4338.209 · July 28, 2018 AD
The Keeper of Secrets
Glen Crosswell has been doing this job for thirty years. Long enough to know where the boundaries are. Long enough to recognise them without always respecting them. When Sarah storms into the men's changing room looking for Karl, Glen sees an opportunity. A chance to remind her that some territories have rules older than her detective's badge. But Sergeant Claiborne has been doing this job even longer. And Claiborne knows exactly what Glen thinks nobody sees.
Saturday morning at the station. Skeleton crew. Paperwork catching up. Glen Crosswell moves through corridors with the ease of three decades' familiarity, substantial frame requiring occasional sideways navigation past desks that seem to have migrated since the last reorganisation.
He mentions Karl's name in passing. Sarah overhears. Demands information with that particular urgency that means something's shifted. Glen drops a comment about her "late lover" with practised ease. Everyone knows about them. The pretence irritates him more than the affair.
Sarah doesn't take the bait. Just tells him Claiborne wants Karl immediately. Walks into the men's changing room without hesitation. No apology. Moving with confidence that says she's done this before.
Glen follows. Positions himself at his locker near the showers. This could be entertaining.
What starts as sport—a dropped towel, deliberate exposure, reclaiming men's territory—transforms into something else when Claiborne walks in. Heavy footsteps. Measured. The distinctive click of regulation boots worn by someone who knows how to wear them.
Sharp rap of knuckles against the partition. Voice a register lower. Absolute command.
Two minutes to get dressed or graveyard shifts all week.
Glen has kept secrets for thirty years. Turned information into currency. But some secrets—the ones about boundary-pushing and casual cruelty and who you really are when nobody's watching—those secrets have a way of keeping you instead.
