The Wrong Car, The Right Mistake

“It’s funny how most breakthroughs start the same way — with someone doing something they really, really shouldn’t.”

"There! Look!" I exclaimed, my attention suddenly captured by a car making a hasty exit from the bottle shop.

The vehicle—a silver Honda Civic that had seen better days, judging by the way it moved—swerved sharply, coming perilously close to clipping a small, red hatchback parked innocently at the side of the road. Close enough that I could see the gap between metal surfaces closing to what couldn't have been more than centimetres, that sick moment where you're certain you're about to witness a collision.

My heart raced at the near-miss, adrenaline spiking with that particular cocktail of alarm and excitement that came from watching reckless driving in progress. The thrill of a potential chase igniting within me like a match struck in darkness—that instant transformation from bored patrol to active pursuit, from routine to something that mattered.

"Shit! That was a close call," Karl breathed out beside me, his eyes widening as he watched the scene unfold with the same intensity I was feeling. The reckless manoeuvre by the driver was a glaring red flag, the kind of obvious indicator that screamed either intoxication or distraction or simply spectacular incompetence behind the wheel.

And both of us knew it. Could read it in each other's expressions without needing to articulate what we'd just witnessed, that silent communication that came from months of partnership and shared instincts about when something warranted attention.

"Random?" I asked, already knowing the answer but wanting verbal confirmation from Karl, wanting to establish that we were both on the same page about what we'd just seen. In situations like this, a random check could turn up anything from outstanding warrants to contraband to drunk drivers who thought they could make it home without incident.

The beauty of random traffic stops was their unpredictability—you never quite knew what you'd find once you started pulling threads.

"It would be irresponsible of us not to," Karl agreed, his face breaking into a wide grin that mirrored the excitement building in my own chest. That particular smile that meant he was feeling it too, that shift from routine patrol to active policing, from observation to intervention.

I grinned back at him, feeling a surge of adrenaline that made my fingers tingle where they rested on my lap. "Here we go then," I said, the words laced with perhaps a bit too much glee—the kind of enthusiasm that probably would have concerned a civilian who didn't understand that this was what we lived for, these moments when the job stopped being paperwork and became actual action.

I reached for the controls mounted between our seats and activated the red and blue flashing lights. The siren wailed briefly—just a quick burst, piercing the afternoon air just long enough to signal the driver ahead that they'd been spotted, that their little incident hadn't gone unnoticed, that they were about to have a very inconvenient conversation.

I imagined the driver's reaction as those lights appeared in their rear-view mirror—no doubt begrudging, filled with the kind of annoyed resignation that came from knowing you'd just been caught doing something you shouldn't have been doing. That universal "oh fuck" moment when you realise your day is about to get significantly worse.

Karl skilfully followed the silver Honda Civic, maintaining a safe distance as we trailed it through Glenorchy's streets. His driving was smooth, controlled, none of the aggressive pursuit tactics you saw in films—just steady, professional following that kept the target in sight whilst giving them space to comply with our signals.

The driver, seemingly aware of our presence now—hard not to be with emergency lights flashing in your mirrors—eventually pulled over to the side of the main road that snaked through Glenorchy's industrial heart. Not quickly, not with any enthusiasm, but with the resigned compliance of someone who knew fighting it would only make things worse.

Karl brought our unmarked police car to a smooth halt behind the Civic, positioning us at an angle that would give us clear sightlines whilst also providing some protection if things went sideways. Not that we expected trouble from a traffic stop, but habits formed in training died hard.

"You want to do the honours?" Karl asked, turning towards me with a knowing look that suggested he could sense exactly how much I'd been hoping he'd ask that question. His voice carried a hint of amusement, as if he could read my anticipation for this part of the job like it was written across my forehead in permanent marker.

"Sure," I replied, trying and failing to contain my eagerness. There was something about these interactions—the unpredictability, the potential for discovery, the direct engagement with the public—that I found genuinely exhilarating in ways desk work could never match.

Every traffic stop was a mystery box. Might be nothing. Might be something. You never knew until you opened it.

"I'll do a plate check," Karl stated, already reaching for the laptop mounted between us to run the vehicle's registration through the system. Standard procedure—knowing who you were dealing with before you approached made everything safer, gave you context that might prove crucial.

I stepped out of the car, boots hitting pavement with solid weight, and took a moment to orient myself. The afternoon sun was bright but not quite warm—that particular Tasmanian quality of light that looked cheerful but carried winter's lingering chill. Traffic moved past us at a respectful distance, drivers slowing slightly to gawk at the scene, probably grateful it wasn't them being pulled over.

As I approached the driver's side of the Civic, composing my expression into something professional rather than gleeful, the window slid down smoothly.

I composed myself, trying to maintain a professional demeanour despite the rush of excitement coursing through me like caffeine on an empty stomach. This was the moment of truth, the point of contact where anything could happen. It might be a completely routine stop—licence, registration, warning about dangerous driving, everyone goes home with nothing more than inconvenience.

Or it could spiral into something more. Outstanding warrants. Drugs in the boot. A driver who decided compliance wasn't their preferred response to authority.

Either way, I was ready. Or as ready as you could be for the inherent unpredictability of human interaction.

The driver, still blissfully unaware of just how significantly their afternoon was about to change, was about to face the consequences of their reckless driving. I had seen enough careless behaviour on the roads—enough near-misses that became actual accidents, enough preventable tragedies born from momentary inattention—to know that these moments mattered. That they were essential in maintaining some semblance of order and safety in a world where two-tonne metal boxes hurtled past each other at fatal speeds whilst their operators paid more attention to phones than roads.

The thought that this driver was in for a significant fine, and deservedly so, was at the forefront of my mind as I prepared to speak with them. Justice measured in penalty units and demerit points, but justice nonetheless.

"Licence please," I instructed, adopting my serious, police officer voice—the one I'd practised until it came naturally, firm without being aggressive, authoritative without being condescending. The voice that said I was professional, competent, not to be trifled with.

Despite my professional demeanour, carefully maintained through conscious effort, I couldn't completely hide my surprise at seeing a rather attractive, young woman sitting in the driver's seat. It wasn't what I had expected—some unconscious assumption about reckless driving and gender that I immediately felt guilty about making—and for a moment it threw me off slightly, made me reassess the situation through a different lens.

She was perhaps mid-thirties, with the kind of carefully constructed appearance that suggested time spent in front of mirrors each morning. Dark hair pulled back, makeup that looked professionally applied rather than hastily smeared, jewellery that caught the light when she moved. Not your stereotypical reckless driver, which of course meant nothing—reckless driving was an equal-opportunity problem.

I watched as she reached across to the passenger side, her movements fluid despite a hint of nervousness, rummaging through a leather handbag that had been tossed haphazardly in the footwell. The bag was expensive-looking—real leather rather than pleather, with designer hardware that suggested disposable income beyond what most people in Glenorchy possessed.

There was a casual elegance about her, even in this slightly flustered state. The kind of polish that came from either money or exceptional effort or both.

"Did I do something wrong?" the woman asked, her voice tinged with genuine confusion and a hint of innocence as she handed over her driver's licence. She seemed to truly believe she hadn't committed any infraction, which made my job a little more complicated—easier to deal with people who knew they'd fucked up than those who genuinely didn't understand what they'd done wrong.

Was this genuine ignorance, or was she playing a role? The question flickered through my mind even as I maintained my neutral expression. Some people were excellent actors when pulled over, could manufacture confusion and innocence like breathing.

"Well, you almost hit a parked car back there when you turned out of the bottle shop," I explained, striving to keep my tone even and professional rather than accusatory. Facts delivered calmly, giving her the information without editorial judgement.

I glanced down at the licence she'd handed me, checking the photo against the face before me. They matched—same person, though the photo was slightly more severe, taken in that particular Department of State Growth style that made everyone look vaguely criminal regardless of actual innocence.

Gladys May Cramer, the name read. Date of birth putting her at almost thirty-seven. Address in Claremont. Clean-looking licence, no obvious red flags.

A good start, indeed. At least she was who she claimed to be.

As I held her licence, turning it over in my hands out of habit more than necessity, a flicker of recognition sparked in my mind. Gladys Cramer... Why does that name sound familiar? I thought, racking my brain through the accumulated database of names and faces and cases that came from years of policing even in a relatively small place like Hobart.

There was something about it that resonated, a distant connection or a mention in passing that I couldn't quite place. The name had weight beyond this moment, significance I couldn't immediately access.

"Have you had anything to drink this afternoon?" I asked Gladys, shifting into the standard questions that came with any traffic stop where erratic driving had been observed.

"No," Gladys replied with immediate confidence, no hesitation or deflection that might suggest dishonesty. "That's why I was out getting these lovelies," she added, patting the brown paper bag resting on the passenger seat with an affection usually reserved for pets or small children.

The bag crinkled under her touch, glass bottles shifting inside with that distinctive clink that confirmed alcohol despite the paper wrapper.

Oh, Jesus... I thought, suppressing the urge to roll my eyes at her casual attitude, at the complete lack of awareness that her answer—whilst technically not incriminating regarding current intoxication—did absolutely nothing to help her case. Her response suggested she didn't grasp the gravity of the situation, or perhaps she was just genuinely oblivious to how law enforcement interpreted statements like that.

"Gladys Cramer," I said, pulling out the small breathalyser from my belt—one of those portable units that every patrol officer carried, compact and relatively reliable despite their tendency to be temperamental in cold weather. "I just need you to blow into this tube here until I tell you to stop, okay?" I instructed, holding the device out to her, already breaking the seal on a fresh mouthpiece.

Gladys nodded, showing her willingness to comply without protest or the kind of defensive hostility some people displayed when asked to prove their sobriety. That was something, at least—cooperation made everything easier, made the interaction feel less confrontational and more procedural.

She placed her dark, plum-coloured lips—the colour carefully chosen to complement her complexion, I noticed absently—around the end of the white, plastic tube protruding from the breathalyser. There was something about her manner, a certain nonchalance that suggested this wasn't her first roadside breath test, that piqued my curiosity even further.

Too comfortable with the process, perhaps. Or maybe just naturally composed under pressure.

"Okay, now blow," I directed her, watching her face for any signs of nervousness or guilt that might telegraph results before the machine processed them.

Gladys took a deep breath—preparing herself like an athlete before performance—and exhaled loudly into the breathalyser with the kind of force that suggested she'd done this before, knew exactly how much pressure was needed to satisfy the device's sensors.

I observed her closely, noting that she didn't seem concerned in the slightest about the possibility of failing the test, about facing penalties for drink-driving. Her confidence was either a sign of genuine innocence or a well-practised façade developed through repeated encounters with law enforcement.

"Stop," I instructed sharply when the breathalyser beeped its completion signal, the electronic chirp indicating it had collected a sufficient sample to process. I pulled the device away, watching as the screen ran through its analysis, LEDs blinking in sequence whilst algorithms measured blood-alcohol content.

The air felt thick with anticipation as the device processed the results—though that was probably just me projecting meaning onto a moment that, for Gladys, seemed completely unremarkable. She looked almost bored, gazing out through her windscreen at nothing in particular whilst waiting for permission to continue with her day.

I leaned in, studying the display closely as numbers appeared. My head tilted in confusion as I read the results once, then re-read them to confirm I wasn't misinterpreting what I was seeing.

Well, this can't be right, I thought, frowning at the breathalyser like it had personally betrayed me.

"One moment please, Ms. Cramer," I said, stepping back slightly from the car, my mind racing with curiosity about what this meant for our stop, for the near-collision I'd witnessed, for the explanation I'd need to provide Karl about why we'd pulled someone over who was completely sober.

Disappointment was etched on my face as I walked back over to Karl's window, unable to hide my reaction to this unexpected development. The breathalyser result had thrown a curveball into what I had assumed would be a straightforward stop—reckless driver, probably intoxicated, easy fine, everyone moves on.

"Well, that's a bit odd. She's recorded a zero blood-alcohol reading," I reported, the perplexity evident in my tone despite my attempts to sound purely informational. Zero. Not point-zero-something that might suggest recent drinking not yet showing in breath analysis, but actual zero. Stone-cold sober.

Which made the near-collision we'd witnessed even more concerning in some ways—at least drunk drivers had an excuse for their incompetence.

"She?" Karl asked, his surprise mirroring my own earlier reaction. His eyebrows raised with that expression that suggested he'd been expecting someone entirely different based on the driving he'd observed.

"Yeah," I confirmed, handing him Gladys Cramer's driver's licence through his open window.

Karl examined the licence closely, tilting it to catch light, checking the security features out of habit even though we had no reason to suspect forgery. His eyes narrowed slightly as he read the details, that particular expression that meant his brain was processing information against internal databases of names and faces and connections.

"Gladys Cramer," he read aloud slowly, his brow furrowing with thought as recognition clearly dawned. "I think we might have a little problem."

The way he said it—careful, measured, significant—made my stomach drop slightly with anticipation. That tone meant something more than a simple traffic violation, meant this stop had just become more complicated than expected.

"What is it?" I leaned in closer to the car, my curiosity now fully piqued, practically vibrating with the need to know what Karl had realised that I'd missed. That flicker of recognition about Gladys Cramer's name suddenly felt more important, more pressing.

"Is Gladys the only person in the car?" Karl inquired, looking past me towards the silver Honda Civic where Gladys sat waiting with that same patient boredom, probably wondering what was taking so long for a simple breath test.

"Yeah. Why?" I responded, unable to keep a hint of impatience from creeping into my voice. I couldn't fathom where Karl was going with this line of questioning, couldn't see the connection he was obviously making.

"This car belongs to Jamie Greyson," Karl revealed, and the significance of his words hit me like a physical impact—sudden, overwhelming, transforming everything about this stop in an instant.

Jamie Greyson. Missing person. Centre of our current investigation. And this woman was driving his car.

"Shit!" The expletive burst out of me as I jerked back instinctively, narrowly avoiding a collision with the car door frame that would have left me with a spectacular bruise. My mind raced with the implications of Karl's revelation, synapses firing in rapid succession as I tried to process what this meant.

The fact that this car belonged to Jamie Greyson transformed the situation from a simple traffic stop—routine, forgettable, the kind of thing that happened dozens of times per shift—into a potentially vital lead in an active missing persons investigation.

My heart pounded with the realisation that we might be on the brink of a significant breakthrough, that this random stop for careless driving might be the lucky break that cracked the case wide open.

"Ok, what do you want me to do? Should I get my gun out?" I asked, instinctively reaching for my holster. The adrenaline was pumping, preparing me for any potential threat.

"No! Jesus, Sarah, what is it with you and your bloody gun?" Karl retorted sharply, his voice carrying that particular edge of exasperation I'd been hearing more frequently lately. "You wait here. I'll deal with her."

Reluctantly—so reluctantly I could feel the resistance in every muscle—I returned to my seat in the unmarked police car. Slumped back into the passenger seat like a scolded child being told to wait whilst the adults handled important business. I tapped the dashboard impatiently with the breathalyser—tap, tap, tap—a physical manifestation of my frustration at being sidelined, at being excluded from what was clearly a significant development.

I trusted Karl's judgement, genuinely did. But the detective in me wanted to be part of the action, wanted to be in the thick of the investigation rather than watching from the sidelines like a spectator at a sport I was supposed to be playing.

As I sat there imprisoned by Karl's instructions, waiting for him to handle the situation with Gladys Cramer, a thousand scenarios played out in my head with vivid detail. Each one was a different version of how this could connect back to Jamie Greyson and our larger case—different permutations of innocence and guilt, of coincidence and conspiracy.

My gaze lingered on Karl as he approached Gladys's car with measured steps, his movements calm and deliberate, a stark contrast to the turmoil of thoughts swirling inside me like a tempest. I watched his body language, tried to read meaning in gestures I could observe but not hear, attempted to decode a conversation happening just beyond my reach.

I took a deep breath, trying to temper my impatience with rationality. This was a crucial moment, and it was essential that we handled it correctly. The importance of teamwork, of trusting your partner's approach even when it differed from your own instincts, was never more evident than now.

As Karl spoke with Gladys—their conversation maddeningly inaudible through closed windows and distance—I remained alert and ready to assist if needed. The wait was both agonising and necessary, discipline warring with instinct.

Minutes crawled past with glacial slowness.

Finally, Karl straightened, stepped back from her window, and walked back towards our car with that purposeful stride that suggested information gained.

"Well?" I couldn't help but press Karl for information the moment he slid back into the driver's seat after his conversation with Gladys. The question burst out before he'd even closed his door properly. My curiosity was like a fire, impossible to contain, consuming everything in its path.

Karl took his time responding, methodically settling himself behind the steering wheel and buckling his seatbelt with deliberate slowness. There was something calculated in his movements, as if he was weighing his words before speaking them, considering how much to reveal.

"Well," he began finally, turning to face me with a grin that was both reassuring and slightly teasing—that particular expression that meant he had information I wanted and was enjoying making me wait for it. "It seems we are about to find Jamie Greyson."

"Where's the fun in that?!" I blurted out before I could stop myself, the words escaping in a mix of genuine curiosity and a touch of disappointment I immediately felt guilty about.

Of course, most of me hoped it was true for Jamie and Louise's sake—that we were close to resolving their situation, that missing persons would be found safe and well. Yet, there was a small, admittedly selfish part of me that relished the thrill of the investigation, the chase, the complexity of unravelling mysteries. The possibility that it might be nearing its end so anticlimactically was a bittersweet pill.

Karl started the engine, his expression turning more serious, that slight frown that suggested mild disappointment in my reaction. "Not everything has to end with murder and crime," he reminded me, his voice carrying a tone of gentle disapproval wrapped in professional concern.

It was a reminder that sounded like the kind of clichéd advice a schoolteacher might give—something about not following the crowd or the dangers of jumping to conclusions or remembering what really mattered in life.

"I know, I know," I responded, unable to keep a twinge of defensive complaint from my voice. I couldn't hide my eagerness for more action, more complexity, more of the dramatic elements that made detective work feel significant rather than routine. "But I haven't investigated a murder yet. I thought maybe this could be my first."

The admission sounded worse aloud than it had in my head—revealing an enthusiasm for tragedy that probably warranted psychological examination.

"Well, looks like you're about to become disappointed... Officer," Karl replied, his deliberate emphasis on the word 'Officer' driving home the point that my disappointment was somewhat misplaced given our profession, given the actual purpose of policing.

It was a gentle reprimand, reminding me that our job was ultimately about justice and resolution—about finding people alive and returning them safely—not about feeding my appetite for dramatic investigations and complex crimes.

As we pulled away from the kerb, falling into position behind Gladys's silver Civic, I settled back into my seat with mixed feelings churning in my chest. The prospect of finding Jamie Greyson and possibly concluding the investigation was undeniably a significant achievement, the kind of outcome that made the work feel worthwhile.

Yet part of me couldn't help but feel a twinge of longing for the continued excitement and challenge of the hunt, for the complexity that would come from a case that resisted easy resolution.

This duality—the desire for both resolution and the thrill of the pursuit—was an inherent part of being a detective, a balance I was still learning to navigate. The tension between wanting victims safe and wanting cases interesting enough to engage with fully.

We trailed closely behind Gladys as she resumed her journey, our unmarked police car making its way up the steep and winding Berriedale Road that climbed through Hobart's northern suburbs.

From our vantage point directly behind her, I kept a vigilant eye on Gladys's driving. My gaze was sharp and focused, like a hawk surveying its prey, anticipating any slip-up that might justify further intervention. After her earlier near-collision, I was watching for any sign of continued dangerous behaviour.

I didn't have to wait long for something to happen.

"You've got to be kidding!" I exclaimed in disbelief, leaning forward in my seat to get a better view of what I was seeing. "Does it look like Gladys is texting to you?"

We had received extensive training on recognising the tell-tale signs of distracted driving—the particular way heads dipped, the periodic glances downward, the slight drift in lane position that accompanied divided attention. It was a skill I prided myself on having nearly perfected through countless hours of observation.

And Gladys was displaying every classic indicator.

Karl squinted as he observed Gladys's actions, his eyes narrowing with professional assessment. "Yeah. It sure looks that way, doesn't it?" he concurred, his tone carrying the resignation of someone who'd seen this behaviour far too often.

"Lights or just keep following?" I asked, weighing our options aloud. We needed to act—texting whilst driving on these steep roads was asking for tragedy—but it was crucial to handle the situation appropriately, to make tactical decisions rather than simply reacting.

"Shit! We'd better pull her over," Karl decided suddenly, his voice sharp with urgency as Gladys's vehicle veered dramatically to the left, nearly scraping against the metal barrier lining the road's edge. The silver Civic came within centimetres of impact, correcting at the last possible moment.

Her erratic driving was escalating from concerning to genuinely dangerous, and we couldn't risk letting it continue unchecked. Not on these roads, not with that kind of inattention.

I activated the red and blue flashing lights for the second time. My heart pounded with a mix of adrenaline and frustration—the adrenaline from potential danger, the frustration that we were dealing with the same driver twice in one afternoon for increasingly serious violations.

But to our astonishment, Gladys didn't pull over.

I watched, bewildered, as she continued driving up the hill, her car still swerving with alarming frequency between lanes. Either she hadn't noticed the lights—unlikely given their brightness—or she was deliberately ignoring our signals, which opened up far more concerning possibilities.

"Is she seriously not stopping?" I asked incredulously, unable to believe what I was witnessing.

Deciding to escalate our response before she caused an actual accident, I switched on the siren. The piercing sound cut through the afternoon air with aggressive insistence, impossible to ignore even for the most distracted driver. Finally—finally—it captured Gladys's attention, forcing her to acknowledge our presence and the seriousness of the situation.

Reluctantly, moving with the slow compliance of someone who knew they were in trouble, she pulled her car over. Karl expertly manoeuvred our vehicle to stop just behind her, positioning us safely whilst maintaining tactical advantage.

As we prepared to confront Gladys for the second time, my mind was a whirlwind of questions and theories. Her actions were not just irresponsible—they were dangerous, potentially criminally so. What was so important on her phone that it justified this level of risk? Why hadn't she stopped immediately when we'd activated lights? What was she hiding or running toward that made safe driving secondary?

Karl was just stepping out of the car when he suddenly turned back to me, his decision clear in his firm expression and the way he held up one hand in a gesture that meant 'stay.'

"You wait in the driver's seat," he instructed, his tone brooking no argument.

My initial reaction was a flash of irritation sharp enough to burn—my eyes locking onto his with an intensity that could have melted steel. Being sidelined twice in one afternoon felt like punishment, felt like Karl didn't trust me to handle confrontation appropriately.

"Just in case she decides to do a runner," he added quickly, reading my expression and providing tactical justification before I could voice my objection.

My expression softened slightly at the logic of his decision, at the recognition that he was making strategic choices rather than personal ones. Being in the driver's seat meant I was in the prime position to give chase should Gladys attempt to flee—which, given her failure to stop immediately when signalled, was no longer an unreasonable concern.

A part of me—the same part that thrived on the adrenaline of the chase and had been disappointed at the prospect of easy resolution—almost wished for her to make a run for it. It would add another layer of excitement to the day's events, would transform this from routine traffic enforcement into something more dramatic.

As Karl approached Gladys's car, I shifted from passenger seat to driver's seat, adjusting mirrors and seat position whilst keeping my eyes fixed on the scene unfolding ahead. My hands rested on the steering wheel, ready to respond if needed.

Every second stretched out, feeling longer than the last. I found myself tapping my fingers anxiously on the steering wheel—tap, tap, tap—the rhythmic drumming a poor distraction from my growing impatience and curiosity about what Karl was saying, what explanation Gladys was providing for her increasingly suspicious behaviour.

Eventually, I reverted to a childhood habit I thought I'd outgrown, forming makeshift binoculars with my hands and peering intently through the gap in an attempt to decipher their conversation through lip-reading or body language or sheer force of will. But it was futile—I couldn't make out anything Karl was saying, could only see the shapes of words without their substance.

What's taking him so long? The question gnawed at me, my curiosity and eagerness for action mounting with each passing moment. I sighed with mounting frustration, the suspense almost unbearable, and fell back against the seat dramatically.

The waiting game was always the hardest part of the job for me. I preferred being in the thick of it, directly involved in conversations and confrontations, rather than on the sidelines observing from a distance even if it was a strategic position.

Moments later—though it felt like hours compressed into minutes—Karl walked briskly back to the car, his pace noticeably quicker than his previous return, suggesting urgency or significant developments or both.

He slid into the passenger seat with purpose, buckling himself in before I could even ask the questions piling up in my throat.

"Did you give her a ticket?" I asked immediately, needing to know what consequences had resulted from this second stop, from behaviour that clearly warranted citation if not arrest.

"No, just drive," Karl instructed firmly, his tone carrying that particular quality that meant explanations would come but not immediately, that I needed to trust him and follow instructions without debate.

Without asking any more questions—though they threatened to burst out like water from a cracked dam—I started the car and began to follow Gladys as she pulled back onto Berriedale Road and continued upward. My mind was abuzz with theories and possibilities, but I knew better than to press Karl when he was like this, when he had that expression that meant he was still processing information and formulating approach.

There was a reason for his terse instructions, and I trusted his judgement enough to wait for explanation rather than demanding it immediately.

We drove in increasingly tense silence as the road climbed higher, the houses becoming more expensive and architecturally ambitious as we ascended. The silence wasn't comfortable—it was pregnant with unspoken information, heavy with anticipation of whatever Karl had learned that was significant enough to override normal procedure.

Finally, we arrived at a house that commanded its hillside position with architectural confidence. I parked the car across the street as Gladys pulled into the driveway, positioning us where we had clear sightlines of the entrance.

The house itself was impressive—a modern, split-level construction that spoke of money and design ambition. This was architect-designed wealth, the kind that required significant investment.

From our vantage point, I watched Gladys exit Jamie's car with her brown paper bag clutched protectively. She walked towards the house with casual confidence, no hesitation about where she was going.

The situation felt like it was teetering on the edge of something significant, and my senses were heightened in anticipation. This house might hold answers we'd been searching for.

Hesitant to leave the car without understanding Karl's plan, I looked to him with an expression that demanded explanation.

"I don't think we're going to be meeting Jamie Greyson," Karl said, reading my unasked question.

My head tilted, waiting for more information.

"But with a bit of luck, we might be about to speak with Luke Smith," Karl explained, a grin spreading across his face with satisfaction. "He's cooking dinner for her."

His revelation took me completely by surprise, my eyes widening for the second time that day. Luke Smith? The name reconfigured everything I thought I understood about this situation.

Luke Smith. Jamie Greyson's partner. Also missing according to our investigation. And apparently here, alive, cooking dinner for a woman who was driving Jamie's car.

The pieces were shifting into a pattern I hadn't anticipated but that made a certain kind of sense once Karl pointed it out.