The Voice That Wasn’t His

"The moment you start doubting your own memories, the world stops feeling like home."

The interview room seemed to shrink around us as Detective Jenkins settled into his chair, the metal legs scraping against the linoleum with a sound like fingernails on glass. I sat rigidly upright, my spine pressed against the unforgiving back of my own chair, aware of every surface, every angle, every harsh line of this space designed to extract truth through discomfort. The fluorescent tube above us flickered almost imperceptibly, a strobe effect so subtle it registered more as unease than actual sight.

Jenkins moved with deliberate calm, arranging his notepad on the table between us with the precision of someone setting a stage. His pen lay parallel to the pad's edge, perfectly aligned, and I found myself fixating on these small details—anything to avoid thinking about what I was about to do, the story I was about to tell to this stranger who held my family's future in his competent hands.

I watched his mouth as he collected his pen and prepared to write, noticed the peculiar way it moved whilst he concentrated, shaping silent words as if rehearsing what he might say. It was such a human detail in this inhuman space, a crack in professional armour that made him suddenly seem less like an institution and more like a person who might actually help.

The tape recorder perched on the table's edge like a mechanical vulture, waiting to consume our words and transform them into evidence, into record, into something that couldn't be taken back. I found myself leaning forward slightly, my hands clasped on the cold metal surface, feeling the chill seep through my palms and up my arms like poison.

"My husband, Nial, is missing. He has been since yesterday morning," I said abruptly, unable to wait for him to ask the obvious question.

The words came out steady but layered with urgency, each syllable weighted with twenty-four hours of accumulated fear. I needed him to understand immediately that this wasn't a social call, wasn't a minor concern, wasn't something that could be dismissed with paperwork and platitudes. This was my life dissolving, my family fracturing, my world tilting off its axis.

Jenkins looked up from his notebook, his sharp eyes meeting mine with an intensity that felt almost physical. There was something in his gaze—not the weary skepticism I'd expected, but genuine attention, as if he was actually seeing me rather than just another hysterical spouse.

"How do you know he has gone missing?" he asked, his tone straightforward, professional, but not unkind.

The directness of the question felt like a test, and I tensed, feeling frustration rise in my chest like heat. How did I know? How did anyone know anything in their bones, in their blood, in the deep animal part of themselves that recognised danger before the conscious mind could name it?

"Because I haven't seen him since yesterday morning," I replied, my words clipped, each one bitten off with barely controlled irritation.

My grip tightened on the edge of my table, the metal cutting into my palms. I could feel my wedding ring pressing against my finger, a circle of gold that suddenly felt like a shackle connecting me to a ghost. The fluorescent light caught the ring's surface, sending small reflections dancing across the walls like trapped spirits.

Jenkins' posture shifted subtly, a slight forward lean that suggested increased interest. I caught something in his expression—a glint in his eye, a minute tightening around his mouth—that hinted at thoughts he wasn't voicing. He was processing, calculating, drawing conclusions from evidence I couldn't see.

"But you've heard from him, yeah? That's what the receptionist was saying?" he pressed, his voice neutral but probing.

The receptionist. Linda. The family member who'd chosen protocol over blood, who'd looked at my desperation and seen only an administrative problem to be managed. The betrayal sat in my stomach like a stone, heavy and indigestible.

"I thought Linda was my friend," I said coldly, my gaze shifting to the two-way mirror.

I knew she couldn't see me, was probably still at her desk processing other people's tragedies with the same clinical detachment she'd shown me. But I wanted my words to carry through walls and glass, to find her wherever she was hiding behind her uniform and regulations. The bitterness in my voice was deliberate, aimed not at Jenkins but at the entire system that had failed me, with Linda as its face.

"Linda?" Jenkins repeated, a flicker of curiosity animating his features.

His pen hovered over the notepad, ready to capture whatever connection I might reveal. I could see him filing this information away, another piece in whatever puzzle he was assembling.

"Linda. The receptionist," I clarified, my tone sharp with irritation that wasn't really directed at him.

The fact that I had to explain this, had to make explicit what should have been obvious, felt like another small betrayal. In a place like Hobart, everyone was connected to everyone. Six degrees of separation was more like two or three. Surely he could understand that Linda wasn't just any receptionist—she was family.

"So you know her, then?" Jenkins asked, though it wasn't really a question.

There was a subtle undercurrent of interest in his voice, as if this detail mattered more than it should. His pen moved across the page, recording connections, mapping relationships, building a picture of the web I was caught in.

"Yes," I said, my tone softening slightly despite myself. "Apart from also being my sister-in-law, our families have known each other for years. We share great-grandmothers on my mother's side."

The explanation tumbled out, and as I heard myself speak, I realised how quintessentially Tasmanian it sounded. This island where everyone's family tree had roots tangled with everyone else's, where you couldn't throw a stone without hitting a second cousin or a schoolmate's parent. It was the kind of insularity that outsiders found either charming or suffocating, depending on their perspective.

"You must be Tasmanian then," Jenkins said with a small chuckle, his professional mask slipping for just a moment.

The sound was unexpected in this sterile room—warm, human, real. It caught me off guard, this glimpse of the person behind the detective, and I felt something in my chest ease slightly, a knot I hadn't realised was there loosening just a fraction.

I allowed myself a small smile, the first since I'd entered the building. It felt foreign on my face, like trying on someone else's expression, but also somehow necessary—a tiny rebellion against the weight crushing down on me.

"Yes. A bit obvious that, isn't it?" I replied, feeling the tiniest release of pressure, like a valve being turned just enough to prevent explosion.

The moment of levity was fleeting but precious, a reminder that even in the midst of crisis, human connection could still spark. It made me curious about this man who'd stepped in when the system had failed me, who'd seen my desperation and chosen to listen rather than dismiss.

"Are you from here?" I asked, genuinely interested despite everything.

Jenkins' smile widened slightly, softening the hard lines of his face and making him look younger, less burdened. It transformed him from anonymous authority figure to actual person, someone with his own story, his own reasons for being in this room with me.

"No," he said, shaking his head with what might have been rueful amusement. "I was born in South Australia, but my family moved to Queensland when I was a young boy. Somehow, I've ended up here."

There was something in the way he said 'somehow'—a suggestion of stories untold, paths taken by chance or necessity rather than choice. I wondered what had brought him to Tasmania, to this small island at the world's edge where everyone knew everyone and outsiders stood out like flames in darkness. Was it career advancement? Personal reasons? Or just the random drift that sometimes carried people to places they'd never intended to go?

I returned his smile, feeling an unexpected warmth towards this mainland stranger who'd shown me more compassion in five minutes than Linda had managed despite years of shared Christmas dinners. Perhaps it was precisely because he was an outsider that he could see clearly, wasn't tangled in the web of connections and obligations that seemed to blind everyone else.

"Tell me about the last time you saw your husband," Jenkins prompted, his voice gentle but insistent.

The warmth of our brief connection evaporated, replaced by the cold reality of why we were here. His tone carried the weight of necessity, pulling me back from the momentary respite into the harsh fluorescent truth of my situation.

I took a deep breath, feeling my lungs expand against my ribs, trying to steady myself for what I had to revisit. The memory of yesterday morning was still vivid, too vivid, playing in my mind on endless loop like a scene I was directing but couldn't get right. Each time I reviewed it, I found new details, new moments where I should have acted differently, should have seen what was coming.

"Nial had just finished in the shower," I began, my voice low, tinged with sorrow and regret that seemed to thicken the air between us.

I could see it so clearly—the bathroom filled with steam, the mirror fogged except where Nial had wiped a clear patch to see his reflection. The way the morning light had caught the droplets of water still clinging to his shoulders. The particular way he stood when something was troubling him, weight shifted slightly to his left foot, right hand absently rubbing his jaw.

"He was staring off into the mirror. He seemed... distracted, almost as if he were lost in thought."

I hesitated, trying to find words for something that had been more feeling than observation, more instinct than evidence. How could I explain the particular quality of his distraction, the way it had felt different from ordinary preoccupation?

"His eyes had this faraway look, you know? Like he was seeing something beyond his own reflection, something I couldn't see."

The words felt inadequate, but Jenkins was nodding slightly, encouraging me to continue. He understood, or at least was trying to understand, the significance of these small details that might mean nothing or everything.

"I rubbed his shoulder gently," I continued, my voice trembling slightly with the memory.

I could still feel the warmth of his skin under my palm, the familiar topography of muscle and bone I'd traced so many times. The way he'd always relaxed under my touch, tension flowing out of him like water. It had been our language, these small physical connections, more eloquent than words.

"That always worked. It would calm him, help him relax. I could feel the tension in his muscles ease under my hand, just a little."

Jenkins' pen moved steadily across the page, recording these intimate details that felt too personal to share with a stranger but too important to withhold.

"For a second, he seemed to come back to himself. He smiled at me through the mirror, but..."

I paused, the memory sharp as glass, cutting me all over again. That smile that hadn't reached his eyes, that had been performance rather than genuine emotion. When had Nial started performing for me? When had we become actors in our own marriage rather than authentic partners?

"It didn't quite reach his eyes."

The admission felt like confession, like admitting to a failure I should have prevented. The guilt rose in my throat like bile, threatening to choke me.

"I should have said something then. I should have asked what was wrong. But I didn't."

My voice cracked, the professional composure I'd maintained finally fracturing. I was no longer the composed drama teacher, the woman who could command a room full of teenagers. I was just a wife who'd failed to see the signs, failed to act when it might have mattered.

"God, why didn't I?"

The question wasn't really for Jenkins—it was for myself, for the universe, for whatever cruel forces had orchestrated this nightmare. I saw him shift in his chair, the faint squeak of metal against metal grounding me in the present. His face remained professionally neutral, but I could sense his discomfort with my raw emotion, the intimate glimpse into a marriage now fractured.

"And then his phone rang," I added quickly, retreating to safer ground, to facts rather than feelings.

Jenkins leaned forward slightly, his interest sharpening like a blade being drawn. His pen poised above the notepad with renewed attention.

"Do you know who he was speaking to?" he asked, his voice even but carrying an undercurrent of urgency.

I rubbed my temple, feeling the beginning of a headache that had been building since yesterday. The fluorescent lights weren't helping, their harsh glare making everything feel exposed and raw. I tried to summon the memory, to recall any detail that might help, but it remained frustratingly incomplete.

"No," I admitted, shaking my head slowly. "I had de-robed myself and gotten into the shower. The water was running, so I couldn't hear anything clearly."

The memory felt fragmented, like a film with missing frames. The sound of water cascading over me, the steam rising, the blurred shape of Nial through the frosted shower door as he'd paced whilst talking. I'd been washing my hair, eyes closed against the shampoo, trusting in the ordinary rhythm of our morning routine.

Then doubt crept in, insidious as fog. The sequence of events began to blur, overlap, contradict itself. Had the phone rung before I'd touched his shoulder or after? Had I been in the shower or just about to get in? The harder I tried to grasp the memory, the more it seemed to slip away, like trying to hold water in cupped hands.

Did the phone ring before I rubbed his shoulder?

The uncertainty was terrifying. If I couldn't trust my memory of a day ago, what else might I be wrong about? Was I an unreliable narrator of my own life, my own crisis?

Is the memory already fading? I wondered desperately, panic rising in my chest like cold water. Is Nial disappearing from my mind, just as he disappeared from our lives?

The thought was unbearable. If I lost the memories, I'd have lost him twice—first in body, then in mind. Soon, all I'd have left would be photographs and objects, evidence of a life that might as well have been fiction.

"What happened after the phone call?" Jenkins prompted gently, pulling me back from the spiral of doubt.

I struggled to steady my thoughts, to arrange the chaos into something coherent. The room felt smaller than before, the walls pressing in, the mirror reflecting infinite versions of this moment, each one slightly wrong.

"Well," I began, the word feeling fragile as blown glass. "I was still in the shower when he poked his head in to say he was just going out to meet with a new client about a potential fencing job. And then... I assume he left."

"You assume?" Jenkins queried, his tone neutral but his eyes sharp, catching the uncertainty like a hook catching fabric.

"When I was done in the shower, he was not around," I clarified, my hands twisting together on the table's cold surface. "His ute was also gone."

Jenkins nodded, making notes. Then he looked up, his expression shifting slightly, becoming more focused.

"And the dog? Did you say before that your dog was also missing?"

"Yes," I confirmed, then quickly shook my head as I realised the need for clarity. "Well, yes, Buffy is now missing. But she wasn't earlier in the morning. Sammy was playing with her after Nial had left."

The memory of my son's laughter echoed in my mind—that particular delighted shriek he made when Buffy would chase him around the garden, both of them tumbling in the grass. It had been the last moment of normality before everything went wrong, the last time our house had sounded like home.

"Sammy. Your son?" Jenkins asked, his tone softening noticeably.

"Yes," I replied, my voice carrying all the weight of maternal fear. "He's three."

Three years old. Still young enough to believe in magic and monsters, in heroes and happily ever after. Still young enough that his father's absence was incomprehensible, a violation of the natural order that his developing mind couldn't process. The thought of him waiting by the window, watching for Nial's ute, was like a physical pain in my chest.

"He misses his father so much already. He was so upset when Nial wasn't there to tuck him into bed and read him his bedtime story. They have a nightly routine," I explained, my voice cracking like ice under pressure.

The routine that had been sacred in our house, inviolable regardless of work pressures or exhaustion. Nial would appear in Sammy's doorway, holding whichever book they were reading together—currently Where the Wild Things Are, Sammy's favourite despite having heard it dozens of times. They'd curl up together on Sammy's racing car bed, Nial's voice doing all the characters, Sammy providing sound effects for the wild rumpus.

I could see it so vividly—the warm glow of the nightlight casting soft shadows, Sammy tucked against his father's side, his small fingers tracing the illustrations as Nial read. The way Sammy's eyes would start to droop but he'd fight to stay awake, not wanting the story to end. The gentle kiss Nial would place on his forehead before turning out the main light, whispering, "Sweet dreams, little man."

Last night, that routine had been broken. Sammy had waited, book in hand, until his eyes couldn't stay open any longer. I'd tried to read to him, but it wasn't the same. "You're doing the voices wrong, Mummy," he'd said, not critically but with genuine confusion. "Where's Daddy? He needs to do the voices."

Detective Jenkins reached across the table, his hand covering mine briefly. The contact was unexpected, warm against my cold skin, and I nearly pulled away from the surprise of human kindness in this inhuman place.

"It's okay, Jenny. We'll find Nial," he said firmly, his voice carrying a conviction that offered the first real hope I'd felt since yesterday morning.

There was something in his eyes—not just professional duty but genuine determination. As if my crisis had become personal to him in some way I didn't understand. The warmth lingered even after he withdrew his hand, a small spot of comfort in an ocean of fear.

"Why aren't all police officers as kind as you are," I said without thinking, the words escaping before my internal filter could catch them.

It was too personal, too revealing of how desperately I needed someone, anyone, to show me compassion. The professional distance we'd maintained cracked, leaving us as just two people in a harsh room, trying to make sense of senseless things.

Jenkins' brow furrowed slightly, a line appearing between his eyes that suggested he was processing more than just my words.

"What do you mean? Have you already spoken to another officer?" he asked, calm but laced with professional curiosity.

"Yes. Of course," I replied, frustration from the previous night bubbling back to the surface.

The memory of those two constables in my living room, their barely concealed scepticism, their pointed questions about Nial's fidelity, made my stomach turn. They'd looked at my fear and seen only domestic drama, another wife in denial about her husband's abandonment.

"Really? Please, do tell," Jenkins urged, leaning forward slightly.

There was something hungry in his expression now, the look of a detective who'd caught the scent of something important. His pen was poised over the notepad, ready to capture whatever revelation was coming.

"Well, naturally, after Buffy disappeared, which gave me quite the fright, I called the police to report her disappearance," I began, my voice carrying exhaustion from having to explain this again and again. "And Nial's."

The words felt heavy, weighted with the memory of that first call, the operator's professional disinterest, the long wait for officers who'd arrived already convinced they were wasting their time.

"But they didn't seem too worried about Nial. Did they, Mrs. Triffett?" Jenkins asked, his voice careful but probing.

The shift back to formality—Mrs. Triffett rather than Jenny—felt deliberate, as if he was reminding us both of the official nature of this conversation. But there was something else in his tone, a quiet understanding that suggested he knew exactly why they hadn't been worried.

"No," I said with a huff that contained all my accumulated frustration. "They didn't."

"And why was that?" he pressed, his gaze steady, waiting.

I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath as I grappled with what I had to say next. This was the crux of it, the detail that had transformed my husband's disappearance from emergency to inconvenience in the eyes of the law. The text message that I knew in my bones hadn't come from Nial, but which might as well have been a signed affidavit as far as the police were concerned.

"You can tell me the truth, Jenny. I won't judge you," Jenkins assured me, his voice gentle.

"Judge me?!" I snapped, my frustration boiling over.

How dare he suggest that I was the one to be judged? I wasn't the one who'd disappeared. I wasn't the one who'd abandoned a family. I wasn't the one sending cryptic messages that didn't sound like myself.

"You're no different from the rest of them. I know what you're all thinking," I said, the words spilling out in a torrent.

Even as I spoke, I knew I was being unfair. Jenkins had shown me nothing but kindness, had been the only one to take me seriously. But the anger needed somewhere to go, and he was here, present, available for the rage that Linda and the others had earned but escaped.

But Jenkins didn't react with offence or withdrawal. Instead, his expression softened further, and he leaned back slightly, giving me space for my anger whilst somehow maintaining connection.

"They questioned his fidelity, didn't they?" he asked, his tone calm but direct.

"Yes," I admitted quietly, the word heavy with humiliation.

The memory of their implications stung fresh—the careful questions about our marriage, about whether Nial had seemed "distant" lately, about whether there might be "someone else." The way they'd exchanged glances when I'd insisted he would never cheat, as if I was a naive wife refusing to see obvious signs.

Detective Jenkins leaned forward again, his gaze steady and kind despite the harsh fluorescent glare. His voice took on a gentle but insistent quality, like someone coaxing a frightened animal from hiding.

"And there was something else you told them, wasn't there, Jenny? Something that pressed them to conclude that you had no case for a missing persons report?"

The question hung in the air between us like a blade waiting to fall. I felt cornered, trapped between the truth I knew and the evidence that contradicted it. My throat felt tight, as if the words were physically fighting against being spoken.

I nodded slowly, feeling the weight of inevitability pressing down on me. A tear traced a hot, wet line down my cheek, the salt of it stinging my skin.

"Yes," I whispered, my voice barely audible over the fluorescent hum.

Jenkins' tone softened further, becoming almost paternal. "What did you tell them?"

I drew in a shaky breath that felt like swallowing broken glass. My shoulders sagged under the weight of what I had to admit, the detail that had destroyed my credibility and transformed my husband's disappearance into a non-event in the eyes of the law.

"While the police were with me, I received a text message from Nial," I confessed, my eyes fluttering shut, unable to watch Jenkins' face change as he processed this information.

The darkness behind my eyelids was no comfort—I could still feel his gaze, still sense the shift in the room's atmosphere as this crucial detail landed between us.

"He said that he was still with the potential client and was going to be home late."

The silence that followed was deafening. I kept my eyes closed, not wanting to see disappointment or dismissal in Jenkins' expression, not wanting to watch him transform from ally to skeptic like all the others.

"Fuck!"

The expletive exploded from Jenkins with such force that my eyes snapped open. He was leaning back in his chair, the metal legs scraping loudly against the floor, the sound sharp as a scream in the sterile room. His professional composure had cracked completely, revealing genuine frustration underneath.

Another tear slipped down my cheek, following the path of the first. I knew exactly what that text message meant in police terms—proof of life, evidence of voluntary absence, case closed before it could properly open. It was the detail that transformed everything, that turned a missing person into a man who simply chose not to come home.

"He told me not to wait up for him," I added desperately, my voice barely above a whisper.

I needed Jenkins to understand why this message had felt so wrong, so fundamentally not-Nial. My heart clenched painfully as I continued, each word an effort.

"He's never said that to me before. In all our years together—through late jobs, early mornings, everything—he's never once told me not to wait up."

I met Jenkins' eyes, willing him to see what I saw, to understand what those five words meant in the context of our marriage.

"It's... it's not him, Detective. I know it's not him."

The certainty in my voice surprised even me. Despite all the doubt, all the questioning of my own memory and judgment, this one thing I knew absolutely. That message hadn't come from my husband. Someone else had sent it, someone who didn't know our patterns, our language, the small intimacies that made us us.

Jenkins' expression shifted subtly as he absorbed this. He wasn't dismissing me like the others had. Instead, his eyes reflected something I hadn't expected—genuine consideration, as if he was turning the information over in his mind, examining it from angles I couldn't see.

The silence stretched between us, but it wasn't the dismissive silence I'd encountered before. This was the silence of thought, of processing, of a detective actually detecting rather than just following procedure.

Then, completely without warning, Jenkins asked a question that felt like it came from another conversation entirely.

"Do you know of a Luke Smith?"

I blinked, trying to process the sudden shift. "No," I replied, confusion evident in every syllable. "The name doesn't sound familiar. Should I know him?"

I searched Jenkins' face for clues, for any indication of why this name mattered, what connection it might have to Nial's disappearance. But his expression had become carefully neutral, professional mask firmly back in place.

"No," he said, his answer curt and devoid of explanation.

But something flickered in his eyes—a recognition, a concern, a piece of puzzle clicking into place that he wasn't ready to share. The moment passed quickly, but I'd seen it, that flash of something that suggested Luke Smith was significant in ways I couldn't yet understand.

My heart pounded as I leaned forward, my hands flat on the cold table, needing to know if this meant what I hoped it meant.

"Are you going to help me?" The question escaped before I could fully form it, raw and desperate. "Please, Detective Jenkins. I know how it looks. I know what the text message means in terms of official procedure. But I know my husband. I know something is wrong. Please... please help me find him."

The words tumbled out, each one a plea, a prayer, a last desperate attempt to make someone in authority believe me. I was begging now, pride completely abandoned in the face of my family's crisis. If Jenkins turned me away, I didn't know what I'd do. Go to the media? Hire a private investigator with money we didn't have? Drive around Hobart looking for Nial's ute until I collapsed from exhaustion?

For a long moment, Jenkins was silent, his dark eyes locked onto mine. I felt laid bare under his scrutiny, every fear and doubt exposed in the harsh fluorescent light. He was weighing something, making calculations I couldn't follow, reaching decisions that would determine whether I walked out of here with hope or despair.

The tape recorder continued its silent vigil, waiting to capture whatever came next. The mirror reflected our tableau—two people separated by a scratched metal table, one desperate, one deciding. The fluorescent light flickered again, casting strange shadows that made everything feel unreal, like we were actors in someone else's drama.

Then Jenkins moved, reaching into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a business card, the small rectangle of cardstock seeming monumentally important in that moment.

Wordlessly, he slid it across the table towards me.

I picked it up with trembling fingers, my eyes scanning the text printed in official font: Senior Detective Karl Jenkins, Hobart Police Department, Major Crimes Unit.

Major Crimes.

The words sent a shiver down my spine. This wasn't a constable or a desk sergeant. This was someone who investigated serious things—murders, kidnappings, the kinds of crimes that destroyed lives and made headlines. The fact that he was taking my case, that he saw something worth investigating, was both validating and terrifying.

"I'll open a case file," he said finally, the words falling into the space between us like keys unlocking a door I'd thought was permanently closed.

Relief coursed through me with such force that I felt momentarily light-headed, as if I might float up from the chair and drift away. Someone was finally listening. Someone with authority, with resources, with the power to actually do something. The gratitude was overwhelming, threatening to dissolve me into tears.

"I need you to contact me the moment you hear anything further from your husband. Anything at all," he instructed, his tone firm but kind.

"Of course," I promised, my voice trembling as I reached out impulsively, briefly touching his hand where it rested on the table. "Whatever you need to do your job."

The contact was brief but electric with meaning—gratitude, desperation, hope, all transmitted through that momentary touch. Jenkins offered me an awkward smile, a fleeting glimpse of the person behind the professional facade. He wasn't comfortable with emotional displays, that much was clear, but he wasn't cold either. He was simply someone trying to do his job whilst maintaining enough distance to do it well.

As he rose from his chair, I clutched the business card tightly in my hand, its edges digging into my palm. The small pain was reassuring, grounding, proof that this was real and not some desperate fantasy I'd conjured. Someone was going to help. The machinery of investigation was about to begin turning.

Jenkins moved to the door and held it open for me, a gesture of courtesy that felt almost antiquated in this stark environment. As I stood, my legs felt unsteady, as if I'd been sitting for hours rather than—how long had it been? Time had become elastic in this room, stretching and compressing based on emotional intensity rather than the clock.

We retraced our path through the maze of corridors, the journey feeling different now that I had hope rather than just desperation. The wanted posters on the walls looked less ominous, more like problems being solved rather than lives destroyed. The institutional green paint seemed less oppressive, just an unfortunate colour choice rather than a symbol of bureaucratic indifference.

Jenkins walked beside me with steady purpose, occasionally nodding to other officers we passed. They looked at us with curiosity—who was this dishevelled woman with the Major Crimes detective?—but Jenkins offered no explanations, just kept moving forward with quiet authority that cleared our path without words.

As we approached the door to the lobby, I could hear the familiar sounds of the public area—the fountain's burble, the low murmur of voices, the occasional crackle of a radio. Normal sounds of a Sunday morning at the police station, but I was returning to them changed. I was no longer just a hysterical wife with a missing husband. I was a case, official, recognised, validated.

Jenkins paused at the door, his hand on the handle but not yet opening it.

"Mrs Triffett," he said formally, then seemed to reconsider. "Jenny. This isn't going to be easy. Missing person cases, especially when there's been contact... they're complicated. But I want you to know that I'm taking this seriously. That name you didn't recognise—Luke Smith—it might be nothing, but... just be careful. If anyone by that name contacts you, call me immediately."

The warning sent fresh chills down my spine. Who was Luke Smith? What did Jenkins know that he wasn't telling me? But before I could ask, he'd opened the door, ushering me back into the lobby's harsh exposure.

The contrast was jarring—from the private intensity of the interview room to the public theatre of the lobby. The same people were still there, or different people in the same positions, playing out their own dramas of loss and crime and consequence. Linda was still at her desk, though she was studiously focused on her computer screen, deliberately not looking in our direction.

I straightened my spine, lifted my chin, and walked past her without acknowledgment. Whatever relationship we'd had was altered now, perhaps irreparably. She'd chosen her side when she'd chosen protocol over family. I had bigger concerns than salvaging social connections that had proven themselves hollow.

Jenkins walked me all the way to the automatic doors, a courtesy that went beyond professional requirement. As the sensors detected our approach and the doors began their mechanical slide, he spoke one final time.

"Remember—anything at all, you call me. Day or night. That's my direct number."

I nodded, unable to speak past the emotion clogging my throat. Then the doors were open, and the winter morning was rushing in, carrying the scent of eucalyptus and distant rain, the real world with all its chaos and uncertainty.

I stepped through, feeling Jenkins' gaze on my back until the doors whispered closed between us. The business card in my hand felt warm now, as if it had absorbed the heat of my desperate grip. I looked down at it again: Major Crimes Unit. The words that had seemed ominous now felt like a promise.

The search had officially begun.