Unspoken

“Some silences say more than shouting ever could. And some days, that’s all you hear.”

Morning came with merciless brightness, sunlight streaming through blinds I'd forgotten to close after cleaning up the mess beside my bed in the pre-dawn darkness. The light carved painful pathways across my retinas, each beam a fresh assault on my already fragile state that made me flinch away instinctively. I squinted against the glare, my head pulsing in protest with a rhythm that matched my heartbeat. Every heartbeat was a hammer-blow behind my eyes, a rhythmic throb that made me wince just lifting my head from the pillow where it had sunk during those few precious hours of fitful sleep.

The clock on my bedside table showed 7:34 AM in accusatory red digits—a cruel truth delivered with digital precision. Barely three hours of sleep since the nightmare had wrenched me into the cold arms of wakefulness, since I'd vomited onto my bedroom floor and spent an hour scrubbing. I'd showered around 4 AM after the cleaning was done, hands scrubbing the floorboards until my knees had bruised from the sustained pressure of kneeling, the bucket beside me sloshing with soapy water that did nothing to wash away the memory of bile and fear that clung to my consciousness. The sharp tang of disinfectant still hung in the air, clinging stubbornly to the walls and mixing with the smell of my own sweat, mingling now with the faint, ever-lingering scent of sickness that seemed to have permeated the room. I could taste it—like something rotten curled at the back of my tongue, refusing to be swallowed or spat away.

Rising was no small feat of will. My muscles ached from accumulated tension and lack of rest, each movement met with stiffness as though my body resented the demand to function, as though it wanted to remain horizontal forever. When I finally swung my legs over the edge of the bed with effort that shouldn't have been necessary, I was met with a full view of myself in the mirror. The sight stopped me cold, froze me in place.

Sunlight slashed across my reflection with unforgiving clarity, illuminating the wreckage of a man: grey-streaked stubble clung to sallow skin that looked almost jaundiced in the harsh light, lips pale and cracked from dehydration and breathing through my mouth all night, eyes rimmed red and sunken deep into bruised sockets that made me look decades older. My chest rose and fell with a slow, heavy rhythm, as if even the simple act of breathing had become a burden too great. I looked like someone on the brink of collapse—no, I looked like someone already falling, already halfway to hitting bottom.

Jargus sat patiently at the foot of the bed, ears pricked forward attentively, eyes unwavering in their focus on me. He hadn't strayed far all night, had maintained his vigil even when I'd been on my hands and knees scrubbing vomit from floorboards. He followed me now as I moved to dress, pacing in quiet lockstep, occasionally nudging my legs with his nose as if reminding me I wasn't entirely alone in this, as if offering support the only way he knew how.

His silent loyalty scraped something raw inside me, found wounds I didn't want acknowledged. He knew something was wrong. Somehow, he always did, with that uncanny animal intuition.

"I'm fine, boy," I muttered, though my voice cracked around the lie like brittle glass shattering. Jargus blinked slowly, unimpressed by the obvious deception, and turned his head slightly to one side. His ears twitched back in what felt like a scolding, a canine expression of disapproval.

Dressing was an ordeal that shouldn't have been difficult. My hands were shaky, fingers numb with fatigue and something else, and I fumbled with my shirt buttons like a drunk trying to thread a needle. One, two—missed. Again. The third attempt ended with a muttered curse and the shirt half-undone, buttons in wrong holes. A tremor ran up my arms, not from the cold, but from the sheer frustration of everything—the night, the dream, my own crumbling sense of reality and competence. I clenched my fists until the shaking stopped, knuckles going white, then tried again, this time slower, treating each button like a delicate operation.

In the bathroom, the overhead light buzzed softly, casting a clinical pall over the tiled room that made everything look sterile and harsh. I splashed cold water onto my face, hoping to shock something vital back into operation, to jumpstart systems that had shut down. My skin burned beneath the chill, nerve endings protesting, but it wasn't enough to banish the fog behind my eyes that made thinking difficult. I brushed my teeth for the third time since waking, more out of compulsive habit than hygiene. The mint foam turned my tongue raw from repeated scrubbing, but still that bitter aftertaste clung on stubbornly, undiminished, as though it had become permanent.

I didn't dare look in the mirror this time. Didn't want to meet the eyes of the man staring back—didn't want to know what expression he wore, what judgment lived there. Was it grief? Guilt? Madness creeping in at the edges?

In the kitchen, the coffee maker gurgled to life, its familiar chug and hiss surprisingly comforting. The aroma was strong and full-bodied, filling the cramped space with a small illusion of normality, of routine, of mornings that didn't begin with nightmares. I stood leaning against the counter, palms flat against the cool surface, head bowed over the sink, breathing in the smell as though I could draw strength from it, could somehow metabolise caffeine through my lungs.

I swallowed two paracetamol dry, the tablets sticking halfway down my throat before I chased them with a scalding mouthful of black coffee that burned all the way down. The heat seared a path through the cold that had settled in my chest, but it didn't reach the core where something frozen had taken residence. The headache wasn't going anywhere—it wasn't the kind paracetamol could fix. This was tension. This was fear. This was guilt metabolised and made physical, transformed into pressure behind my eyes.

The day was already upon me, pressing in from all sides. The case, Wendy Cramer who'd rejected me at her door, Sarah who I'd wronged. The shadow of Luke that refused to stay confined to my dreams, that bled through into waking consciousness. My phone buzzed on the bench behind me—probably Claiborne with demands, or worse, dispatch with another dead end to chase. But for now, for just this moment, I stood there with my hands on the counter, breathing steam and caffeine, and trying to remember what it felt like not to be hunted by my own mind.

---

My phone buzzed again with a new message as I leaned against the counter, still cradling the half-drunk coffee like it was a lifeline to sanity. The screen lit up with Claiborne's name—no pleasantries, no soft entry or morning greeting. Just a new assignment, as direct and impersonal as ever, stripped of any humanity. Interview a Sharon Pafistis re: missing husband. Brief Sarah and follow up ASAP. Report by end of day.

Another missing person. Another life suddenly veiled in mystery, another thread tangled into the already-overflowing web of disappearances. The coincidence scraped against something in the back of my mind, creating friction, too pointed to dismiss as random chance, too hazy to properly articulate as pattern. I stood there, letting the idea hover like a word on the tip of the tongue—taunting in its elusiveness, dancing just beyond reach. There was a connection here. I could feel it. I just couldn't see it. Not yet.

I exhaled sharply through my nose, rubbing a hand over my jaw, the rasp of stubble catching on my fingertips with scratching sounds. The coffee had gone lukewarm in my grip, heat leeching away while I'd been lost in thought.

And then came the other inevitability I'd been avoiding thinking about.

Sarah.

The thought twisted in my stomach, heavier than expected, carrying weight beyond simple professional awkwardness. I would need to pick her up. Work together. Pretend we hadn't ended the night with shattered boundaries and a door slam that still echoed in my ears, that I could still hear if I closed my eyes.

The Entertainment Centre car park replayed in brutal clarity—her voice, sharp with confusion and hurt I'd caused; my silence, my selfishness, my complete inability to explain; the kiss that had preceded the sex, the aftermath that had ruined everything. My stomach knotted painfully. I couldn't blame her if she refused to even look at me today, if she requested a different partner.

Still, procedure was procedure. I thumbed out a message with fingers that felt clumsy and unsure, each letter requiring conscious effort:

New case from Claiborne. Missing person. Pick you up at your flat, 9:30?

The reply came almost instantly, as though she'd been waiting. Already at the station. Meet me here.

Short. Efficient. Ice cold.

The words were professional on the surface, but the meaning beneath them was unmistakable: a line drawn in permanent marker. She wasn't going to pretend things were fine. I'd crossed something last night, violated something, and now I would have to live with the distance she placed between us as consequence.

I set the phone down with a slow exhale that emptied my lungs completely. The guilt settled in my chest like wet concrete poured and hardening.

From behind me, Jargus gave a soft whine that cut through my self-recrimination. I turned to see him sitting near the doorway, ears half-raised, head cocked in that way that made him look preternaturally wise, like he understood everything. His eyes met mine and held them, steady and patient. Not demanding—waiting, as he always did.

"You knew, didn't you?" I muttered, crouching beside him despite the protest from my knees, letting my hand rest on the thick ruff of fur at his neck. "You always know when I've fucked things up."

He nudged his nose into my palm, as if to answer. The comfort in that small gesture almost undid me, threatened to crack whatever was holding me together.

"I'll be back earlier today," I murmured, scratching behind his ears in the spot that made his back leg kick slightly, his tail thumping twice against the floor in approval. "No more midnight adventures. No more… whatever the hell last night was."

He followed me to the door, his footsteps soft against the wooden floor that creaked under his weight. I topped up his water bowl with fresh water, left a treat on his blanket—small gestures that felt woefully inadequate but necessary, the minimum requirement of care. As I reached for the keys hanging by the door on their hook, I paused, letting my gaze linger on the living room—a space that had become my haven in the chaos of this job, and which suddenly felt less like home than it usually did.

Outside, the morning greeted me with a cool, damp breath—earthy and sharp, tinged with car exhaust and last night's lingering rain that had pooled in gutters. The sky was low and washed-out, as if the day hadn't fully decided whether it was worth the effort of existing. I locked the door behind me and caught one last glimpse through the window.

Jargus sat poised in the front room, just where I'd left him, his silhouette outlined in the buttery light filtering through the blinds. His ears twitched once as I looked back. He didn't bark, didn't move—just watched. Quiet. Loyal. Waiting for my return.

The sight struck me with a sudden, unexpected force that made my throat tight. I swallowed hard, forcing the tightness down where it couldn't interfere with the day ahead, couldn't weaken me further.

At least someone still believed in me. Even if I was starting to wonder whether I did.

---

The drive to the station was a blur of automatic motions—turn signals, brake lights, the muscle memory of the familiar route carrying me forward while my mind replayed fragments of nightmare and reality in equal measure, unable to distinguish between them. Gladys's eviscerated body, intestines unfurling like ribbons. Sarah's face as I'd ordered her from the car, hurt crystallising into anger before my eyes. Luke's voice whispering "Bye Karl," the syllables lodging like splinters in my mind, impossible to ignore, impossible to extract no matter how I tried.

These images bled into one another, layered so tightly I couldn't tell where one began and the other ended. They looped endlessly, bypassing rational thought, leaving me raw, stripped to nerve endings that fired without purpose. Twice I missed turns, jolted back to the present only by the impatient honk of a horn behind me or a pedestrian's glare as I nearly drifted through a crossing. My hands trembled on the wheel, cold sweat slicking my palms despite the car's warmth and the heater blowing. The paracetamol had done little. If anything, the ache behind my right eye had grown more distinct—an ember lodged in bone, slowly burning through.

Hobart Central's car park was its usual mess of early-shift congestion, every spot apparently taken. I circled twice before wedging into a tight space near the back, boxed in by a council ute and an unmarked Holden that left inches on either side. Cutting the engine, I sat motionless for a moment, hands still gripping the steering wheel as if I needed to anchor myself to something physical. I wasn't ready. Not for Sarah. Not for this day. Not for any of it.

But time was indifferent to readiness, marching forward regardless.

The station's glass doors opened with a familiar pneumatic hiss, the scent of disinfectant and burnt coffee hitting me like a punch to the chest, overwhelming in its institutional familiarity. Fluorescent light clawed at my senses, turning every line on my face into a fault line, every shadow beneath my eyes into a canyon. I moved through the space like a ghost, the routine of it both comforting and alien—too clean, too sharp, too bright, like someone else's memory of a place I once knew intimately.

Sarah was already at her desk when I entered the bullpen.

I saw her before she saw me—head bowed over a manila folder, posture rigid, precise, controlled. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail so tight it looked painful, and she wore a tailored blazer I hadn't seen before—navy, immaculate, unyielding as armour. She looked like a woman determined to project control at all costs, to present an impenetrable facade. Even her desk seemed scrubbed of personality, every item aligned as if measured with a ruler.

She didn't look up as I approached, but I saw the moment she sensed me: a fractional stilling of her hand, the briefest pause before she closed the folder with deliberate care. Several colleagues glanced in my direction as I passed through the bullpen—some with vague curiosity, others with unreadable expressions that might have been judgment. Whether they knew about the argument, the tension, or were just reacting to the haunted look I must have been wearing, I couldn't tell. But I felt exposed, as if my thoughts were being broadcast in static across the bullpen for everyone to read.

"Morning," I offered, the word coming out rougher than intended.

The word tasted foreign, hollow. My voice cracked around the edges, worn thin by sickness, sleep deprivation, and the lingering echo of that dream that wouldn't release me.

Sarah finally looked up. Just for a second. Her eyes skimmed past mine, deliberately avoiding direct contact, resting somewhere near my left shoulder as she responded with a single, businesslike nod. "I've reviewed the Pafistis file. Adrian's been missing for twenty-four hours. Wealthy property developer, no history of mental health issues or financial troubles."

Her tone was clipped, clinical. Every word sharp and contained, stripped of emotion. Like reading off an autopsy report—precise, detached, antiseptic. The Sarah from last night—the woman I had kissed, had sex with in my car, rejected, and wronged—was nowhere to be seen. This was Detective Lahey, armour polished to a high shine, walls reinforced with steel and concrete.

And just like that, the moment was buried. Sanitised. Filed away in a cabinet marked Irrelevant to Case.

"Car's parked at Central," I said, trying to match her tone but lacking the finesse, lacking her practiced control. My words dragged under the weight of fatigue and guilt, the strain unmistakable to anyone listening. "Ready when you are."

She collected the file and her tablet, her movements brisk and measured. No hesitation, no wasted motion. Her silence spoke louder than any reprimand could, said everything that needed saying without words.

As we walked side by side through the bullpen toward the exit, I became acutely aware of the space between us—not physical distance, which was minimal, but emotional distance that had grown vast overnight. A silence that once might have been companionable now felt brittle, ready to shatter at the slightest pressure. Every footstep echoed with things unsaid.

Whatever had happened between us—whatever might have happened, whatever potential had existed—was sealed off, filed away just like Adrian Pafistis's report: another case to solve, another disappearance in a city full of vanishing points.

---

As we walked from the station toward Hobart Central where I'd parked—a decision I'd made earlier thinking the extra ten-minute walk might clear my head, provide space to rehearse what I'd say to her, how I'd apologise—I regretted the choice entirely. What I'd envisioned as a reflective stroll had morphed into an awkward parade of silence and deliberate avoidance. Now we were separated by a careful three feet of space that might as well have been miles, forced to maintain this stiff procession past shop windows and morning commuters who had no idea of the tension crackling between us.

Just beyond the station doors, I felt the eyes on us.

Several officers lingered near the entrance, sipping coffees and pretending not to notice our departure. Their conversations dipped as we passed, replaced by that peculiar blankness people wear when they want to seem uninvolved but are actually paying close attention. Office gossip always moved faster than official briefings—everyone would know something was wrong by lunchtime. The stiffness in our movements—Sarah's emotional lockdown, my hollow-eyed fatigue—wouldn't go unnoticed for long in a building full of trained observers.

The city was shaking off sleep around us. Office workers clutched takeaway cups like lifelines, shopfronts blinked to life one reluctant fluorescent at a time, and somewhere nearby, the sour tang of overflowing commercial bins cut through the cold morning air. Life moved on with maddening normality, oblivious to the storm of tension moving alongside it like a dark cloud.

Sarah's pace was brisk, measured—not quite outpacing me, but making no attempt to fall into step either, to match my rhythm. Her arms were crossed against the chill, or perhaps against me. The distance between us felt deliberate—calculated to discourage conversation, to draw a line in the pavement that I was not meant to cross.

We passed a row of reflective shopfronts, and I caught our mirrored silhouettes in the glass: two detectives, side by side, perfectly ordinary to external observation. No one would guess from that reflection how strained things were—how thick the silence hung between us, how much damage had been done in a single night.

Whatever explanation I'd hoped to construct during that walk had evaporated in the reality of Sarah's professional detachment. Her silence was a wall, and any apology I might have mustered seemed inadequate in its shadow, seemed pathetic and insufficient. My thoughts tripped over themselves, chasing reasons, excuses, admissions I no longer had the courage to voice.

All that remained was the dull throb of my headache, pulsing in sync with my footfalls against pavement, and the looming prospect of a full day spent in the suffocating silence of her company—each minute a fresh reminder of the distance I'd created, the damage I'd done.

Each minute a punishment I deserved.