The House That Wouldn’t Let Go

"You can only ignore a fire for so long before it stops being smoke and starts being ash in your lungs."

Parked in the small dirt turning circle on the opposite side of Berriedale Road, my car tucked against the edge of wilderness that pressed in from behind, I had a slanted view across the tarmac to Luke's property. The house sat on the rising slope, its back facing me as the land climbed toward Wallcrest Road on the other side. Through the gathering dusk, I could see portions of the property—enough to catch movement, to glimpse what was happening, but the angle and the terrain meant I couldn't witness everything.

The silence in my car felt oppressive, heavy with the weight of decision and indecision. I'd driven here on autopilot, compelled by forces I couldn't articulate, but now that I'd arrived, I found myself frozen. What was I doing here? What did I think I'd accomplish? My hand hovered near the door handle, trembling, unable to commit to the action of opening it, of stepping out, of crossing that final threshold from observer to participant.

I'd disobeyed a direct order. Claiborne had told me to go home, and I'd driven in the opposite direction, compelled by something I couldn't name—call it instinct, call it obsession, call it the self-destructive impulse of someone who'd already lost everything and couldn't stop the descent. The rationalisation had been easy: I just need to see. Just need to know. Just need to check if Karl's here.

But the truth was darker, messier. I needed to be here because not being here felt like abandonment, like the final betrayal, like admitting that Karl was beyond saving and that I'd played a role in his destruction.

The realisation hit me with the force of a tidal wave, sudden and devastating and impossible to resist: My blood... eventually they're going to find my blood at the scene!

The thought crashed over me, drowning rational thought in a surge of panic so powerful it made my vision blur and my chest constrict. At Luke's house—the house where Karl had snapped Cody's neck, where I'd been present, where I'd left evidence of my presence—there would be traces. DNA. Fingerprints. Blood from the cut on my hand that I'd got when... when what? The memory was fuzzy, distorted by stress and time and the mental gymnastics I'd performed to avoid thinking about that night.

A fresh surge of panic cascaded through my weary body, exacerbating the exhaustion that already clung to me like a heavy shroud, like wet wool wrapped around my bones, dragging me down, making every movement feel like swimming through concrete.

How had I not thought of this before? How had I been so fucking stupid? The adrenaline of the moment, the chaos of Karl's disappearance, the horror of Jeffries Manor—it had all distracted me from the basic reality that I'd contaminated a crime scene with my presence, that physical evidence existed linking me to whatever Karl had done, that the net was tightening around me with every passing hour.

In a futile attempt to grasp some control over the spiralling situation—because control was an illusion I still desperately clung to, even as everything proved its impossibility—I dialled Karl's number for the fourth time since leaving Jeffries Manor. My fingers trembled as they pressed the screen, muscle memory performing the action whilst my conscious mind screamed that it was pointless, that he wouldn't answer, that he'd probably destroyed his phone or thrown it in the Derwent or was lying dead somewhere whilst I sat here trying to reach him.

Each ring heightened my anxiety, the sound drilling into my skull like a dentist's tool, each pause between rings stretching into eternity. And, as expected—as I'd known it would—it went straight to voicemail once again. His voice, recorded in happier times, sounded impossibly distant: "You've reached Karl Jenkins. Leave a message."

The frustration and helplessness I felt were overwhelming, drowning everything else in a tide of impotent rage that had nowhere to go, no outlet, no target except myself and the empty car and the phone that refused to connect me to the one person I needed to find.

"Where the fuck are you, Karl!?" I screamed into the phone after the beep, my voice a mixture of anger, fear, and desperation that bordered on hysteria. The words tore from my throat, raw and ragged, revealing depths of emotion I'd been suppressing all day, all week, all the time we'd been descending into this nightmare together.

My fists pounded against the steering wheel, the thuds echoing in the small confines of the car, each impact sending jolts of pain through my hands that I welcomed, craved, needed as proof that I still existed, that I was still real, that this wasn't some elaborate nightmare from which I'd eventually wake. Each strike was weaker than the last, my energy reserves nearly depleted, running on nothing but fear and adrenaline and the kind of desperate determination that comes when you've got nothing left to lose.

The steering wheel absorbed my violence mutely, its leather surface showing no mark of my assault, indifferent to my suffering the way the universe seemed indifferent, the way God—if such a thing existed—must be indifferent to the small tragedies of humans who'd chosen their own destruction.

I slumped back in my seat, feeling utterly defeated and alone in ways I'd never experienced before. Not after my parents died. Not after my grandfather’s passing. This was a different kind of alone—the isolation of someone who'd betrayed everything they claimed to stand for, who'd become unworthy of companionship or trust or redemption.

Staring blankly at Luke's house through the windscreen, I tried to formulate a plan, tried to think through what I should do next. Should I approach the house? Should I wait to see if Karl appeared? Should I call Claiborne and confess everything? Each option felt impossible, each choice leading to outcomes I couldn't bear to imagine.

The paralysis was both mental and physical. My body wouldn't move. My mind couldn't settle on a course of action. I sat frozen in the driver's seat, watching the house, waiting for something—anything—to break the stalemate, to force a decision, to make the choice for me.

The sudden movement jolted me from my overwhelmed stupor, dragging my attention from the spiral of catastrophic thoughts to the immediate reality outside the car. Two figures darted across the vacant corner block adjacent to Luke's house, their movements furtive, purposeful, wrong somehow—not the casual stride of neighbours investigating commotion, but the hurried gait of people who didn't want to be seen.

Reflexively, I leaned out of the car window, my body moving before my brain fully processed the decision, my eyes straining against the encroaching darkness of the evening. The transition from afternoon to evening had happened whilst I'd been consumed by panic, the world moving on whilst I'd been paralysed, and now the streetlights cast pools of illumination that left deep shadows between them, shadows perfect for concealment.

The figures were too distant, their identities shrouded in the growing shadows of twilight, rendering them unrecognisable from this angle. But something about their movements, their body language, the way they moved in relation to each other, tickled something in my memory, some recognition I couldn't quite access through the fog of exhaustion and fear.

In a desperate attempt to capture any clue that might unravel this ever-complicating mystery—because even now, even in my depleted state, the detective part of me still functioned, still observed, still gathered evidence even as the human part was falling apart—I grabbed my phone.

Leaning out the window, the cool evening air hitting my face like a slap, I quickly snapped a picture of the two women as they hastened across the road, making their way toward a car parked alongside the bushes.

Settling back into the driver's seat properly, I brought the phone closer to my face, my fingers working to zoom in on the image with increasing urgency. The digital enhancement gradually brought their features into focus, pixels resolving into recognisable faces, and a wave of disbelief washed over me as I processed what I was seeing.

"Mrs. Pafistis and Mrs. Triffett," I whispered to myself, my voice a mix of shock and confusion that barely disturbed the air. "What the fuck are they doing here?"

Jenny Triffett—the drama teacher I'd interviewed about her husband's alleged disappearance. And Sharon Pafistis—another name from our interviews, another thread in the web we'd been trying to untangle.

But why were they here? Why were they together? Why were they skulking around Luke's house? The questions multiplied faster than I could process them, each answer spawning three new mysteries, the case growing more complex instead of resolving, as if the truth was actively resisting discovery.

A distant sound cut through my spiralling thoughts—faint at first, barely registering through the fog of exhaustion and panic that had settled over me. Sirens. Multiple sirens, their wail carrying across the evening air from somewhere in the distance, approaching but not yet close enough to pinpoint direction.

My stomach clenched. They could be going anywhere. Hobart had crime like any city, had emergencies that demanded response. But the timing felt wrong, felt pointed, felt like the universe contracting around this single point in space and time.

I stared at the photo on my phone, trying to make sense of Jenny and Sharon's presence, trying to understand what their connection to Luke could be, why they'd been here, what they'd been doing. But the sirens were getting louder now, more distinct, and some instinct deeper than conscious thought was screaming at me that they were coming here, that I was sitting in a car across from an active scene, that I'd disobeyed direct orders to be present at something I should be nowhere near.

The sound grew, clarifying from general noise into specific direction. Multiple vehicles, approaching fast, their sirens cutting through the quiet suburban evening with increasing urgency. I glanced up from my phone, my heart rate accelerating to match the approaching chaos.

They were coming along Berriedale Road—the same road I was parked on—approaching from the roundabout where Marys Hope Road intersected. Blue and red lights became visible through the windscreen, still distant but closing fast, pulsing in that distinctive pattern that every civilian recognised as emergency response.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

They'd pass almost right by me. Would see me sitting here in this turning circle if anyone bothered to look, would recognise the unmarked police vehicle, would potentially stop to ask what Detective Lahey was doing here when she should be home, when she had no authorisation to be present, when her presence would raise questions I couldn't answer.

I slumped lower in my seat instinctively, irrationally, as if making myself smaller would somehow render me invisible. The lights grew brighter, casting the interior of my car in alternating washes of blue and red. I held my breath as the first vehicle screamed its approach, then a second, then a third, their sirens deafening at close range.

They were heading for the corner—for Wallcrest Road, for the front entrance of Luke's property. I watched as they reached the intersection, saw their brake lights flare as they turned, heard the sirens cut out one by one as they arrived at their destination just around the corner from where I sat.

I couldn't see the front of the property from here—the slope and the house itself blocked my view—but I could hear the slamming of car doors, could imagine the scene unfolding: officers emerging, establishing perimeter, approaching the house with the caution that response demanded.

Break-in. Was that what this was? Had someone called it in? Had Jenny and Sharon triggered something? Or was this response to some development I wasn't aware of, some new horror that had nothing to do with the two women I'd just photographed?

My hand hovered over the ignition, trembling. I should leave. Should start the engine and pull away before anyone came around to check the area, before anyone questioned why I was here. But I couldn't move. Couldn't turn the key. My body remained locked in place, caught between competing impulses that left me motionless and exposed.

The sudden intrusion shattered what little remained of my focus. The passenger door swung open with force that made me jump violently, my heart leaping into my throat, my hand instinctively moving toward my weapon.

Before I could react—before I could process who was opening my door, before I could demand identification or defend myself or do any of the things my training insisted I should do—a figure slid into the seat beside me with the casual confidence of someone who had every right to be there.

My heart thundered in my chest, pulse visible in my neck, in my wrists, in my temples. I spun to face the intruder, adrenaline flooding my exhausted system with enough force to make my vision sharpen despite the darkness.

"Gladys!" I exclaimed, my voice a mixture of shock and confusion.

Gladys Cramer sat in my passenger seat like an apparition, like something summoned by my thoughts rather than arrived through normal means. Where had she come from? How had she known I was here? The questions multiplied but found no voice, stuck in my throat behind the rising panic of police presence and Gladys's impossible timing.

She looked back at me, and what I saw on her face sent a chill through me. Her expression was a canvas of sorrow, marked by trails of tears that glistened in the dim light, catching the pulsing emergency lights from beyond the house and transforming them into liquid colour running down her cheeks.

In her trembling hand, she held out an open bottle of red wine—shiraz, from the look of it—an offering so bizarrely out of place that for a moment I couldn't process it. Who arrives at an active police scene with an open bottle of wine? Who slides into a detective's car holding alcohol like it was a ticket to entry?

"Sarah," she said, her voice cracking with emotion, breaking on my name like waves on rocks. "I need your help."

The words hung in the air between us, heavy with implications I didn't want to examine. The sirens had stopped now, but I could hear voices carrying from the front of the property—officers calling to each other, establishing positions, the organised chaos of police response playing out just beyond my line of sight.

"Gladys, what the fuck!?" I finally managed to articulate, my voice a blend of bewilderment and rising panic that failed to adequately convey the depth of my confusion. How was she here? Why was she here? And why now, at this exact moment, when police were swarming a property I wasn't supposed to be surveilling?

The emergency lights continued their relentless pulse beyond the house, painting everything in alternating blue and red, transforming the suburban evening into something surreal, something that felt less like reality and more like a nightmare I couldn't wake from.

Gladys's expression remained a mask of desolation, her grief so profound it seemed to fill the car's interior, pressing against the windows, making the air thick and hard to breathe. She took a long swig from the bottle, her throat working as she swallowed, her eyes closing as if seeking solace in the wine before she could muster the strength to speak.

Her actions felt detached, disconnected from the chaos unfolding around us, as if she existed in a different timeline, a different reality where normal rules no longer applied and sitting in a car drinking wine whilst police secured a scene was somehow reasonable behaviour.

The voices from the property grew louder, more distinct. I could make out words now—"Clear the perimeter," "Check the rear," "Possible suspect inside"—the standard protocols being executed with efficiency that would bring officers around the property any moment, that would expose my presence here, that would force explanations I couldn't provide.

Then—cutting through everything, shattering whatever fragile moment had formed between Gladys and me—a gunshot pierced the night.

The sound was unmistakable, visceral, the kind of noise that bypasses conscious thought and triggers primal responses. It came from inside the house, muffled by walls but close enough to feel, and it shattered everything.

"Karl!" The name erupted from me, a reflex born of fear and terror, torn from my chest before conscious thought could intervene.

"Luke!" Gladys cried out beside me, her voice laced with different fear, different dread, revealing the complicated web of relationships that bound us all in this nightmare.

"Karl!" I choked out again, my voice strangled by emotion that threatened to break me entirely.