The Morning After Knowing

“Some days the universe doesn’t hide the truth — it just drowns it in paperwork and bad coffee.”

The halls of the station were quieter than usual—still early, just shy of eight—but the kind of early that moved like a hangover, sluggish and uncertain. A drowsy hush hung in the air, thick and tangible, broken only by the distant groan of a printer somewhere in the bowels of the building and the occasional shuffle of footsteps too tired to commit to purpose.

The place felt suspended, caught in that liminal space between night shift ending and day shift not quite beginning, like it hadn't quite decided to wake up yet. I padded through the corridor past the usual suspects—noticeboards sagging under the weight of long-forgotten memos, their flyers yellowing and curling like autumn leaves left too long on branches, edges peeling away from ancient drawing pins that had lost their grip years ago.

The bank of grey filing cabinets stood like tombstones against the far wall, their metal surfaces dulled by decades of accumulated fingerprints and half-hearted cleaning attempts. They hummed faintly under the sickly glare of fluorescent lights—those ubiquitous institutional tubes that made everything look slightly jaundiced, slightly wrong, that transformed even the healthiest complexion into something vaguely corpse-like.

Each scuff mark along the corridor walls told its own tired story if you knew how to read them. A boot dragged here during some long-ago arrest when a suspect had refused to go quietly. A shoulder leaned too hard there during a conversation that went on too long, bodies propped against plaster because chairs were too far away and exhaustion too immediate. Dark smudges at hand-height where countless palms had steadied themselves after too many hours on shift, too much coffee, not enough sleep.

Evidence of long hours, frayed tempers, people who'd stayed in the job because they didn't know what else they'd be without it. Who'd become so integrated into these walls that leaving felt like amputation—removing a part of themselves that had grown inseparable from the badge and the routine and the particular flavour of institutional dysfunction.

There was something in that which felt uncomfortably familiar, a recognition I didn't particularly want to examine too closely this early in the morning.

Rounding the corner, I slipped into the kitchenette—a generous term for what was essentially a closet with delusions of grandeur. The space barely accommodated two people comfortably, lined with cheap laminate counters that peeled at the corners and cupboards that hadn't closed properly since sometime in the nineties.

There was a flicker of hope as I entered—maybe I'd dumped my phone next to the kettle again. I had a habit of offloading things the moment I walked in, juggling paperwork and coffee and keys and whatever else I was carrying, trying to pretend I had my shit together when I absolutely, categorically didn't.

The kettle sat in its usual spot, limescale-crusted and temperamental, surrounded by a chaotic assortment of mismatched mugs that had accumulated over years like sediment. Some belonged to people who'd long since transferred or retired, their names faded on labels that no one had bothered to remove.

No phone. Just a half-finished mug sitting on the bench, lukewarm and sulking—Glen's, judging by the greasy fingerprint on the rim and the fact that he was the only person in the building who drank his coffee with that much sugar. The newspaper from yesterday slumped in a defeated pile on the table, pages out of order, crossword half-completed in someone's aggressive biro scrawl.

I gave the space a cursory glance, not expecting much, running my eyes over surfaces cluttered with sugar packets, plastic stirrers, a jar of instant coffee so old it had probably achieved sentience. Nothing. No phone winking back at me from between the debris.

I retraced my steps, moving back into the corridor with that particular brand of irritation that comes from losing something for the third time in a week.

It wasn't the first time I'd misplaced the damned thing. And somehow, it always set off the same tired spiral: a flicker of frustration followed by that low, prickling unease that felt disproportionate to the actual problem. Not just about the phone, but about the sensation that something was missing—something I couldn't name, couldn't quite grasp.

Like I was chasing a thread I'd already let go of without realising it had slipped through my fingers.

Was it just the digital leash of modern life—that panic when you realised you were temporarily disconnected from the constant stream of notifications and demands? Or was it something older than that—something gut-deep and ancient that didn't trust the quiet, that needed to know what was happening every moment because silence meant danger in ways our monkey brains hadn't evolved past?

I slowed as I passed interview room three. The door was shut now, but fluorescent light bled out at the edges like a secret trying to escape through the cracks. In the narrow pane of safety glass set into the door, my own face stared back at me—pale, shadows under eyes that spoke of too many late nights and not enough proper sleep.

I looked like I hadn't slept properly in days. Which, to be fair, I hadn't. Since Jane's diagnosis, sleep had become something I did in restless fragments, consciousness never quite releasing its grip, dreams filled with hospital corridors and ticking clocks counting down to something I didn't want to face.

I kept walking, not ready to face whatever that reflection had to say, not prepared to meet the eyes of the woman staring back at me with judgment that looked an awful lot like concern.

The locker room was empty when I slipped in, the air still and smelling faintly of industrial soap and something metallic—blood, maybe, from someone's split knuckle or nosebleed, inadequately cleaned but not quite enough to trigger a proper biohazard protocol. The scent lingered in that way blood always did, copperish and organic, mixing unpleasantly with disinfectant.

Rows of grey lockers lined the walls, some doors hanging slightly ajar, padlocks dangling from hasps. A bench ran down the centre, scarred wood that had seen better decades. The fluorescent lights here were even harsher than in the corridor, casting everything in unforgiving clarity.

There it was—my phone, perched smugly on the lip of the basin beneath the mirror, exactly where I'd dumped it after splashing cold water on my face this morning. I'd been trying to shock some life back into myself, cupping icy handfuls and pressing them against my eyes, my cheeks, my neck, trying to wake up my skin if not my mind.

Not sure it had worked.

The phone's screen was dark, accusatory in its silence. How long had it been sitting here? How many calls had I missed? How many times had Karl tried to reach me while I wandered around like someone who'd forgotten how their own routine worked?

"Found you, you little shit," I muttered, snatching it up with more force than necessary. The screen came to life under my touch, brightness turned up too high, making me squint.

Ten missed notifications glared back at me. Two from Karl. One a timestamped OMW, the other a photo—blurry, close-up, grease-glossed—of a bacon and egg roll that looked like it had been assembled by someone who'd never seen food before but had heard it described once.

Classic Karl. Either an apology or a flex. Hard to tell with him sometimes. Maybe both. The photo was so aggressively Karl—no context, no explanation, just here's what I'm eating and you're not because you didn't answer your phone.

I let out a slow sigh, feeling some of the tension drain from my shoulders even as new anxieties crowded in to replace it. The usual cascade: what had he wanted? Was it important? Had I missed something crucial to the case? Was he pissed off that I hadn't answered? Would he make one of his comments about professionalism that always felt personal even when they weren't?

Back to the desk it was. But just as I turned, phone in hand, my thumb hovered over the screen. For a second, I hesitated. Thought about opening the case file again, pulling up everything we had on Louise Jeffries, on Kain, on Jamie Greyson.

Their names weren't just in the file anymore—they'd somehow migrated beneath my skin, taken up residence in that part of my brain that never quite shut off. They stirred something more than just the procedural urge to follow a lead, more than professional curiosity.

Something deeper. Something hungrier. Something that felt uncomfortably like obsession wearing the mask of dedication.

But not yet.

I slid the phone into my jacket pocket, feeling its weight settle against my hip. First—caffeine. Proper caffeine, not the dishwater they tried to pass off as coffee in the kitchenette. Then answers.

And answers always started with curiosity.

And curiosity, when you're a detective, is the beginning of everything—or the beginning of something you'll regret. The line between the two was thinner than most people realised, practically invisible until you'd already crossed it and found yourself somewhere you hadn't meant to go.

As I neared the alcove that housed the station's lifts—ancient things that predated most of the current staff and had the temperament to prove it—a flicker in the corner of my eye stopped me mid-step.

A subtle movement—nothing overt, nothing that would have registered to someone less attuned to noticing what others didn't. But something about it pulled at that part of me trained to catch the peripheral, the almost-invisible, the things people did when they thought no one was watching.

I turned, letting my gaze drift down the corridor with studied casualness, following the instinct without fully understanding what had triggered it. My eyes settled on the row of doors that opened out to the small, enclosed courtyard—one of those spaces that existed more for fire codes than any actual use, a square of concrete and struggling plants that no one ever visited except smokers desperate enough to brave Tasmania's winter mornings.

Morning light filtered in through the glass panels, a pale, clinical hue that should have been softened by the grubby windows but somehow wasn't. The light had that particular quality of early spring—not quite committed to warmth, still holding onto winter's sharp edges.

Beyond the glass, a conversation was unfolding.

Through the square windows—reinforced glass meant to be shatterproof but scratched to near-opacity by years of abuse—I could see Sergeant Claiborne. He stood close—too close—to a woman I couldn't quite make out from this angle. His posture was different from his usual rigid professionalism, shoulders slightly rounded, body language open in a way that spoke of familiarity rather than formality.

His hand rested gently on her elbow, the way you might touch someone you know well, someone you didn't need to ask permission to comfort. The gesture was intimate without being inappropriate, the kind of touch that existed in that grey space between professional and personal.

Then he leaned in, bringing his mouth close to her ear, whispering something. His lips barely moved, the words clearly not meant to travel beyond the immediate space between them.

There was an intimacy to the gesture—subtle, yes, but unmistakable to anyone who knew how to read body language, who'd spent enough time watching people in interview rooms to recognise when proximity meant something more than convenience. It didn't belong here. Not in this building, where everything was meant to be procedural and partitioned, where emotional messiness was supposed to be checked at the door along with weapons and personal biases.

Where emotion was folded away in locker drawers or bled out on paperwork but never displayed in glass-walled courtyards where anyone could see.

I narrowed my eyes, trying to make out the movements of his lips, scanning for some clue, some tell that might give me a hint of what was being said. But it was useless. The angle, the glass, the distance—it all conspired to keep their words from me, to transform the scene into a silent film I couldn't quite translate.

The woman shifted slightly, and for a moment her profile came into clearer view.

Then it hit me with the force of cold water to the chest.

The woman was Louise Jeffries.

What does he want with her?

The question arrived fully formed, sharp with implications I didn't want to examine but couldn't ignore. This wasn't just a sergeant providing comfort to a distressed family member. This was something else. Something that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up in that way that preceded conscious understanding.

I stood rooted to the spot, my brain already spinning through scenarios like a deck of cards being shuffled at speed. Louise wasn't just cooperative in this moment—she was comfortable. The closeness she allowed, the way she tilted her body slightly towards him rather than away, the absence of tension in her shoulders that you'd expect from someone dealing with missing family members...

It all suggested familiarity. History. Trust built over time rather than assembled in a crisis.

But why?

What did she know that I didn't? What had passed between them that made this kind of proximity natural, expected, unremarkable to them even if it looked deeply remarkable to me?

My curiosity surged, quick and hot, overriding the twinge of hesitation in my chest—the voice that said watching this was wrong, that I was invading something private, that good detectives didn't spy on their supervisors having personal conversations with witnesses.

But whatever this was, it didn't sit right. It felt significant in ways I couldn't yet articulate, like a puzzle piece that didn't fit where it should but might fit somewhere else if I could just figure out where.

I edged down the corridor, footsteps feather-light on the old linoleum that was probably original to the building, each step a negotiation between stealth and purpose. I kept close to the wall, the cool paint brushing my shoulder through my jacket, heart thudding a little louder with each breath—not from fear exactly, but from that peculiar cocktail of adrenaline and guilt that came from doing something you knew was ethically questionable but professionally justified.

The detective in me was clawing to get closer, to catch even a fragment of what passed between them. Every word mattered in an investigation. Every interaction could be the key that unlocked everything else. That's what I told myself, anyway.

And yet, as I crept nearer—boots silent against flooring that usually announced every footstep—guilt bloomed quietly beneath the surface. I was watching something private. I knew that. Could feel it in the way they stood, in the space between their bodies that spoke of a relationship I wasn't meant to witness.

But I also knew what was at stake. Two people were missing. A third might be in danger. Every sliver of insight mattered. Every connection, every relationship, every whispered conversation could crack something open in the case, could shift the shape of what I thought I knew into something closer to truth.

This—whatever this was—could be crucial. Could be the thread that, when pulled, unravelled everything.

The closer I got, the more I strained to listen, pressing myself against the wall like a child playing spy games but with considerably higher stakes. A word, even a tone—anything that might give me context, that might explain what Claiborne's relationship to Louise actually was.

And then—

"Sarah!"

The voice ripped through the corridor like a whip crack, jarring me out of my concentration with the force of a physical blow. My whole body flinched, every nerve ending lighting up with shock and something uncomfortably close to guilt. The sound felt impossibly loud, echoing in the enclosed hallway, and for a sickening second I was certain I'd been caught. Exposed. That Claiborne had somehow sensed my presence and sent someone to drag me away like a naughty child.

I stood frozen, heart thudding so hard I could feel it in my throat, in my wrists, in my temples. My breath caught halfway, lodged somewhere between inhale and exhale, my body locked in that instinctive freeze response that predated conscious thought.

"Sarah!"

It came again—old, raspy, unmistakable despite the distortion of distance and acoustics. Ellen.

Of course it was Ellen. Who else would bellow down a corridor at eight in the morning with such complete disregard for anyone trying to maintain a low profile?

Reluctantly, I turned away from the courtyard, away from the scene I'd been so desperate to witness. The corridor seemed to shrink around me as I moved, the overhead lights suddenly too bright, casting everything in harsh relief. The echo of Ellen's approaching footsteps rang out with sharp clarity—quick, determined, the gait of someone on a mission they weren't going to be dissuaded from.

The brief, tantalising glimpse of whatever was happening between Claiborne and Louise was slipping away like water through fingers, dissolving into the haze of missed opportunity and interrupted surveillance.

And there she was, emerging from around the corner like an avenging bureaucratic angel. Ellen Lowe in all her glory—looking like she'd been up half the night, face pinched with the particular exhaustion that came from dealing with institutional incompetence, mouth set in a grim line that suggested she was about to make her displeasure everyone else's problem.

She marched towards me with purpose, her thick-framed glasses sliding down her nose in that way they always did, and she shoved them back up with the kind of force that betrayed her mood more effectively than words ever could. Her cardigan—the grey one she wore three days a week—was buttoned wrong, one side hanging lower than the other, suggesting she'd dressed in a hurry or simply stopped caring.

"Where have you been? Answer your damn phone! I have been trying to call you all morning," she barked, eyes narrowing behind those smudged lenses, her voice carrying that particular edge that made subordinates flinch and equals start formulating excuses.

I opened my mouth, grasping for an excuse that might satisfy her, but my mind was still half in the courtyard, still trying to process what I'd seen, still attempting to make sense of Claiborne and Louise and whatever relationship they had that looked nothing like sergeant-and-witness should look.

"I, uh... I think I've left my phone in my car," I replied, forcing the half-truth out with a shaky sort of calm that probably wasn't convincing anyone. The lie tasted bitter even as it left my mouth—unnecessary, but also easier than explaining I'd been so disorganised I'd forgotten where I'd left it after finding it the first time.

I began to inch backwards as I spoke, my feet dragging against the tiled floor, slow and deliberate. My back to Ellen now—forcing her to follow, to move with me, to shift her position in the corridor. I needed the angle. I needed to see back into that courtyard, to catch whatever final moments might still be visible before they disappeared entirely.

"Again?" Ellen's voice rasped, laced with disbelief thick enough to choke on. "You may need to start strapping that phone to your arm... or perhaps your forehead."

The sarcasm was vintage Ellen—heavy-handed, delivered with the air of someone who'd given up expecting competence and settled for mockery instead.

"Um... sure," I mumbled, eyes flicking sideways, hunting desperately for movement in the courtyard windows, trying to see past Ellen's frame and maintain this conversation simultaneously. Ellen's commentary was background noise now, irritation I could afford to ignore—just barely—in service of the more important goal.

If I could just get the right angle, if she'd just move three more steps to the left, I might be able to see whether Claiborne and Louise were still there, whether anything else was happening that I needed to witness.

"Did you... ah... did you need something, Ellen?" I asked, trying to edge her towards the point so I could get back to mine, trying to wrap up this interaction before whatever was happening in the courtyard concluded without me seeing it.

I didn't have time for Ellen's theatrics right now—not when something potentially significant was happening just beyond that glass, not when answers might be slipping away with every second I stood here pretending to care about her complaints.

"Me?" she said, scandalised, her tone flaring with incredulity that seemed entirely performative but no less aggressive for it. "I think it is you that needs something."

"Huh?" I blinked, the confusion on my face genuine now. My brain hadn't caught up, couldn't parse what she was trying to say through the filter of my distraction. She was talking in circles, and I didn't have the patience or mental bandwidth to decode her particular brand of communication.

Ellen huffed—a sharp, agitated sound, repeated in quick succession. I held my breath instinctively, trying not to inhale. The cloud of stale cigarette smoke that clung to her like a second skin was overwhelming—thick, acrid, steeped into every fibre of her clothing until she existed in a permanent nimbus of tobacco and resignation.

It made my eyes sting and my stomach twitch with the kind of nausea that came from breathing in someone else's bad habits.

Combined with the tension knotting in my chest, with the frustration of missing whatever was happening in the courtyard, with the guilt of lying and the anxiety of being caught, the smell was unbearable.

And behind it all, the nagging ache of opportunity passing, of something significant happening just out of reach whilst I stood here pretending to care about administrative updates.

"Well, in case you were wondering, which obviously you weren't," Ellen began, her voice cutting through the corridor air like a serrated knife wielded by someone who'd long since stopped caring about collateral damage. Sarcasm laced every syllable, a passive-aggressive flourish she'd perfected over decades of dealing with detectives who thought themselves too important for proper communication.

She stood with her arms crossed, shoulders set in that stubborn, immovable way of hers, like the only thing more permanent than her attitude was the scent of cigarettes stitched into every fibre of her clothes. She was the embodiment of no-nonsense—eyebrows arched in judgment, mouth set in a line that suggested she was done with everyone's bullshit before the day had properly begun, feet planted like she was prepared to stand there all morning if necessary.

"I've heard back from both the Hobart and Launceston airports."

"Oh," I replied, blinking as the words registered slowly, as though travelling through water to reach my consciousness. The shift from quiet surveillance to mundane station administration felt jarring, disorienting, like being yanked from one reality into another without warning or preparation.

And Ellen knew it. Could sense that I wasn't fully present, that my attention was divided, that some part of me was still back in that courtyard watching Claiborne and Louise. It only fuelled her simmering impatience, adding heat to the already scorching temperature of her displeasure.

"They've no record of either Jamie Greyson or Kain Jeffries boarding any flights in the last two weeks," she said, a hint of triumph sneaking into her tone despite the news being essentially negative. She was proud of the legwork—the phone calls made, the bureaucracy navigated, the information extracted from uncooperative airport staff who treated police requests like personal inconveniences.

And fair enough—this sort of digging wasn't glamorous. Didn't make headlines or close cases spectacularly. But it kept investigations alive, eliminated possibilities, narrowed the field of where missing people might have gone.

I just wished the news had brought us somewhere other than another dead end, another door closing without a new one opening.

"Oh," I said again, this time with more weight, the word tasting bitter in my mouth. I could feel the momentum of the case slipping further, the jigsaw puzzle of their disappearance refusing to give up even a single corner piece, stubbornly remaining scattered chaos rather than coalescing into anything resembling a picture.

"Thank you anyway, Ellen," I added, trying to lace the words with genuine appreciation even though my focus was already drifting again—back to the courtyard, back to what I might have missed, back to the questions multiplying faster than I could process them.

"I'm not done yet!" Ellen snapped, taking a defiant step forward, closing the distance between us with the aggressive energy of someone who refused to be dismissed before completing their full report. "I've also checked with the Spirit of Tasmania ferry. They have no records of either of them travelling to Melbourne. But they have promised to send down a hard drive with the last few weeks of security footage, just in case."

"Send down?" I echoed, frowning as the implications of that phrase registered. The idea of critical surveillance footage being shipped like someone's forgotten luggage didn't sit well with me, violated every protocol about chain of custody and data security. "Well, that's hardly a secure way to transfer data."

Ellen tilted her head, a slow, knowing smirk tugging at her lips—the expression of someone about to deliver a punchline they'd been saving. "We are in Tasmania, remember. I don't think you need to worry," she said, dryly amused, her tone suggesting I was being unnecessarily paranoid about procedures that didn't really matter in the grand scheme of things.

"They've given it to Duncan to bring with him from Devonport. He should arrive sometime today. Can't wait..."

The last two words carried a distinctly different tone—lighter, almost girlish, completely at odds with her usual gruff professionalism. Duncan. Of course.

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes outwardly, though I did so freely in the safe corners of my mind where Ellen couldn't see my judgment. Classic Ellen—effortlessly merging duty with a dash of flirtation, finding ways to make even routine evidence transfer into an opportunity for personal interest.

No surprise there. Duncan had been on her radar for months. Tall, built like someone who spent their weekends doing actual physical labour rather than sitting behind desks, with that particular brand of country charm that seemed to work on Ellen despite her usually impenetrable cynicism.

"Thanks for the update, Ellen. That's great work," I said, forcing a smile that was more genuine than I expected. For all her abrasiveness, for all the smoke and sarcasm and deliberate difficulty, Ellen was thorough. Relentless when she decided something mattered. And she was often right when it counted, even if she delivered that rightness wrapped in enough attitude to make you want to throttle her.

"I know," she replied, chin lifting with unmistakable pride, satisfaction radiating off her like heat from sunbaked pavement. Then she turned on her heel with the finality of someone who considered the conversation concluded on her terms—leaving before I could respond, like a punctuation mark that didn't need permission to land.

That was Ellen's way—always the one who ended conversations, who determined when sufficient information had been exchanged, who walked away first as a matter of principle.

It took me a full breath to realise what had just happened—to understand that Ellen, either by accident or with her usual blunt precision, had drawn me away completely. She'd derailed me from watching Claiborne and Louise with a torrent of updates and her usual noise, had successfully interrupted my surveillance whether intentionally or not.

And I'd let her.

Had let myself be pulled into administrative minutiae whilst something potentially crucial played out just beyond that glass.

Spinning around with sudden urgency, my stomach dipping with the realisation of how much time had passed, I moved fast. Crossed the corridor with long strides, boots thudding softly against tile that suddenly seemed to amplify every sound. I pressed my face to the glass pane in the door, cupping my hands around my eyes to block out the corridor light, trying to see into the courtyard beyond.

Empty.

Nothing but scattered leaves moving in the morning breeze, a metal bench slick with morning dew catching the pale sunlight, concrete stained with old water marks and cigarette ash.

Gone.

The courtyard was deserted now—whatever conversation had been happening, whatever intimacy I'd witnessed between Claiborne and Louise, had concluded whilst I stood in the corridor letting Ellen lecture me about phone etiquette and ferry schedules.

The intimacy, the body language, the whispered words, the unanswered questions about their relationship—all vanished like breath on cold glass, disappeared without trace beyond the memory of what I'd seen.

"Shit," I muttered under my breath, the word cracking out with the bitterness of regret, of opportunity missed through my own incompetence and distraction.

I stood there for a moment longer, forehead pressed against cool glass, jaw clenched, caught in that frustrating limbo between what I knew and what I almost knew—that agonising space where answers lived just out of reach, where the truth existed but couldn't quite be grasped.

Impatience prickled under my skin like insects as I moved towards the lift, each step marked by mounting frustration. I stabbed the call button with more force than necessary, pressing it multiple times as though repetition might summon the ancient machinery faster through sheer willpower.

My foot began to tap—involuntary at first, then rhythmically, an anxious metronome that echoed down the empty corridor. The seconds dragged, each one amplifying my frustration, stretching time into something elastic and unbearable.

When the lift finally arrived—after what felt like years but was probably only ninety seconds—its cheerful ding sounded too bright, too optimistic. An empty, mechanical cheerfulness that mocked the storm behind my eyes, the frustration churning in my chest, the unanswered questions multiplying like bacteria.

The doors parted with smooth indifference, and I stepped in, letting them seal behind me like a lid snapping shut on a container holding something volatile. The interior smelled like every lift in every government building—industrial cleaner mixed with decades of accumulated humanity, metal and sweat and desperation compressed into a small space.

As the lift descended with its usual grinding complaint, my mind turned restlessly. I replayed every second of what I'd seen—his hand on her arm, the whisper close to her ear, her posture relaxed and familiar rather than the tension you'd expect from someone with missing family members, the way they'd stood together suggesting history rather than recent acquaintance.

And I cursed myself for not pushing harder to stay, to listen, to know. For letting Ellen derail me with administrative updates that could have waited, that probably should have waited, that had effectively ended my surveillance before I could gather anything useful.

On the ground floor, the doors opened with a mechanical sigh—that same sound they always made, like the building itself was tired of facilitating human movement. I moved with purpose now, no hesitation, crossing the foyer with quick strides.

I pushed through the front doors, and the cold air outside sliced through the stuffy residue of station walls like a blade. It hit my skin with aggressive immediacy—sharp, cleansing, bracing—carrying with it the particular dampness of Hobart mornings, that penetrating chill that came from proximity to water and mountains.

My car was parked a little way down, tucked in its usual corner spot that I'd claimed through months of arriving early enough to secure it. I marched towards it, gravel crunching beneath my boots with satisfying violence, breath visible in small clouds in the chill air.

With each step, my frustration coalesced into determination rather than dissolving. I'd lost one thread—but I wouldn't lose the whole damn tapestry. Not today. Not while there were still questions to answer, still connections to map, still secrets to uncover.

I reached the car, the metal cold beneath my hand as I yanked the door open with perhaps more force than necessary. The interior still held that faint, stale trace of last week's takeaway—fish and chips consumed at the desk during a late shift, the smell never quite leaving despite attempts at airing out. The clutter on the passenger seat stared back at me accusingly—case notes I'd meant to file, an empty coffee cup that had been there so long it had developed a ring of mould, a crumpled receipt from a petrol station I barely remembered visiting.

I leaned in, one hand already patting around the console with growing urgency, checking the seat, under the dash, all the usual places phones migrated to when left in vehicles.

Nothing.

I frowned, rummaging now with more desperation than method, abandoning systematic searching in favour of increasingly frantic pawing through the accumulated detritus of my professional life. Pushed my hand down between the seats where pens went to die, where coins disappeared into automotive purgatory, and came up with a loose mint fused to an old receipt, and a broken hair tie that had probably been there for months.

Still no phone.

That annoying little twist of tension started winding its way through my chest, tightening around my lungs like a constrictor finding its rhythm. The irrational panic that came from being disconnected, even temporarily, from the digital leash that kept me tethered to work and Karl and everything that demanded my attention.

Had I dropped it somewhere? Left it on the bonnet whilst fumbling with keys? Was I genuinely losing my mind, fracturing under the accumulated stress of Jane's diagnosis and Karl's moods and this case that seemed to grow more complicated with every passing hour?

Then, like the punchline to a joke I didn't want to hear, I felt it.

The shape of it. Solid. Rectangular. Warm from body heat.

In my jacket pocket.

Right where I'd put it less than ten minutes ago after finding it in the bloody locker room.

I exhaled a breath through my nose—half a laugh, half a sigh, the sound of someone confronting their own spectacular incompetence. Stood there for a long moment, hand still resting on the open car door, eyes fixed on the middle distance like maybe the universe owed me an explanation for why I was like this.

"Brilliant," I muttered under my breath, voice dripping with self-directed sarcasm. "Detective of the year."

The wind picked up, catching my hair and flinging it across my face in a damp whip, strands sticking to my lips. I let the door swing shut—not slamming it, just letting it close with a definitive thunk that somehow felt more pathetic than if I'd actually slammed it in frustration.

Marched back towards the station, boots striking the pavement a little harder than they needed to, each step a small outlet for the embarrassment churning in my gut. Somewhere between Ellen's cigarette fug and Claiborne's disappearing act, between the courtyard surveillance and the phone hunt, I'd managed to gaslight myself.

Had convinced myself I'd left my phone in the car when it had been in my pocket the entire time. Had wasted precious minutes that could have been spent watching Claiborne and Louise, gathering intelligence, understanding their relationship.

Back inside, the station's warmth hit me like a wall—too warm after the cold outside, the temperature differential making my cheeks burn. I jabbed at the lift button again with more aggression than it deserved, jaw tight, adrenaline souring in my gut like milk left too long in the sun.

The day was already getting away from me—and I hadn't even had coffee yet. Hadn't accomplished anything except demonstrating my own disorganisation and missing a potentially crucial interaction between my sergeant and a key witness.

Nothing happened.

I pressed the button again, harder this time, thumb driving into the illuminated circle like maybe force would change the outcome, like maybe the lift was just testing my commitment. Still nothing. No responding ding, no mechanical groan of ancient machinery coming to life, no indicator lights shifting to show movement.

Then I saw it.

The crumpled, laminated OUT OF ORDER sign taped haphazardly above the panel—slightly askew, as if even the person who put it there had given up halfway through the job, had stopped caring about whether it was straight or professional or anything beyond minimally functional.

It hadn't been there five minutes ago. Hadn't been there when I'd taken the lift down to search my car for a phone that was actually in my pocket.

Of course.

Of bloody course.

The lift was forever on its last legs, constantly threatening to die completely but never quite getting there, existing in perpetual mechanical limbo. Some days it just whined a bit, groaning its way between floors like an old man climbing stairs. Other days it trapped people between levels for hours, forcing them to make small talk with strangers whilst maintenance tried to coax it back to life.

Today it had chosen to die quietly, to simply give up without warning, in the exact window between my descent and attempted return. The timing was almost impressive in its inconvenience.

I stared at the sign for a moment, the absurdity of it all threatening to tip into laughter—but the wrong kind. The kind that came just before tears or violence or both, the kind that signalled you were teetering on the edge of something you wouldn't be able to walk back from.

With a muttered curse that would have made Ellen proud and a slow, defeated pivot that felt like surrender, I headed for the stairs.

At least they hadn't broken yet. At least gravity still worked the way it was supposed to, at least I could still climb upwards through sheer physical effort even if everything else seemed determined to work against me.

The stairwell door protested as I pushed through—hinges screaming like they were personally offended by the demand—and I began the climb back to the detective's floor, each step echoing in the concrete chamber, my breathing getting heavier as I ascended.

By the time I reached the right floor, my thighs were burning and I'd worked through approximately three different scenarios explaining Claiborne and Louise's relationship, none of them satisfying, all of them raising more questions than they answered.