"Detective Lahey," Sergeant Claiborne's voice called out just as I passed by the open door to his office.

My steps halted abruptly, my fleeting hope of slipping by unnoticed dashed in an instant. My heart began to pound in my chest, each beat a hammer strike against my ribcage. I knew I shouldn't have come into work today. The emotional turmoil from the night's events left me feeling like a wreck, but I also knew staying away from work would have raised questions, questions I wasn't ready to answer.

"Lahey," Claiborne called out again, his voice firm.

I turned slowly to face him, seeing the Sergeant standing by the door. His sharp features were etched with a look of concern that seemed out of place on his usually stoic face.

"Step into my office."

My stomach responded immediately to the surge of nerves, gurgling loudly as if it were a deranged, internal blender viciously working on my breakfast. A wave of nausea washed over me, and I felt like I was going to vomit. With each step towards his office, my mind raced with possibilities. Did he know something? Was it about Karl, or the events from last night?

As I entered his office, I braced myself for whatever was coming. The walls of the office felt like they were closing in on me, each step heavier than the last. The sergeant's office, usually a place of discipline and order, now felt like a stage for a reckoning I wasn't prepared for.

I stood there, waiting for him to speak, my mind a tumult of thoughts and fears. The events of the previous night hung over me like a dark cloud, and I knew that whatever happened in the next few moments could change everything. My career, my future, my very sense of self – all seemed to hang in the balance as I waited for Sergeant Claiborne to break the silence.

"Have you seen Karl this morning?" Sergeant Claiborne's question pierced the heavy air in the room.

"No, Sergeant," I replied, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside me. I shook my head for emphasis. "I think he's still at home." I wasn’t sure if that was true, but it was the safest answer I could give without revealing too much.

Sergeant Claiborne closed the door behind me with a decisive click. He took several quick steps towards me, encroaching on my personal space as he strode across the room. His proximity was overwhelming; he was close enough that I could smell the coffee on his breath. It was an all-too-familiar scent, reminding me painfully of Karl and our morning routines.

The memory triggered unwelcome images of the previous night's events. The dead man’s snapped neck, his dark, empty eyes haunted me, forcing me to suppress a rising gag. The thought that Karl could be capable of such horrors was something I wasn’t ready to accept. It was too much, too close.

"An anonymous woman called this morning to report a break-in at Luke Smith's house," the Sergeant said, his words pulling my thoughts back into the room.

The mention of Luke Smith’s house sent a jolt of anxiety through me. My heart raced as I wondered about the implications. Did someone see me? Was this about the USB and the phone? I struggled to keep my composure, aware that any sign of panic might raise suspicions.

Holding my breath felt like the only way to ensure I didn't give away that I knew anything about the break-in at Luke Smith's house. My mind was racing, trying to maintain a facade of ignorance while internally reeling from the implications of what Sergeant Claiborne had just said.

"I've told all the other patrols to hold off. I thought you should take it," he said, giving me a sideways look that seemed to probe for a reaction.

A turmoil of thoughts whirled through my mind. I don't want to be with Karl right now, was my immediate thought, the idea of facing him so soon was overwhelming. But turning down the assignment would look highly suspicious, especially given my usual eagerness for such cases. With a careful, measured nod, I signalled my agreement, trying to mask the reluctance and fear that threatened to surface. "I'll take Glen," I managed to say, my voice steady.

The Sergeant studied me for a lingering moment from behind his desk. There was a scrutinising look in his eyes, one that made me question how much he suspected. "Fine," he finally replied, his voice giving nothing away.

As I turned to leave the office, a mix of relief and anxiety washed over me. Being assigned to the case was both a risk and an opportunity. It was a chance to control the narrative, to possibly cover any traces of what had happened. But it also meant diving back into the heart of the turmoil, back to where it all went horrible wrong.

Stepping out of Sergeant Claiborne's office, I felt the weight of the situation bearing down on me. Every step I took was towards a deeper entanglement in a web of lies and secrets.

Sitting alone in the front seat of the patrol car, I reflected on my decision to leave Glen behind. Having had no intention whatsoever to take him with me, I felt a mix of guilt and determination. This was something I needed to do alone, to piece together the events of last night without any distractions.

"Police," I called out authoritatively, knocking sharply on the front door of Luke Smith's house several times. There was no response. "I'm responding to the report of a break-in," I announced louder, aware that I was already bending the rules by not bringing Glen. But if there was anyone inside the house, they wouldn't know that.

I took a deep breath to steady my fraying nerves. It seems that there is nobody home, again. The thought circled in my mind. So, who called in the break-in? I was acutely aware of the need for caution, the memories of last night still vivid in my mind.

For the second time in as many days, I found myself jumping the small side fence, a sense of déjà vu washing over me as I approached the broken bedroom window. The scene looked very different in the daylight, the shards of glass glistening in the sunlight, casting rainbows onto the grass. The beauty of it was in stark contrast to the dark events that had transpired here.

As I stood there, taking in the scene, I knew I had to be methodical. Any evidence I might find could be crucial. But I also had to be careful not to disturb the scene any more than I already had. Balancing my duty as a detective with the personal involvement in the case was becoming increasingly challenging.

"I'm entering the house," I announced as I approached the window, my voice steady and clear. The declaration was more for the benefit of any eavesdropping, nosey neighbours than for anybody inside the house. Deep down, I was certain the house was empty, but the professional protocol had to be maintained.

Regardless of my inner certainty, I instinctively drew my gun as I climbed through the window. It was a precaution ingrained in me through years of experience. This time, I landed softly on the other side, a small victory as I managed to avoid cutting myself on the glass shards. Progress, I thought, a faint flicker of relief in the midst of tension.

I shivered slightly, not just from the chill in the air but from the eerie silence that enveloped the house. With my gun poised and ready, I cautiously made my way into the hallway. Every sense was heightened, every sound amplified in the quiet of the abandoned house.

The familiarity of the space did little to ease the tension that knotted my stomach. The events of the previous night hung over me like a shadow, tainting my perception of the once ordinary hallway. I moved slowly, deliberately, my eyes scanning each corner, each potential hiding spot. Despite knowing the house was likely empty, I couldn't shake off the feeling of being watched, of not being alone.

As I progressed through the hallway, I remained alert, prepared for any surprises, any hidden threats that might reveal themselves. The mystery of who called in the break-in and why weighed heavily on my mind. With each step, I was keenly aware that the answers I sought might just be a room away, hidden in the silence of this desolate house.

"Shit!" I exclaimed, my voice sharp with surprise as I walked into the living room. My heart skipped a beat at the sight before me. A lone woman sat upright on the black, leather couch, her eyes empty and expression numb. "What the fuck are you doing here, Gladys?" I demanded.

Gladys didn’t reply, her gaze fixed on some distant point, lost in her own thoughts.

As I cautiously took a few steps closer, the depth of sadness in Gladys' face became more pronounced, etching lines of despair and confusion. I couldn’t help but glance toward the stairs. The door at the top of the steps had been sealed closed. Shit, I thought, a sense of dread washing over me. Gladys must have found the body! She must be the one who called it in.

But as my thoughts raced, something didn't add up. If it was Gladys, then why only report a break-in and not a murder? The question hung in the air, thick with implications. Was she trying to protect someone? Or was she in shock, unable to process what she had seen?

I scrutinised Gladys, looking for any sign, any clue that might explain her presence and actions. Her vacant stare and unresponsive demeanour were unsettling. The situation was growing more complex by the second, and I knew I needed to tread carefully.

"Stand with your back to me and place your hands on your head," I instructed firmly, aiming the gun directly at Gladys' chest. The weight of the situation pressed down on me, making it difficult to breathe. I held my breath, my eyes locked on Gladys. Will Gladys comply? The question echoed in my mind, each second stretching into eternity as I waited for her response.

After a moment that felt like an age, Gladys slowly stood up. She fixed me with a chilling stare, her eyes piercing through me, before turning around and placing her hands on the back of her head. The tension in the room was palpable, every movement charged with uncertainty.

With Gladys now complying, I cautiously lowered my weapon and placed it tentatively back in its holster. It was a relief to holster the gun, but I remained on high alert. "Gladys Cramer," I said firmly, taking hold of Gladys' left arm and pulling it down. "I'm placing you under arrest for dangerous driving and resisting arrest. You have the right to remain silent, anything you do or say may be used against you in a court of law," I recited the familiar words with practiced ease, but they felt hollow in the context of last night's events.

With a swift, practiced motion, I snapped Gladys' right hand into the cuffs. The metallic click of the handcuffs seemed to echo in the quiet room. My heart was still racing, but there was a sense of control returning, a return to the familiar procedures and protocols of my job.

Yet, as I stood there with Gladys in cuffs, a myriad of emotions and thoughts swirled within me. The arrest, while necessary, felt like just one small piece of a much larger, more complex puzzle. I knew there was much more to this story than a simple case of dangerous driving and resisting arrest. Last night's events, the bloodied body, Karl's involvement – it all hung in the air, an unspoken question mark that loomed over us.

As I escorted Gladys out of the house, my mind was already racing ahead, piecing together the clues, trying to make sense of it all.

As I stepped away from the patrol car, where I had just secured Gladys in the backseat, I pulled out my mobile phone with a specific purpose in mind. I scrolled through my contacts, finding the number I needed. This was a delicate situation, and I needed someone I could trust implicitly.

"Hey, Benny," I greeted as the call connected. My voice was steady, but inside, I felt anything but calm. "I'm calling to cash in on that favour you owe me." My words were direct; this wasn't a casual conversation.

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line. Finally, Benny spoke, his voice casual yet attentive. "What do you need?" he asked.

"I have a smashed bedroom window I need you to fix. It's around the back of the house on the corner, you can't miss it. Make sure you also remove all the broken glass on the floor. I'll text you the address." My instructions were clear and concise.

Ending the call, I couldn't help but feel a twinge of unease. Until I knew that neither Karl nor myself could be implicated, I didn't want to leave any other reason for police to enter the property. The situation was already complicated enough, and I wasn't entirely convinced that Gladys had been the one to make the call.

As I sent Benny the address, my mind was racing with possibilities and theories. Who made the call? What was their motive? And most importantly, how did all of this tie together? Each unanswered question added to the growing knot of tension and uncertainty inside me.

Stepping back into the patrol car, I knew the next few hours were crucial. I had to tread carefully, playing my part while trying to piece together the truth behind this twisted puzzle. As I started the engine and pulled away from the curb, I was acutely aware of the delicate balancing act I was performing, walking a tightrope between my duties as a detective and the dangerous secrets that threatened to unravel everything.

"I've arranged to have your window replaced," I said to Gladys, trying to sound casual as I watched her in the rearview mirror. I needed to maintain a semblance of normalcy, despite the storm of emotions and questions swirling inside me.

Gladys remained silent, her figure a motionless silhouette in the backseat.

Minutes stretched by, the quiet only broken by the hum of the car engine. Finally, Gladys spoke, her voice low and strained. "It was you, wasn't it?" she asked.

Her question caught me off guard. "No," I replied bluntly, struggling to keep my emotions in check. My hands began to tremble against the steering wheel, betraying the calm demeanour I was desperately trying to project.

Several more minutes passed in silence, each second feeling like an eternity. "But you were there," Gladys added, a note of accusation in her voice.

I maintained my focus on the road, my mind racing. How the fuck could Gladys possibly know that? The question echoed in my head, setting off alarms. My instincts as a detective urged me to remain silent, to not reveal anything, but curiosity and concern got the better of me. Without thinking, I blurted out, "Did you know him?"

Gladys looked away, turning her face towards the window. I could see the pain etched on her face, a silent testament to the turmoil she was experiencing. It was a pain I recognised, one that mirrored my own internal conflict.

The question hung in the air, unanswered, adding another layer of mystery to the already complex situation. As I drove, I realised that Gladys might hold key information, not just about the man's death but also about the events leading up to it. Her reaction, her silence, and the pain on her face – all suggested a deeper knowledge about the incident.

"Why haven't you reported it?" I asked, my voice laced with genuine curiosity. It was becoming increasingly apparent that Gladys had found the man's body, and it seemed even more likely that she knew him. The pieces were starting to come together, but there were gaps, gaps that Gladys was clearly filling with her silence. She was hiding some important facts. Maybe, I thought, there might be a way to strike a deal here with Gladys.

"It’s complicated," replied Gladys, her voice low and fraught with unspoken complexities.

"No shit," I agreed, my response laced with a mix of sarcasm and frustration. The situation was indeed complicated, and her vague answers were only adding to the confusion.

After allowing several more minutes to pass in silence, I made a decision. I pulled the car over to a stop at the side of the road. This was the moment to push for answers. "Here's the thing," I began, turning to look Gladys directly in the eye. It was crucial to establish a connection, to show her that this was a serious conversation. "I have to bring you in for questioning. But if you answer a few of my questions now, I'll make sure that the interview is easygoing, and you'll get released immediately." It was a gamble, but one I hoped would pay off.

Gladys glared at me, her eyes hard and unyielding. The silence stretched between us, thick with tension and unspoken thoughts. I could see the wheels turning in her head, weighing her options. Her glare was penetrating, almost as if she was trying to see through me, to understand my motives.

I held her gaze, unflinching, knowing that this was a critical moment. If Gladys chose to cooperate, she could provide the key information needed to unravel the night's events. But if she remained silent, it would only compound the mystery and leave more questions unanswered.

In a moment of desperation to get Gladys to talk, I blurted out a confession. "Fine. I was there. But I didn't kill him. He was already dead when I found him." The words came out in a rush, a gamble to break the silence and provoke a reaction.

Gladys' expression changed to one of anger in an instant. Game over, I thought, a sinking feeling in my stomach. Confessing was a bad move.

"And what the hell were you doing there?" Gladys shot back, her voice trembling with a cocktail of anger and pain. The question struck me hard, a direct challenge to my actions, my decisions.

I could feel my face turning hot, a mix of guilt and defensiveness washing over me. I turned back to the steering wheel, my grip tightening. That's an unfair question, I thought. Gladys is the one who won't call in a dead body, so she doesn't get to ask the questions. My mind was racing, trying to justify my own actions while grappling with the moral complexity of the situation.

Angry and frustrated, I indicated and pulled the car back out onto the road. There would be no more questions until we reached the station. It was a tactical retreat, a chance to regain control of the situation. If Gladys hadn't reported the dead man by now, I was certain she wouldn't raise it during the interview. And she couldn't mention my presence at the house last night without risking exposing what she was withholding now.

I hated the situation, the web of lies and half-truths I found myself entangled in. But I was confident, at least for now, that I still had the upper hand. As I drove towards the station, my mind was a whirlwind of strategy and scenarios, each turn of the road bringing us closer to an inevitable confrontation of truths and secrets.

Breaking the silence with a soft, fragile voice, Gladys said, "His name was Cody Jennings."

I glanced in the rearview mirror and watched as Gladys' eyes began to well up with tears. The sight of her pain, her vulnerability, struck a chord in me. It made the turmoil of my own emotions, which I had been fighting so hard to control, all the more difficult to keep in check. I was torn between my role as a detective and the empathy I felt for her situation.

"Thank you, Gladys," I replied gently, acknowledging the significance of her sharing that information. It was a piece of the puzzle, a name that could lead to more answers.

As we turned into the station's carpark, Gladys spoke again, her voice carrying a weight of unspoken secrets. "Another thing," she said, capturing my full attention.

"What?" I asked, my curiosity piqued.

"Luke doesn't know."

"Know what?" I pressed, unsure of what she was hinting at.

"Any of it," Gladys answered. Her words hit me like a wave. Luke was in the dark about the entire situation, the death of Cody Jennings, my presence at the house, everything.

This revelation added a new layer of complexity to the case. Luke’s ignorance of the situation meant that the dynamics of what was going on were even more intricate than I had initially thought. It also meant that Luke could potentially be in danger or, conversely, that he might unknowingly hold information crucial to bringing the whole house of cards down.

"Gladys Cramer," I announced as I walked into the small, windowless interview room. The room felt even more constricting today, the walls seeming to close in with the weight of the situation. "This is Sergeant Claiborne. He'll be conducting your interview with me today." I had argued with Sergeant Claiborne, trying to convince him that I could handle the interview alone, but he had been adamant about his presence.

Sergeant Claiborne positioned himself directly opposite Gladys. I observed him carefully studying her, his eyes sharp and assessing. I tried desperately to remain calm, but the tension in the room was almost tangible.

As I dragged the only remaining vacant chair across the concrete floor, it screeched loudly, echoing in the small space. As I bent over to sit down, I reached into my front pocket to pull out a small notebook. In my haste and nervousness, I hadn't remembered to remove the strange USB device I had found on Cody Jennings last night from my clothing. To my horror, it fell out of my pocket onto the table, dragged along by the notebook. My attempt to grab the device was clumsy, and it slid across the table, landing straight in Gladys' lap.

Gladys picked up the USB device and held it out toward me, her eyes meeting mine with a mixture of curiosity and confusion.

"So sorry," I said quickly, my voice betraying my embarrassment. I took the device from Gladys, feeling my cheeks warm with a flush of awkwardness. I hastily dropped it back into my pocket, hoping that neither Gladys nor Sergeant Claiborne had noticed my unease.

As the interview was about to begin, I felt a rush of thoughts. The presence of the USB device was a reminder of the unresolved threads of the case, the secrets that were yet to be unravelled. My mind was racing, trying to stay focused on the interview with Gladys while also contemplating the significance of the device and its contents.

Sergeant Claiborne's sudden movement to stand up and head towards the door caught me off guard. "Thank you, Detective Lahey," he said as he opened the door. His tone was firm, leaving no room for argument. "I can take the rest of the interview from here," he finished, gesturing for me to leave.

A sense of dread filled me. I wasn't ready to leave; there was still so much I needed to understand from Gladys. Reluctantly, I stood up, shooting a quick, apologetic glance at Gladys. "I'm so sorry, Gladys," I mouthed silently, hoping she would understand my unspoken words.

However, Gladys' reaction was immediate and intense. She slammed her still-cuffed hands onto the table, her frustration and anger palpable. "Damn it! You promised me, Sarah!" she growled angrily and, to my dismay, not so silently.

My heart sank as I stepped out of the room, the weight of her words and the gravity of the situation pressing heavily on me. I knew the implications of what had just transpired. I had only taken a few steps when Claiborne's hand firmly grasped my right shoulder, forcing me to stop and turn around to face him. My mind raced with anxiety and guilt. I tried to bring my eyes to meet his gaze, but it was impossible. The shame and fear I felt made it difficult to look him in the eyes.

"What the hell did you promise her, Detective?" Sergeant Claiborne's question cut through the air, sharp and demanding.

I felt a wave of emotions rising within me, threatening to overwhelm my composure. I fought to keep them at bay, knowing that any sign of weakness or hesitation could be disastrous. My feet shifted slightly, grounding me as I prepared to face him. Slowly, I raised my head to meet Claiborne's intense, searching gaze. "I've got no idea," I lied calmly, my voice steady despite the chaos inside. I stared straight into his eyes, trying to project confidence and innocence.

After a few seconds, I broke the stare, allowing my eyes to drift towards the interview room door. It was a calculated move, designed to show a sense of detachment and professionalism. I pulled myself from his grip, and with an easy pivot on my left foot, I turned my back to the sergeant. I marched down the corridor as confidently as I could, each step a battle against the anxiety and guilt that threatened to surface.

As soon as I turned the corner, out of Claiborne's sight, I made a beeline for the bathroom. The moment I was alone, I leaned heavily against the closed door, letting out a breath I hadn't realised I was holding. My hands trembled slightly, and I took a moment to gather myself, to steady my racing heart and clear my head.

The bathroom felt like a temporary refuge, a place to regain control and reassess. I splashed cold water on my face, trying to wash away the stress and fear. Looking at my reflection in the mirror, I knew that the situation was spiralling, and I was walking a dangerous tightrope.

As I stood under the warm jet of water in the cramped shower cubicle, I allowed myself a moment of vulnerability, something I had been staunchly resisting. I closed my eyes, and the events of the past two days cascaded over me, each memory like a drop of water, relentless and consuming. My hands instinctively slammed into the sides of the cubicle, gripping hard for support as my legs wobbled, threatening to give way under the weight of my emotions.

Opening my eyes, I blankly stared at the tiled wall in front of me. The pointless mosaics stared back, their patterns and colours as chaotic and nonsensical as the tumultuous thoughts swirling around in my head. My mind grappled with each revelation, each decision, pulling at my every emotion and systematically dismantling my world, piece by piece.

"Fuck!" The word slipped out as a whisper, barely audible over the sound of the shower. It was a release, a small acknowledgment of the overwhelming sense of helplessness that had been plaguing me for days. This feeling had finally taken its toll, smothering my mind in a dense fog of despair and confusion.

In that solitary space, with the hot water cascading down, all I could comprehend was the sensation of my tears mingling with the shower water. They traced paths down my face, over my quaking body, and disappeared into the black abyss of the plughole below.