I arrived at the police station early that morning, the events of the earlier still lingering in my mind. After my grandmother had caught me unwittingly revealing my dreams, I felt a need to immerse myself in work, to escape into a world where I had control and purpose. Living alone, without even the company of a goldfish, suited me just fine. I thrived in the solitude, finding solace in the quiet. It was in these silent moments that I felt most connected to my passion for solving mysteries, preferring the thrill of unravelling a crime over the echo of an empty, silent home.

As I exited the changing rooms, ready to dive into the day’s work, my path led me towards the open-plan office. My desk, cluttered with case files and notes, beckoned me from afar, a familiar mess in the midst of organised chaos.

"Detective Lahey," a deep voice called out, slicing through the hum of the busy corridor. I recognised it instantly and halted in my tracks. Turning, I faced Sergeant Claiborne, the source of the voice. A shiver of apprehension skittered across my shoulders, an involuntary reaction that felt like a foreboding chill.

"Yes, Sergeant Claiborne?" I responded, my tone guarded. His presence always seemed to bring an air of unpredictability.

"Are you busy?" His inquiry was straightforward, yet it carried an undercurrent of urgency that piqued my curiosity.

"Right now, Sir?" I asked, a flicker of uncertainty in my voice. His approach was unusual, and it set my mind racing with possibilities.

"Yes, right now, Detective," he confirmed, his tone firm, leaving no room for ambiguity.

"No, Sir," I answered cautiously, my mind still trying to piece together the reason behind his directness. "What do you need?"

"Have you seen Detective Jenkins yet?" Claiborne’s question hung in the air, laced with an expectation of a straightforward answer. I knew that Karl, my partner, was likely still recovering from last night's indulgences, but my relationship with the Sergeant wasn't one where I felt at ease covering for him.

"No, not yet, Sir." My response was honest, albeit reluctant. Claiborne’s expression morphed into a scowl, his dissatisfaction evident.

"You'll have to join me then." His words hit me unexpectedly. Join him where? My mind raced with questions. An interview? The thought seemed implausible; I had never witnessed Sergeant Claiborne conduct an interview before.

He gave me a brief, assessing look. "You've got five minutes," he stated sternly. "Then I want you to join me in interview room one."

"Yes, Sergeant," was all I could muster, my voice a mixture of surprise and apprehension. As he walked away, I stood there for a moment, trying to quell the flutter of nervous excitement in my chest. What awaited me in interview room one? Taking a deep breath, the prospect both intrigued and unnerved me.

Arriving at my desk, a wave of nervous anticipation washed over me. The thought of being alone with Sergeant Claiborne set my palms to sweating, an unusual reaction for me, usually so composed in the face of pressure. I rifled through the stacks of paper cluttering my desk, each file a reminder of the countless hours spent delving into the intricate details of various cases. My search was frantic, desperate for a notebook amidst the organised chaos that was my workspace.

Frustratingly, every pen or pencil I grabbed seemed to have run out of ink or was broken. Time was slipping away, and in a decision born of necessity, I reached for a pen from Karl's desk. His desk was a stark contrast to mine - meticulously clean, not a single piece of paper out of place. It was almost unnervingly orderly, reflecting his methodical approach to everything he did.

Karl, always particular about his things, would normally complain if I took something without asking. But under the circumstances, I couldn't afford the luxury of time. Besides, I rationalised, he's not here to ask. He would miss out on what seemed to be an important interview, and it was his own fault for not being present.

With the borrowed pen in hand, I walked briskly down the corridor, my steps echoing slightly in the hallway. The meeting room was down the far end, and as I approached, I saw Sergeant Claiborne already there, waiting. He stood with his hands placed perfectly behind his back, an embodiment of his typical formal style. His posture exuded authority and a no-nonsense attitude that had always defined him.

"You're late," he stated, his gaze drifting purposefully to his watch. There was a hint of reprimand in his tone, reminding me of his strict adherence to punctuality.

"Sorry, Sergeant," I apologised, feeling a twinge of annoyance at myself. Shit, I thought. Seven minutes instead of five. The realisation that I had exceeded the time he allotted added an extra layer of tension to the already daunting prospect of what lay ahead in that room.

Allowing the Sergeant to take the lead, I watched as he entered the small, windowless room first. The space felt confined, almost claustrophobic, with its bare walls and the single table that occupied the centre. I followed, closing the door behind me with a soft click that seemed to echo slightly in the silence of the room.

"Louise," Sergeant Claiborne began, his voice steady and official. "This is Detective Sarah Lahey. She is one of Hobart's finest young detectives." His introduction, while flattering, carried an undertone of formality that set the tone for the meeting.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Sarah," Louise said. Her voice was soft, almost fragile, as she extended her hand towards me. She remained seated, her movements somewhat restrained.

"Likewise, Louise," I replied, returning the handshake with a firm grip. Her hand felt timid in mine, a stark contrast to the strength I tried to convey with my own handshake.

As I released her hand, I took a moment to observe her more closely. Louise appeared to be in her mid-forties, her light brown hair, shoulder-length and gently curling, framing her round face. There was a profound sadness etched into her features, the kind that spoke of a deep, personal pain. Her body language was equally telling; her shoulders slumped, not just with the weight of her body, but seemingly with the weight of the world. Her hands fidgeted nervously, betraying her inner turmoil.

I settled quietly into my chair, my gaze never straying far from Louise. Sergeant Claiborne, with a practiced ease, took the lead on the interview. "It's been quite a few years, Mrs. Jeffries," he began, his voice carrying a professional politeness that belied the situation's gravity. "What can we do for you this time?" he asked.

Despite the politeness of his words, I couldn’t help but detect a slight tone of contempt in the Sergeant's voice. It was subtle, but there, like a thin veil barely concealing his true sentiments. I felt a twinge of curiosity mixed with caution, wondering about the history between Louise Jeffries and the Hobart police. What had brought her here after so many years? And what lay beneath the Sergeant's barely veiled disdain? The room seemed to shrink a little more with these unanswered questions hanging in the air.

As Louise uttered those words, "My son is missing," her voice was curt, each syllable laced with a tension that filled the room. She paused, a deliberate moment that seemed to stretch the silence, before adding, "And so is Jamie."

The mention of a second missing person piqued my interest immediately. "Who is Jamie?" I found myself asking, the question slipping out almost instinctively.

Louise's eyes met mine, a direct, unwavering gaze that seemed to bore into me. "My brother. The gay one," she replied. Her words were matter-of-fact, but there was an undercurrent, something I couldn't quite place.

I was momentarily taken aback by her response. The way she mentioned her brother's sexuality made me unsure of her stance on it. Was it a point of contention for her, or was it simply a descriptive detail? "Does that concern you, Mrs. Jeffries?" I asked, my curiosity getting the better of me. I needed to understand the dynamics at play to navigate this conversation effectively.

"Which bit, Detective?" Louise’s reply came back sourly. "The fact that my brother is gay or the fact that I haven't been able to reach him for several days?"

Her response left me momentarily at a loss. The last thing I wanted was to appear incompetent or insensitive, especially in a situation that required a delicate balance of empathy and professionalism. I sat there, in the starkness of the small room, struggling to find the right words. I was conscious of the weight of Sergeant Claiborne's gaze on me, his presence a silent pressure in the background.

Louise's impatience was palpable as she answered her own question, her voice tinged with a mix of resignation and underlying tension. "I've known for years that he was gay," she said, "but I have never trusted his partner." The words came out with a hint of bitterness, as if the distrust she held for this partner was a burden she had carried for a long time.

"His partner? Can you give us a name?" I found myself asking, my voice steadier now as I regained my composure. It was crucial to gather as much information as possible, and every detail mattered.

"Luke. Luke Smith," Louise answered, her tone laced with clear disdain. Each word seemed to carry a weight of unspoken stories and suspicions.

"And why don't you trust this Luke Smith?" Sergeant Claiborne's question was asked with a delicacy that spoke of his experience in handling sensitive subjects. His approach was gentle, a contrast to the tension that had started to build in the room.

Louise turned to face the Sergeant directly, her gaze sharp. "You of all people should know, Charlie, that Jamie doesn't have the best track record when it comes to deciding who to trust." Her use of the Sergeant's first name in such a formal setting was unexpected and telling. It hinted at a familiarity that went beyond professional boundaries.

I glanced towards Sergeant Claiborne, my curiosity piqued. To my surprise, I saw him begin to blush, an unusual display of discomfort from a man usually so composed. He seemed momentarily at a loss for words, floundering in a way that I had never seen before.

Louise's familiarity with him, her casual use of his first name, was unheard of in these formal settings. It was clear there was some history here that I had not been made aware of. A feeling of discomfort settled over me. As a detective, I prided myself on being informed and prepared, yet here I was, in the dark about a connection that seemed significant to the case at hand. The realisation that there were layers to this situation that I didn't understand made me feel uneasy. I silently resolved to find out more, understanding that this unknown history between Louise and Sergeant Claiborne could be crucial to unraveling the mystery of her missing son and brother.

"I believe that Luke may have done harm to both of them," Louise declared, her voice steady and resolute. There was no quiver in her tone, only a matter-of-factness that suggested she had considered this possibility deeply. Her conviction was unnerving. “I want to speak with Detective Karl Jenkins.”

"Are you sure that is wise, Louise?" Sergeant Claiborne's question was cautious, probing. His eyes, usually so steady and commanding, flickered with a hint of concern.

"Yes," she replied. Her face set into a look of sheer determination, a resolve that seemed to harden her features. It was a look that left no room for argument, a clear indication that she was not to be dismissed or taken lightly.

Sergeant Claiborne turned to look at me, his gaze sharp and commanding. "Find Karl," he whispered sharply.

"Of course, Sergeant," I responded, my voice steady despite the sudden rush of adrenaline. I stumbled to my feet, feeling a surge of responsibility mixed with a twinge of apprehension. Scrambling for the door, my mind raced with the implications of Louise's statement and the urgency of finding Karl.

As I stepped briskly out of the interview room, the sense of responsibility bore down on me. Finding Karl in this critical moment felt like racing against time itself. He was likely at home, trying to shake off the aftermath of last night’s celebrations, unaware of the unfolding situation at the station. The urgency was amplified by Louise's allegations against Luke Smith and her adamant request to speak with Karl directly. It was a tangled web that was getting more complex by the minute.

I pulled out my mobile and pressed Karl's number, the device feeling almost slippery against my anxious grip. Holding the phone to my ear, I listened to the endless rings, each tone heightening my sense of urgency. "Come on. Pick up, you bastard," I growled into the phone, my usual composure fraying at the edges.

"Yeah?" The groggy voice that finally answered was unmistakably Karl's, thick with the remnants of sleep or maybe something more.

"Where the hell are you, Karl?" I whispered, my voice laced with a mix of frustration and panic. I needed him here, and I needed him now.

"I'm still at home. The alarm didn't go off," came his response, feeble and unconvincing. It was clear he was trying to skirt around the truth.

"Bullshit," I retorted sharply. "I know you went out with the boys last night." There was no time for niceties or to dance around the issue. Every second we wasted was a second lost in our investigation.

Karl sighed heavily, a sound that carried his resignation. "What is it, Sarah?" he asked, perhaps sensing the urgency in my tone.

"You need to get your ass down to the station right now," I demanded. The gravity of the situation was not something I could afford to downplay.

"Can't it wait until later?" Karl groaned, his voice still heavy with lethargy.

"No, Karl, it can’t. This could be your big case." I stressed the importance, trying to instil in him a sense of urgency and purpose.

There was a brief pause, a few moments of silence that stretched out longer than I would have liked. Then finally, Karl spoke, "Fine. I'll be there in half an hour," he promised, albeit reluctantly, before the call ended abruptly.

"Crap!" I muttered under my breath, hastily pocketing my phone. As I turned, I found Sergeant Claiborne standing directly behind me, his presence unexpected and slightly unnerving.

“Sarah, be careful,” he said quietly, his tone serious yet imbued with a hint of concern. His words hung in the air, unclear and loaded.

I turned fully to face the Sergeant, a flicker of confusion crossing my mind. His comment left me uncertain. Was he questioning my capabilities? Was it a warning of some sort? The ambiguity of his statement had me second-guessing.

Thankfully, the Sergeant soon clarified his intentions. "Pay very close attention to what they both say and do," he instructed. His eyes bore into mine, emphasising the importance of his directive. "I want to read and approve your notes before you do the official filing."

"Of course, Sergeant," I replied without hesitation, though a trace of apprehension lingered in my voice. "I'll have my notes on your desk within an hour after we finish up the interview," I promised, committing to a tight deadline.

"Thank you," Sergeant Claiborne said, his gratitude seeming sincere. Yet, as he walked away, I couldn't help but feel a twinge of doubt. Had I overpromised, especially without consulting Karl first? The thought that I might be undermining my partner gnawed at me, leaving me momentarily conflicted.

“Detective Lahey," Sergeant Claiborne called out just as he was about to disappear down the corridor.

"Yes, Sergeant?" I responded, a sense of foreboding settling over me.

"I've known the Jeffries for a long time. This case is of particular interest to me. That's all," he stated, his words carrying a weight that suggested there was more to his interest than just professional duty. He dismissed the conversation with a wave of his hand and continued towards his office.

Closing my eyes, I inhaled deeply, trying to centre myself. It isn't really that big of a deal, I reassured myself. Pre-reading case notes wasn't uncommon, and it made sense given the Sergeant's vested interest. He would inevitably see them after filing, anyway. He just wanted to be kept in the loop.

Just as I began to relax, Sergeant Claiborne stopped abruptly and turned. "Oh, Detective Lahey," he called back, his voice carrying down the corridor.

My heart sank, anticipating more instructions or perhaps a reprimand.

"Do let Karl know that I am very disappointed that he is late on his first day as Senior Detective."

I nodded silently, acknowledging his message. The responsibility of conveying the Sergeant's disappointment to Karl weighed heavily on me. It was an uncomfortable position to be in, caught between my duty to my superior and my loyalty to my partner.

"Hey, Glen!" I called out, my voice carrying across the office as I spotted him passing by the door in the corridor. Hesitantly, I moved away from my desk, unsure if he had heard me over the usual din of the bustling police station. But then, his round face, unmistakably Glen's, popped back around the corner.

"You called, my dear?" Glen's voice, tinged with a mocking tone, echoed as he stepped into the room. His face, plump and smug, was lit up with an expression of feigned politeness. "How may I assist you today?" he asked, his words dripping with condescension.

I couldn't help but roll my eyes internally. Glen was the epitome of crude and obnoxious, and I usually did my best to keep my interactions with him to a bare minimum. But today was different. I needed information, and I had a strong suspicion that Glen had just mentioned Karl's name as he passed by the door.

“Detective Crosswell," I started, striving to maintain a neutral tone despite my rising irritation. "Did I just hear you say something about Karl?"

His response was typical Glen, always ready with a snide remark. "Oh, looking for your late lover already, are you?" he replied, his smirk revealing his delight in making such insinuations.

I shot him a look of disapproval, biting back the sharp retort that almost slipped out. Instead, I composed myself and chose my words carefully. "Sergeant Claiborne wants to see him immediately," I said, my voice steady. I held my breath for a moment, hoping that my statement wouldn't provide Glen with any more fodder for his taunts.

Glen, for all his faults, was not stupid. He had been the first to sniff out the secret affair between Karl and me. It had cost me more than a few week's pay to ensure his silence. The memory of that transaction still left a bitter taste in my mouth. I watched him closely, gauging his reaction, knowing full well that he was capable of using any piece of information to his advantage. The last thing I needed was for Glen to stir up trouble, especially today when everything seemed to hang in a delicate balance.

As Glen's eyes bore into me, I could almost feel him trying to peel back the layers of my composure, searching for any sign of vulnerability he could exploit. His gaze was like a scalpel, sharp and probing. I fought hard against the urge to cringe or show any hint of weakness. Instead, I met his gaze with a stern stare of my own, my eyes locking with his in a silent battle of wills.

"I believe he was headed for the showers," Glen finally conceded, his tone still carrying an undercurrent of slyness.

"Thank you, Glen," I replied, managing to muster a short, polite smile despite the tension coiling inside me. It was a smile that didn't quite reach my eyes, but it served its purpose.

In response, Glen gave me a slight nod, a gesture that was almost respectful, or as close to respect as Glen ever seemed to manage. Then he turned and continued on his way up the corridor, his steps echoing slightly against the cold walls.

The moment Glen was out of sight, disappearing around the corner, I released a breath I hadn't realised I'd been holding. My heart was racing, a mix of relief and urgency propelling me forward. I made a mad dash for the changing room, my steps quick and determined.

As I hurried along the corridor, the sounds of the bustling police station faded into a blur. My mind was singularly focused on finding Karl. The information we needed from him was crucial, and with each passing second, the urgency grew. I could almost hear the ticking of an invisible clock, marking the time slipping away.

The corridor seemed to stretch endlessly as I neared the changing room. My thoughts raced with possibilities and concerns about the case, about Karl, and about what Sergeant Claiborne's unusual interest in the Jeffries family might mean. As I approached the door, I braced myself for the conversation ahead, knowing that every moment was critical in the unfolding investigation.

Ignoring the surprised glances from several other officers as I briskly entered the men's changing room, I made my way towards the shower cubicles. The room was filled with the familiar sounds of lockers slamming and the muffled chatter of officers, but my focus was singular. Navigating through the benches and lockers, I moved with a purpose, each step echoing slightly on the tiled floor.

Only one of the shower cubicles was occupied; its cheap, plastic curtain hung loosely, not quite managing to close fully. Through the gap, I caught a glimpse of the man inside, enough to confirm it was Karl. The sound of running water and the silhouette of his figure were unmistakable.

I positioned myself silently outside his cubicle, waiting for him to finish. Over the years, my presence in the men's changing room had become something of a non-issue. I had been in here many times before, and by now, I'd probably seen most of the male officers in various states of undress, Sergeant Claiborne included. It struck me as odd, this acceptance of my presence in what was traditionally a male space. I wasn't sure why it had become so normalised, but it had.

There was a certain irony in the thought that if any of the other female officers were to casually stroll in here unannounced, it would likely result in a swift and uncomfortable meeting with Human Resources. But for some reason, I was the exception to this unspoken rule. Maybe it was because I'd been around long enough, or perhaps it was due to the nature of my work and the necessity of urgent communication, regardless of the setting.

As I waited, my mind momentarily wandered to the complexity of workplace dynamics and the blurred lines of professionalism. However, I quickly snapped back to the present, aware that time was of the essence and this was no moment for philosophical musings. My purpose here was clear – to get Karl briefed and ready for what was coming next. The seriousness of the situation with Louise Jeffries and the urgency in Sergeant Claiborne's instructions were at the forefront of my thoughts, overshadowing the oddity of my current surroundings.

"Shit, Sarah!" Karl exclaimed, his voice a mix of surprise and irritation as he pulled back the shower curtain. "What the fuck are you doing in here?”

His reaction was understandable, yet it did little to sway my resolve. I was here on business, and Karl's shock at my presence was the least of my concerns.

Before I could respond, Glen's taunting voice cut through the steamy air of the changing room. "Looking for some action, I'd say," he sneered, a grin plastered across his face as he leaned against the doorway, clad only in a towel. I hadn't even noticed him enter, so focused was I on finding Karl. Glen's presence was like a dark cloud, his crude demeanour unwelcome yet unsurprising.

He sauntered past me, his body brushing against my arm in a deliberate, intrusive manner. The towel, barely adequate to cover his ample belly, dropped to the floor as he stepped into the cubicle next to Karl. For a moment, Glen stood there, unabashedly exposed, before finally pulling the curtain across.

"In your dreams, pal," Karl retorted, his voice echoing off the tiled walls.

"Eew, please no. Don't encourage that fat prick," I said, unable to hide my disgust. The thought of becoming a subject in one of Glen's lewd fantasies, the kind he so freely shared around the office, was revolting. It was baffling to me why Glen even bothered with such antics. There was little about him that was appealing, especially in his current state of undress.

What perplexed me even more was the fact that Glen was happily married. I had met his wife on several occasions, and she was one of the kindest, most pleasant women I had ever encountered. What she saw in Glen was beyond my comprehension. The contrast between his sleazy personality and his seemingly content domestic life was stark. And from my observations, his detective work was as sloppy as his behaviour, a reflection of his overall lack of professionalism.

"Towel," Karl gruffly asked, nodding towards his belongings which were haphazardly piled on the bench in front of the shower.

Eager to shift my focus from Glen's crude display, I quickly reached for Karl's towel, a plain white fabric that looked almost too small against the backdrop of the steam-filled changing room. "Hurry up. You'll want to hear this," I urged, thrusting the towel towards Karl. As I did so, I made sure that my fingertips brushed against his carefully buzzed, otherwise furry chest. The brief contact with his toned pectorals sent an involuntary thrill through me.

I knew I needed to leave, and quickly. Even the slightest touch of Karl's skin stirred something within me, a craving that I constantly had to keep in check. As I turned to leave, I walked briskly out of the changing room. With each step, I deliberately swayed my hips, fully aware of the effect it would have. I could feel the eyes of the men in the room on me, their gazes trailing my every move.

A wild grin spread across my face as I exited. There was a certain power in teasing them with my femininity, a buzz that came with the knowledge that they could look but would never touch. It was a small, private victory, a moment of reclaiming control in a world where I so often had to prove myself.