with desperate fingers. Her whole body shook with the force of her crying. "She's gone."

Brianne. The name was unfamiliar. I frowned, running through my mental files. Kain's life, his associates, his routines. Nothing. "Brianne?" I repeated, keeping my voice gentle.

"Kain's fiancée," Louise choked out, the words tumbling over themselves in her rush to explain. "Luke came here to talk to her, and now she's gone too."

Kain's fiancée. Christ. Another piece I didn't have. Another person connected to this mess. Another potential victim—or witness, or God knows what.

I exhaled slowly through my nose, grounding myself, trying to process. Another missing person. Another connection to Luke. The noose around his name was tightening, and I had no idea yet if we were chasing a man—or a myth of our own making. Was Luke Smith actually dangerous? Or was he just the unlucky bastard at the centre of a storm he didn't create?

The nightmare flashed through my mind—Gladys disembowelled, organs falling, Luke's grin, that voice: Bye, Karl. My stomach clenched. No. That was just a dream. Stress. Exhaustion. The case eating away at my sleep, my sanity.

Wasn't it?