Welcome Distractions

"Nothing clarifies the mind quite like an urgent call when you're sitting soaked, bleeding, and trying not to notice how your partner's wet clothes fit."

As I approached the car, the rain seemed to intensify, mirroring the tumultuous thoughts swirling in my head. Each step squelched in the wet grass, my soaked trousers clinging uncomfortably to my legs, cold seeping through to my skin. The investigation at the Owens' property had taken unexpected turns—understatement of the century, that—and now I had to make the necessary calls to move things forward professionally despite feeling like I was barely holding myself together.

My injured hand throbbed with renewed intensity as I reached for the car door, the bandage completely soaked through now, red staining outward from the centre where the stitches had likely torn. I'd need to get it looked at, probably needed fresh sutures, definitely needed proper dressing.

But first, the job. Always the job, even when everything else was falling apart.

Settling into the driver's seat of our unmarked car—wet clothes immediately soaking into the fabric, creating a cold, uncomfortable puddle beneath me—I took a moment to simply breathe. The enclosed space offered minimal shelter from the rain now drumming on the roof, but at least it was something. At least I wasn't standing in a dam anymore, wasn't being attacked by waterfowl, wasn't crying in front of Karl.

Small victories.

Reaching down, I picked up the dispatch radio, the familiar weight of it somewhat grounding despite the way my hand protested the grip. Professional. Competent. A detective doing her job, not a concussed, injured, emotionally compromised mess who'd just shot a goose.

"CITY632 here," I called into the radio, my voice steady despite the turmoil of emotions inside me, despite the shaking in my hands, despite the headache that was now so intense I could barely see straight.

"Go ahead CITY632," came the deep-voiced reply from dispatch, calm and routine, blissfully unaware of the chaos we were currently navigating.

"CITY632 requesting forensics analysis at the Owens' property. Trace of blood found. To be treated as suspicious," I instructed.

Despite the absurd incident with the goose, the potential seriousness of our situation was not lost on me. Blood in the house meant something had happened here, something potentially violent, potentially connected to the Owens' alleged disappearance. That was what mattered, not my personal disasters, not my accumulating injuries, not the dead goose currently lying in the reeds.

Evidence. Investigation. Truth. That was what mattered.

"Copy that CITY632. Forensics and backup patrol on their way," the dispatcher confirmed.

After returning the radio to its holder, I slumped back into the seat, shifting diagonally to find a more comfortable position—though comfort was relative when every position hurt something different. I sat there uncomfortably, staring sulkily out of the window through rain that was now falling heavily enough to blur the view.

Through the rain-streaked windscreen, I watched Karl making his way back to the car, his progress slow and seemingly reluctant, as if he was dreading the continuation of our conversation, the confined space we'd have to share, the accumulated tension that had been building since yesterday.

Despite my best efforts to maintain professional detachment, to focus on the investigation rather than personal grievances, my eyes couldn't help but drift over him as he approached. It was involuntary, unwanted, inappropriate—but there nonetheless.

I noticed how the rain made his tight, dark blue trousers cling to his legs, highlighting their muscular definition in ways that shouldn't matter, that I shouldn't be noticing, that felt like a betrayal of my own anger. His shirt, dark grey and short-sleeved despite the weather, was similarly plastered to his biceps, the fabric moulded to the contours of muscle built from years of physical training.

It was a sight that, under different circumstances, might have been appealing. Hell, under different circumstances it had been appealing, had been part of what drew me to him initially, part of the physical attraction that had complicated our partnership from the start.

But at that moment, it only served to remind me of the tension between us, of the physical power he had over me when he chose to use it violently, of how my body could betray me by finding him attractive even when my mind knew better.

Struggling with my conflicting emotions—anger and attraction, resentment and residual affection, professional respect and personal hurt all tangled together in ways I couldn't separate—I turned my head away from Karl. I forced my gaze elsewhere to escape the unwanted feelings that were bubbling up inside me, feelings that had no place in our current situation, feelings that complicated everything unnecessarily.

He was my partner. These lustful thoughts had no place in our professional relationship, especially not now, especially not after yesterday, especially not when I was this angry with him.

Focus on the job, I told myself. Focus on the investigation. Focus on anything except how his rain-soaked clothes clung to him, anything except the complicated mess of emotions that seeing him triggered.

The rain continued its steady percussion on the car roof, creating white noise that was both soothing and aggravating. My head pounded in rhythm with it—pulse, drop, pulse, drop—a synchronicity that felt almost mocking.

Just as I was grappling with these internal struggles, trying to wrangle my thoughts into something resembling professional composure, the radio crackled to life, breaking the tension in the car with sharp static.

"Urgent call for vehicles to attend a speeding incident near Collinsvale. Apparent drag race. Available units, please respond. Over," the dispatcher's voice echoed through the cabin, cutting through my spiralling thoughts with the clarity of immediate duty.

At the mention of Collinsvale, a jolt of adrenaline surged through me, cutting through the fog of pain and confusion and complicated emotions. Collinsvale! That's where we are! The realisation hit me like a lightning bolt, sharp and clarifying.

My head was suddenly clear of all distractions—or at least clearer, the pain still present but pushed to the background by the spike of professional focus. I reached for the radio, my fingers wrapping around it with a newfound sense of purpose despite the way my injured hand protested the grip. I pressed the talk button firmly, ready to respond to the call, ready to do something that made sense, that had clear protocols, that didn't involve dead geese or complicated feelings.

"CITY632, we've got this. Over," I said, my voice steady and calm, or at least as calm as I could manage under the circumstances.

It felt good to be back in control, to focus on the job, to have a clear objective that didn't require emotional navigation or complicated relationship dynamics. Just police work. Just a speeding incident. Just something straightforward.

"Copy that, CITY632," the dispatcher responded, confirming our involvement, making it official.

A sense of duty and determination replaced the earlier turmoil, at least temporarily. This was what I was trained for, what I excelled at, what made sense when nothing else did. The call for the drag race incident was an unexpected turn, but it was a welcome distraction from the complexities of the Owens' case and my personal feelings towards Karl, from dead geese and bleeding hands and pounding heads.

Something to chase. Something clear. Something that didn't require me to think about anything except the immediate task ahead.