The Mercy Clause

“Mercy’s just punishment with a stay of execution — you still feel the rope around your neck, you’re just told not to pull.”

The drive to the station had passed in a blur of grey streets and early morning traffic, my hands gripping the steering wheel with white-knuckled intensity whilst my mind rehearsed and discarded a dozen different opening statements. None of them sounded adequate. None of them could explain what I'd done in terms that wouldn't make me sound either delusional or dangerous.

The walk from car to building stretched into an eternity. Each step across the tarmac brought me closer to judgement, to consequences I couldn't predict but knew I deserved. The station loomed ahead—a squat brutalist structure from the 1970s, all concrete and narrow windows, built to withstand siege. This morning it felt less like a workplace and more like a courthouse, the place where my career would be weighed and likely found wanting.

My badge felt heavy in my pocket, the metal pressing against my thigh with each step. How much longer would I be entitled to carry it? By lunchtime, it might be sitting on Claiborne's desk, surrendered along with my service weapon and any remaining shred of professional credibility.

The automatic doors slid open with a pneumatic hiss, admitting me to the controlled chaos of the station's front lobby. The desk sergeant—Morrison, a career uniform officer who'd seen three decades of humanity at its worst—glanced up from his paperwork, his eyes meeting mine for a fraction of a second before sliding away. No greeting. No acknowledgement. Just that brief, loaded glance that told me everything I needed to know.

They all knew.

The realisation settled over me like a shroud as I moved deeper into the building, past the public areas and into the warren of corridors that led to the major crimes bullpen. In a station this size, gossip moved faster than official communications. By now, every officer would have heard some version of yesterday's events. The details might vary—Chinese whispers had a way of distorting facts—but the core narrative would be consistent: Detective Karl Jenkins had lost control, had put hands on his partner, had possibly suffered some kind of breakdown in the field.

I kept my eyes forward, shoulders squared, projecting a confidence I absolutely didn't feel.

The bullpen door was propped open, sounds of morning activity spilling out into the corridor: phones ringing, keyboards clattering, the low hum of conversations and the sharper bark of orders being given. Normal sounds. Routine sounds. The ordinary functioning of an investigative unit going about its business.

But as I stepped through the doorway, something shifted.

The change was subtle but unmistakable. Conversations didn't halt abruptly—that would have been too obvious, too theatrical—but they faltered, volumes dropping, rhythms disrupted. Officers who'd been mid-sentence suddenly discovered urgent need to consult files or computer screens. Eyes that had been scanning the room in normal social engagement found compelling reasons to focus elsewhere.

I was being quarantined.

Not with hostility exactly, but with caution. The social distance people instinctively create around someone who's become unpredictable, potentially dangerous. I'd seen it happen to other officers over the years—the gradual isolation that occurred when someone crossed lines or showed signs of cracking under pressure. Now I was experiencing it from the inside, feeling the invisible barriers spring up around me as I moved through the space.

The fluorescent tubes overhead buzzed with that distinctive high-frequency hum that you learned to tune out after weeks or months of exposure. This morning, exhausted and anxious, I couldn't filter it out. The sound seemed to drill directly into my skull, a persistent irritant that amplified the headache already building behind my eyes. The lights themselves were harsh and unforgiving, casting everything in that flat, shadowless illumination that made everyone look slightly ill, slightly older, slightly more defeated than they actually were.

The air carried the distinctive smell of any police station in the morning: burnt coffee from the pot that had been sitting too long on the hotplate, the ghost of last night's takeaway that someone had eaten at their desk, the chemical tang of photocopier toner, the faint staleness of a building that was never quite properly ventilated. Underneath it all was the smell of stress—a combination of sweat, cheap deodorant, and the particular anxiety that came from dealing daily with humanity's worst behaviour.

I navigated between desks, avoiding eye contact, heading for my own workspace in the far corner. My desk was exactly as I'd left it yesterday morning—files stacked haphazardly, coffee mug with dried rings at the bottom, keyboard pushed askew, the accumulated detritus of an investigation that had consumed me. It looked like an archaeological site now, the physical remains of who I'd been before everything went wrong.

But it was the desk next to mine that stopped me cold.

Sarah's workspace sat empty, and that emptiness screamed louder than any confrontation could have. The chair was pushed in neatly, positioned with a precision Sarah never bothered with when she was actively working. Her jacket was gone. The colourful scarf she draped over the partition divider was missing. Even her coffee mug had been removed from its usual spot.

No. Not removed. I looked closer and saw it sitting upside down on a neat stack of reports, clearly visible but symbolically inverted. That chipped blue ceramic mug with its jokey slogan printed in white letters: "Don't make me use my detective voice."

The sight of it hit me like a physical blow.

She'd bought that mug during our first year as partners, had laughed at its absurdity whilst simultaneously making it her signature item. Every morning she'd fill it with whatever coffee she could scrounge—station brew, café purchases, the occasional fancy thing she'd make at home with the espresso machine her sister had given her. I'd watched her drink from that mug thousands of times, had seen it sitting on her desk or clutched in her hands whilst she puzzled through case files, had heard the distinctive clink it made when she set it down too hard after a frustrating phone call.

Now it sat upside down, abandoned, a monument to partnership destroyed.

The perfume was still there, though—that distinctive combination of vanilla and bergamot, the scent clinging faintly to the air around her desk despite her absence. My brain immediately conjured her presence from that olfactory cue, nearly making me turn to look for her before reality reasserted itself. She wasn't here. Wouldn't be here. Might never work this desk again, at least not whilst I remained in the building.

The clinical terms Claiborne would use couldn't disguise the reality: I'd hurt her. Had caused physical injury to someone who'd trusted me, who'd had my back through countless difficult moments, who'd been more than a partner—had been a friend.

The guilt threatened to overwhelm me. I forced it down, compartmentalised it with the brutal efficiency I'd learned over decades of police work. There would be time for self-recrimination later. Right now, I needed to survive the next hour.

I approached Claiborne’s closed door with dread pooling in my stomach, each step feeling like wading through deep water. My tie felt too tight around my neck despite having been carefully knotted this morning. My blazer, usually comfortable, seemed to constrict my shoulders. Every article of clothing felt like a costume that no longer fit properly, as though the man wearing them had fundamentally changed and the clothes hadn't yet adapted.

Outside the door, I paused. Took a breath. Tried to centre myself in some way that would allow me to face whatever came next with some semblance of dignity.

My hand rose to knock, hesitated for just a moment, then completed the motion. Two sharp raps against the door frame, crisp and controlled, announcing my presence whilst my heart hammered against my ribs.

"Enter," came the voice from within—flat, clipped, and unmistakably displeased.

I turned the handle and stepped into Sergeant Charlie Claiborne's domain.

The office was small but organised with military precision. Claiborne's desk dominated the space—a large wooden affair that had probably been here since the building opened, its surface clear except for a few carefully arranged items: his computer monitor, a single manila folder, a coffee mug with the Tasmania Police logo, and what looked like a glossy programme from some event.

Claiborne himself sat behind the desk, and even seated he projected an imposing presence. It was his stillness that had always been his most intimidating quality. Claiborne didn't fidget, didn't make unnecessary movements, didn't fill silence with nervous energy. He simply existed, solid and immovable as a rock formation, and let that presence do the work that other supervisors accomplished through shouting.

He didn't look up as I entered. His eyes remained fixed on the file in front of him—Sarah's report, I assumed, given the timing and context. His right hand held a pen, poised over the pages as though he'd been making notes or annotations.

The gesture towards the chair across from him was minimal—barely a movement at all, just a slight tilt of his head and the briefest indication with his free hand. Sit down. Wait. Don't speak until spoken to.

I lowered myself into the chair, and the vinyl creaked beneath my weight with a sound that seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet office. The chair was old, probably original to the building, its padding compressed from decades of officers sitting exactly where I sat now, waiting for judgement or guidance or assignments. The vinyl had cracked in places, showing the foam beneath, and it was slightly too low relative to the desk, forcing me to look up at Claiborne at an angle that reinforced the power dynamic.

I said nothing. Kept my hands folded in my lap, back straight, expression as neutral as I could manage whilst anxiety ate at my insides.

The silence stretched out, thick and deliberate. Claiborne continued reading, his eyes moving across the pages. I could see his jaw working slightly, could see the minute tightening around his eyes that suggested either anger or concern—possibly both.

Time became elastic. Seconds felt like minutes. I found myself hyperaware of small details: the barely audible hum of the computer, the distant sound of a phone ringing in the bullpen, the faint smell of coffee from Claiborne's mug mixing with the general station odours. My own breathing seemed loud in my ears. My heart maintained a steady elevated rhythm that made me feel slightly light-headed.

Then—finally—Claiborne set down his pen with deliberate care. Reached up with both hands and pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closing briefly in a gesture I'd seen countless times before. His tell. His way of expressing frustration or disappointment without words, without raising his voice, without losing the iron control he maintained at all times.

When his hands dropped and his eyes opened, the bloodshot quality was immediately apparent. He'd been awake most of the night, I realised. Had probably been called at home about the incident, had come in to review the reports and witness statements, had spent hours deciding how to handle this situation.

The guilt intensified. I'd done this to him—had created a crisis that had stolen his sleep and forced him into impossible decisions.

His eyes met mine, and the look in them was complex: anger, yes, but also disappointment, concern, and something that might have been sadness. This wasn't just a supervisor dealing with a disciplinary problem. This was a mentor watching someone he'd invested in, someone he'd believed in, potentially self-destruct.

"Detective Lahey has decided not to file a formal complaint," he said without preamble.

The words took a moment to penetrate. I'd been braced for recrimination, for formal charges, for the immediate suspension I'd been certain was coming. Instead—this. An unexpected reprieve from the person I'd harmed most directly.

Relief crashed through me like a wave breaking, so intense it was almost nauseating. No formal complaint meant no automatic triggers, no mandatory protocols, no predetermined outcomes. It meant Claiborne had discretion in how to handle this, meant there was at least a possibility—however slim—that this wouldn't end in immediate dismissal.

"Consider yourself extraordinarily fortunate."

The words were delivered without warmth, each syllable precise and measured. This wasn't forgiveness. This wasn't absolution. This was a statement of fact: I'd been granted mercy I hadn't earned and absolutely didn't deserve.

I opened my mouth to respond, to express gratitude or offer explanation, but he raised one hand in a gesture that stopped me cold. Not yet. He wasn't finished.

"I—thank you, sir. And Sarah—"

"Detective Lahey," he said sharply, correcting me with a precision that stung. "Required six stitches to close the laceration on her hand. She has also suffered a mild concussion. Her decision not to pursue this matter officially is a courtesy that, quite frankly, you haven't earned."

The correction hit harder than any physical blow could have. Not "Sarah"—we weren't friends in this context, weren't colleagues who'd shared years of partnership and mutual respect. "Detective Lahey"—formal, distanced, a reminder that what I'd done had violated professional relationships as much as personal ones.

Six stitches. The number was specific, concrete, impossible to minimise or rationalise away. A wound significant enough to require medical intervention, to require threading needle and suture through her flesh to close the damage I'd caused. She'd carry a scar from this, would see it every time she looked at her hand, a permanent reminder of the moment her partner lost control.

Mild concussion. The brain injury I'd caused when she'd hit the wall, her skull impacting solid surface with enough force to rattle the delicate tissue inside. "Mild" was relative—even minor concussions could cause persistent problems, could affect concentration and memory and mood for weeks or months. She'd be dealing with headaches, probably, sensitivity to light, maybe difficulty sleeping. All because of me.

I swallowed the words that had been forming, let them die unspoken. Claiborne was right. There was nothing to defend here, no justification that wouldn't sound like excuse-making or blame-shifting. I'd hurt Sarah. That was the fact, simple and undeniable.

My gaze drifted involuntarily across the desk's surface, seeking something to focus on besides Claiborne's condemning stare. It landed on the glossy programme sitting at the corner of his desk, partially obscured by a coffee mug but still identifiable.

MONA. The Museum of Old and New Art.

The programme's cover featured a dramatic night photograph of the museum's distinctive architecture—that controversial underground gallery carved into the cliffs above the Derwent River, its entrance marked by the rusted steel cubes of the Void. The image was moody and artistic, all dramatic shadows and carefully placed lighting, the kind of photograph that appeared in international architecture magazines.

Memory supplied the context immediately: Claiborne's gala. The fundraiser he'd organised months ago to support police-community relations initiatives, particularly youth outreach programmes. He'd secured MONA as the venue—no small feat—had personally courted donors and local business leaders, had spent months planning every detail.

He'd invited me personally. Had handed me the embossed invitation in this very office, had said he'd appreciate my presence, that it would be good for me to build relationships beyond the immediate demands of casework. I'd accepted, had even bought a new suit for the occasion.

Then, the night of the gala, I'd been finalising the paperwork on the Gregson case. Had convinced myself that following up on one final lead was more important than networking at some art museum. Had sent Claiborne a text making excuses about work, had never properly apologised for the absence.

The programme sitting there now felt like an indictment. While Claiborne had been building bridges and strengthening community relationships, I'd been obsessing over a closed case, prioritising my hunches over professional obligations, choosing isolation over connection.

The contrast between that evening—Claiborne in dress uniform, hosting donors and dignitaries in one of Tasmania's cultural crown jewels—and this morning—me sitting across from him in disgrace, having assaulted my partner—couldn't have been more stark.

"Do you have anything to say for yourself, Jenkins?" Claiborne's tone was flat, but it held that unmistakable undercurrent—whatever explanation I might offer, it wouldn't be enough.

This was my opportunity, perhaps my only one, to offer some account of my actions that might make sense to someone who hadn't been there, who hadn't heard what I'd heard, who hadn't felt the absolute certainty that had driven me to such desperate measures.

"I heard a voice, sir." The words emerged quieter than I'd intended. Fragile. Weak. "In the bedroom. I heard Luke's voice taunting me."

Even as I said it, I heard how it sounded. The classic excuse of someone whose grip on reality had slipped, who'd hallucinated or imagined something that justified disproportionate response. A voice only I had heard, in a room that proved to be empty, leading to violence that had injured my partner.

But it was the truth. The only truth I had.

"Detective Lahey's report indicates that the room was empty save for some garbage bags."

The tap was precise, one finger striking the folder twice for emphasis. Inside would be Sarah's account of the incident, written in her clear, methodical style. What had happened, in what sequence, who had done and said what, culminating in my violent assault and her injuries. Every sentence would be accurate, every detail verifiable, the whole thing adding up to a damning portrait of a detective who'd lost control.

"Yes, sir. But I know what I heard." I leaned in slightly, needing him to see that I believed it. That I felt it. "Luke was there. I'm certain of it."

The certainty in my voice was real, drawn from that deep well of conviction that had sustained me through the night's vigil and this morning's dread. In that moment in the hallway, hearing that whispered "Bye, Karl," I'd been absolutely certain of its external reality. That certainty persisted even now, even in the face of evidence that contradicted it, even when I could no longer fully trust my own perceptions.

Claiborne studied me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. I could see him weighing something, calculating, trying to determine whether I was delusional or simply wrong, whether I needed psychiatric intervention or just better judgement.

Then, abruptly, he pushed back from his desk and stood, turning his back to me to face the narrow window that overlooked Liverpool Street.

The window was small—all the windows in this building were small, testament to 1970s architectural philosophy that prioritised security over natural light—but it offered a slice of the outside world. Through it, I could see traffic moving past, pedestrians on the footpath, the ordinary morning routines of a city going about its business oblivious to the crisis being adjudicated in this small office.

Claiborne stood with his hands clasped behind his back, shoulders tense, staring out at that narrow view. The stance was military, precise, the posture of someone who'd spent time in uniform service before joining the police. It was also, I knew from experience, how he positioned himself when wrestling with difficult decisions.

"Jenkins, you've been one of my best detectives for years. Your closure rate is exemplary. Your instincts are usually sound." He paused. The words landed like a summary before sentencing.

Past tense. The words everyone dreads hearing from a superior: you were good, you used to be reliable, your instincts used to serve you well. The implication being that something fundamental had changed, that the detective I'd been no longer existed, replaced by someone unreliable, potentially dangerous.

And he was right. My closure rate was exemplary—eighty-seven percent over the past five years, one of the highest in the unit. My instincts had been sound, leading to successful investigations and commendations. I'd been someone Claiborne could rely on, could assign to difficult cases with confidence.

Past tense.

"But this obsession with the Greyson and Jeffries case is affecting your judgment. I'm concerned about your mental state."

There it was. The assessment I'd been dreading. Not "you made a mistake" or "you exercised poor judgement"—those would have been professional critiques, correctible through training or discipline. No, this was personal, psychological: "I'm concerned about your mental state." The implication being that my fitness for duty was in question, that I might be experiencing some kind of breakdown, that I represented a risk to myself and others.

"With respect, sir, I'm fine. I made a mistake. Let my emotions get the better of me. It won't happen again."

The protest came out too quickly, too defensive. The classic response of everyone who isn't fine but refuses to acknowledge it. "I'm fine"—the universal deflection. "Won't happen again"—a promise made without any real understanding of why it had happened in the first place, therefore impossible to keep with any certainty.

Even as I said it, I knew how hollow it sounded. But what else could I say? That I was spiralling? That I couldn't distinguish between reality and imagination anymore? That the obsession with this case had consumed me to the point where normal judgement no longer functioned?

He turned slowly, arms crossing over his chest as he faced me again. The body language was defensive, closed off, creating barriers both physical and emotional. This was Sergeant Claiborne in full authority mode, no longer mentor but commanding officer preparing to deliver judgement.

"By all rights, I should take you off this case immediately." His gaze pinned me where I sat. "The protocol is clear—jeopardising a fellow officer's safety, erratic behaviour, making accusations without evidence. You've given me every reason to reassign this investigation."

Each item in his list was indisputable. I'd jeopardised Sarah's safety—that was what assault meant in clinical terms. I'd behaved erratically—bursting through doors, tearing through garbage bags, acting on impulse rather than training. I'd made accusations without evidence—my entire theory about Luke was built on intuition and a whisper only I had heard.

By any objective standard, removing me from the case was the only sensible course of action. It protected the investigation from further contamination, protected other officers from my instability, protected the department from liability.

The coldness in my stomach intensified, spreading through my torso like ice water. This was it. The moment when everything ended, when career and identity were stripped away, when Detective Karl Jenkins ceased to exist.

"Sir, please—"

"I'm not finished, Detective." His tone sharpened, cutting across mine like a blade. "Department procedure also dictates a mandatory psychological evaluation before you could return to active duty. I should have your badge and gun on my desk right now."

Mandatory psychological evaluation. The phrase carried enormous weight in police culture. Once you'd been flagged for psych eval, that designation followed you. Even if you passed, even if the psychologist cleared you for full duty, colleagues would always wonder. The stigma never fully faded. You became "that officer who had the breakdown," whispered about in locker rooms and avoided for assignments that required absolute reliability.

Badge and gun on the desk. The ritual of surrender. I'd witnessed it a handful of times in my career—officers being temporarily stripped of their authority pending investigation. The act of placing your badge and service weapon on your supervisor's desk was deeply symbolic, a public acknowledgement that you were no longer trusted, no longer qualified, no longer one of the tribe.

My body locked completely, every muscle tensing in involuntary panic response. My breath caught in my throat. My vision seemed to narrow, tunnelling down to Claiborne's face and the implications of what he was saying.

This was the precipice. One more sentence and I'd go over it, falling into the void of professional death, my identity and purpose stripped away in an instant.

"Sir," I said, voice low and even, "I know I've made a serious error. But I'm close to something important with this case. There are connections here…"

The words came from some deep reserve of composure I didn't know I still possessed. Don't plead. Don't beg. Present rational arguments. Appeal to his investigative instincts rather than his sympathy.

But even as I said it, doubt crept in. Was I close to something important? Or was that just more delusion, more obsession masquerading as investigation? In this moment, facing potential career death, I genuinely couldn't tell the difference anymore.

"What connections?" He circled the desk slowly and returned to his seat, every movement deliberate. "What concrete evidence have you found that links these disappearances? Because from where I'm standing, all I see is a detective who's becoming increasingly unstable, who's put his partner's safety at risk, and who's potentially compromised multiple investigations with his unprofessional behaviour."

He settled back into his chair with the weight of someone delivering a terminal diagnosis. Each word was chosen for maximum impact, each accusation building on the previous one, constructing an overwhelming case for my removal.

Increasingly unstable—check. Put partner at risk—undeniable. Compromised investigations—probably true, given how my obsession with Luke Smith had meant neglecting other cases. The evidence against me was comprehensive and damning.

But beneath the shame and guilt, that stubborn fire still burned. Small, battered by doubt, but not extinguished. The conviction that something was wrong, that Luke was involved, that the truth existed somewhere beneath all the lies and misdirection.

"I believe Luke Smith is directly involved in Jamie Greyson's disappearance," I said, forcing my voice to steady. "And I have reason to suspect a connection to the Kain Jeffries case as well. The strange delivery truck, the inconsistent statements—it's all there, sir. I just need a little more time to prove it."

There it was. My entire investigation reduced to two sentences, laid out for examination and judgement. The delivery truck that had appeared at Luke’s property repeatedly but couldn't be traced. The contradictory statements from everyone in Luke's circle about who was where and when. The pattern of lies surrounding these disappearances.

It sounded thin even to my own ears. Certainly not enough to justify assault and potentially hallucinating. But it was what I had—the thread I'd been pulling, the connection I believed existed even if I couldn't yet prove it.

Claiborne stared at me across the desk, and I could see the calculation happening behind those bloodshot eyes. Weighing options, considering consequences, trying to determine whether I was a detective following legitimate instincts or a man spiralling into paranoid delusion.

His jaw worked slightly, unconscious movement that signalled heavy thinking, the kind of decision-making that would have lasting consequences regardless of which way it went.

The silence stretched out, seconds accumulating into what felt like minutes. I could hear my own heartbeat pounding in my ears, could feel sweat beginning to form at my hairline despite the office's cool temperature, could taste the bitter residue of this morning's over-strong coffee at the back of my throat.

Then—finally—he exhaled. A deep sigh that seemed to come from somewhere in his chest, the sound of a man making a decision he knew might be wrong but was making anyway.

"One week." His voice was quiet, but the words landed with weight. "You have one week to find something concrete. Actual evidence, Jenkins—not theories, not hunches, not voices that only you can hear. Something I can present to the prosecutor with a straight face."

For a moment, my brain couldn't process what I'd just heard. The trajectory of the conversation had been moving inexorably towards suspension, towards psych eval, towards the end. And now, suddenly—this. A reprieve. A second chance.

One week. Seven days to prove I wasn't delusional, to vindicate the instincts that had driven me to such desperate actions, to find evidence that would justify everything I'd sacrificed.

"You're… keeping me on the case?"

My voice sounded strange, distant, coloured by disbelief. I'd been braced for dismissal, had already begun the mental process of accepting that outcome. This unexpected mercy was almost harder to process than punishment would have been.

"Against my better judgment, yes." He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, eyes locked on mine. "But understand this—one more incident, one more violation of procedure, one more complaint from anyone, and you're not just off the case. You're on indefinite leave pending a full departmental review. Clear?"

His face was close enough now that I could see every detail: the deep lines around his eyes, the grey stubble he'd missed whilst shaving below his jawline this morning, the bloodshot quality of his sclera from lack of sleep. Could smell his coffee breath, bitter and stale. Could see in his expression the conflict this decision had caused him, the gamble he was taking on someone who'd given him every reason not to.

The terms were crystal clear. One week under the strictest probation imaginable. Zero margin for error. One toe out of line and it was over—not just the case but my entire career.

"Crystal clear, sir." Relief welled up, but I kept it sealed beneath my expression. The reprieve was fragile. One crack, and it would collapse.

Relief threatened to overwhelm me completely—a surge of emotion so intense it made my eyes sting. I forced it down through sheer will, maintained the professional mask that was the only thing keeping me functional. This wasn't victory. It was barely survival. A temporary stay of execution, not a pardon.

"And Jenkins?" There was a subtle shift in his tone—not quite softer, but less brittle. "You will apologise to Detective Lahey. Properly. And you will work with her respectfully or not at all."

The shift was minute but significant. For just a moment, this was mentor speaking to protégé rather than superior to subordinate. Advice rather than command. Concern rather than pure discipline.

The requirement to apologise was non-negotiable, and rightly so. Whatever Sarah's reasons for not filing a complaint, I owed her more than perfunctory words muttered to satisfy protocol. I owed her genuine acknowledgement of harm done, actual remorse, commitment to do better.

"Of course, sir." I nodded, firm. "I owe her that and more."

"Good." He gestured toward the door. "That will be all."

The dismissal was abrupt but not unkind. He'd said what needed saying, made his decision, laid out the terms. Now he needed to move on to the dozens of other issues demanding a sergeant's attention. My crisis, consuming as it felt to me, was just one item on his agenda.

I stood, legs slightly unsteady beneath me, pulse still thudding hard in my ears. It felt surreal to move, to be dismissed without disaster, to still possess my badge and gun and the slim possibility of redemption.

As my hand touched the door handle, something stopped me. The question that had been building at the edges of my thoughts, the mystery beneath the immediate relief.

"Sir, may I ask why you're giving me this chance? By your own admission, protocol dictates—"

The question was risky. I'd been given an extraordinary gift and here I was questioning it, potentially giving him cause to reconsider. But I needed to understand. Needed to know why Charlie Claiborne, who'd built his reputation on following procedure, was bending rules for someone who'd just spectacularly violated them.

"I have my reasons, Detective." A pause. His eyes didn't leave mine. "Let's just say I've seen enough in my years on the force to know that sometimes protocol needs to bend to serve justice. Don't make me regret this decision."

The answer was deliberately vague, revealing nothing concrete whilst suggesting volumes. Personal reasons, perhaps. Experiences from his own past that created sympathy for my situation. Or maybe genuine belief that I was onto something real with this case, that my instincts—whilst leading me to terrible choices—were nonetheless pointing towards actual wrongdoing.

I nodded once, accepting that this was as much explanation as I'd get. "I won't, sir. Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet, Jenkins." The sharpness returned. "One week. And don't go near the Smith house without proper authorisation and backup. Consider that a direct order."

The warning was explicit, leaving no room for interpretation. The Smith house was off-limits. No more unauthorised surveillance, no more showing up unannounced, no more lone-wolf investigating. If I approached Luke or anyone connected to that property, it would be done properly—with warrants, with backup, with all the procedural protections I'd ignored yesterday.

"Yes, sir." It came easily. Too easily. Even as I said it, the wheels were already turning. There were ways to follow the lead without breaching the letter of his instruction. Loopholes. Quiet alleys in the policy.

I wasn't consciously planning disobedience. But I was identifying spaces where the order didn't quite reach, grey zones where interpretation allowed for creative investigation.

This was dangerous thinking—the same mindset that had gotten me into this mess. But I couldn't stop it. The compulsion was too strong.

I turned the handle and stepped out, closing the door softly behind me.

The noise of the bullpen washed over me immediately—phones ringing, conversations overlapping, keyboards clattering, the general hum of investigative activity. After the contained intensity of Claiborne's office, the sensory assault was overwhelming, making me blink and pause just outside the door.

I'd survived. Against all odds, against all reasonable expectation, I'd emerged from that office with my career intact. Battered, certainly. On the most stringent probation imaginable. But still a detective, still employed, still with a chance to prove I wasn't completely insane.

I walked through the bullpen in a daze, barely registering the faces that turned my way, the conversations that paused as I passed. My mind was already racing ahead, sorting through possibilities, planning next steps.

Claiborne's decision made no sense by conventional standards. In all my years of knowing him, I'd never seen him circumvent protocol so openly, never seen him extend a lifeline to someone who'd given him every reason to cut them loose.

But I wouldn't waste it.

One week to untangle this. One week to find Luke, to locate Jamie, to make sense of Kain's disappearance. One week to prove that my instincts—however catastrophically they'd failed me in execution—hadn't failed me in essence.

The clock was already ticking.

And I had 167 hours and fifty-three minutes left.