"Detective Karl Jenkins," I announced into my mobile, trying to infuse a sense of control and calm into my voice that I wasn't really feeling.

"Detective," came a young woman's voice, tinged with an unmistakable strain of anxiety and fear.

I recognised Jenny Triffett's voice immediately. It had a certain firmness to it, a strength born of adversity, yet there was an underlying soothing quality, like a calm surface hiding turbulent depths.

"Mrs. Triffett," I responded, shifting in my seat to a more attentive posture. "What can I do for you?"

"I want to know what's going on with the investigation into my missing husband," she demanded, her voice carrying a mix of desperation and resolve.

"Have you not heard anything further from him?" I inquired, my tone gentle. "No calls. No text messages?"

"Nothing!" Jenny's response was sharp, a snap of words that spoke volumes of her frustration and fear.

"We're still investigating several new leads," I assured her, trying to sound confident, to provide her with a semblance of hope in the midst of her turmoil.

Then, a soft sob broke through the line, pulling at my heartstrings. "Please, Karl," Jenny's voice, now breaking with emotion, pleaded. "Just tell me something, anything!" she begged.

I paused for a moment, my mind momentarily distracted. My eyes wandered towards the other end of the office. There, I saw Gladys Cramer, escorted by Sarah, passing by the door. They must be heading to an interview room, I thought, a surge of curiosity mingling with my concern. How did Sarah manage to bring Gladys in? What new development had I missed?

"Are you still there, Detective?" Jenny's voice, laced with a growing worry, jolted me back from my thoughts.

"Ahh… yeah… Look Jenny, I'm really sorry. I'll call you back in a couple of hours," I replied, my voice trailing off. I hung up the phone hastily, cutting off the call before Jenny had the chance to respond. The urgency to find out what Sarah and Gladys were up to gnawed at me, overriding my conversation with Jenny. I couldn't afford to lose track of any development in this convoluted case, especially not now when every piece of information could be a crucial lead. As I hung up, a mixture of guilt and necessity battled within me, but the detective's instinct in me knew where my immediate priorities lay.

"And where do you think you're going?" Sergeant Claiborne's voice rang out, halting me in my tracks as I jogged down the corridor. I glanced ahead and saw Sarah ushering Gladys into the interview room at the far end. The urgency to know what was happening was almost overwhelming.

"Fuck it," I muttered under my breath, my pace slowing to a hesitant walk. A sense of defeat washed over me as the interview room door closed with a soft, definitive click - a barrier now standing between me and whatever crucial conversation was unfolding inside.

Sergeant Claiborne's presence loomed behind me, his shadow stretching long and imposing on the floor. It was a physical reminder of his authority, and my current precarious standing.

I turned, intending to bypass him, to escape further scrutiny. As I moved, I carefully avoided making eye contact, a futile attempt to shield myself from the Sergeant's penetrating gaze.

"Karl," he said, his voice carrying a weight of seriousness that caused me to pause. It wasn't just the authority in his tone, but something else - a hint of concern, perhaps, or warning.

I halted, standing still as Sergeant Claiborne brushed past me. His proximity was a silent assertion of control, a reminder of the hierarchy within the precinct.

"Follow me," he instructed, his back already to me as he walked away. He didn't turn around, didn't wait to see if I complied. It was an order, not a request.

Reluctantly, I followed, my footsteps echoing hesitantly in the hallway. Standing in the doorway of his office, I was gripped by a sudden reluctance to enter. The threshold felt like a line between the known and the unknown, and I wasn't sure I was ready to cross it. The possibility of what the Sergeant might say filled me with a sense of dread. Being called into his office twice in one day - it was unprecedented, and my mind raced with all the potential bad news that could be awaiting me. The walls of the corridor seemed to close in around me, the air heavy with unspoken tension and the weight of impending revelations.

"I'm about to read Sarah's report from this morning," Sergeant Claiborne announced, his voice steady and purposeful. He held a manilla folder, the contents of which were unknown to me but carried an air of significance. With a casual yet deliberate motion, he tossed it onto the uncluttered surface of his desk, the folder landing with a soft thud that seemed to resonate through the room.

The adrenaline already coursing through my veins spiked at his words. Instinctively, my eyes darted toward the door, ensuring it remained open. My mind, trained for quick thinking and rapid response, was already running through multiple escape scenarios, each plan unfolding in tandem with the others, ready for deployment should the need to flee arise.

"Oh," was the only response I could muster. The word came out feeble, even to my own ears, but I was too preoccupied with the potential implications of Sarah's report to articulate anything more substantial. I feared that any attempt to speak further would betray me, revealing the anxiety that was threatening to overwhelm my carefully maintained composure.

Sergeant Claiborne moved slowly, almost methodically, as he unlocked his top drawer and reached inside. "You can have your gun back now, Karl," he said, his tone neutral as he handed the weapon over to me.

I accepted the gun, the familiar weight of it in my hand bringing a small measure of comfort. "Thank you, Sergeant," I replied, securing it back in its holster. The simple action felt like a restoration of a part of my identity, a piece of myself that had been temporarily stripped away.

For a moment, we just continued to stare at each other, an unspoken conversation hanging in the air between us. I could sense there was something more, something the Sergeant wasn't saying. It was there, hidden in the depths of his eyes, a hint of knowledge or concern that went beyond the mere details of the visit to Luke's house this morning.

"That's all," Sergeant Claiborne finally said, breaking the silence. He gestured towards the door, a clear dismissal. "And close the door behind you," he added, his voice carrying the finality of a chapter closing.

As I turned to leave, a swirl of emotions and thoughts tangled within me. Relief at having my gun returned, confusion over the unread contents of Sarah's report, and a lingering sense of unease about what remained unsaid. The click of the door closing behind me felt like a punctuation mark, leaving me to ponder the mysteries still unsolved and the paths yet to be taken.

I slumped back into my chair, feeling the full weight of the day's events pressing down on me. The seat, once a place of focus and determination, now felt like a holding cell, confining me in a limbo of uncertainty and anxiety. I had waited half the day, each minute stretching out endlessly, for the all-clear to go back into the field, back to the environment where I felt most in control, where I could actively chase down leads and make a difference.

The apprehension gnawing at me was relentless. Not knowing who had called in the report or what they might uncover at the scene was like a slow poison, eating away at the remnants of my sanity. Each tick of the clock seemed to echo in the otherwise silent room, a constant reminder of the unresolved mysteries hanging over me.

Now that I had my gun back, a symbol of my reinstated authority and purpose, I found myself still anchored to my desk, waiting. Waiting for Sarah to return from her interview with Gladys. Waiting for some piece of information that could either salvage the situation or send it spiralling further out of control. The suspense was like a physical entity, a heavy cloud looming over me, draining the energy from my body.

I found myself staring blankly at the computer screen, the pixels blurring into an indistinct haze. My mind was a carousel of thoughts and theories, each spinning around with no clear resolution in sight. The office, usually a buzzing hive of activity and purpose, now seemed eerily quiet, as if reflecting my internal turmoil.

Every so often, I'd glance towards the door, anticipating Sarah's return, each time met with disappointment as the doorway remained empty. The waiting was the hardest part – the not knowing, the helplessness of being stuck in a state of inaction. I tapped my fingers on the desk, a restless rhythm that mirrored my inner restlessness, feeling a mix of eagerness and dread for what Sarah's report might reveal. The pieces of the puzzle were out there, but for now, they remained just out of reach, hidden in the shadows of unfolding events.

After what felt like an eternity of waiting, the familiar sound of Sarah's footsteps finally approached. I glanced up as she returned to her desk. Her presence, normally a source of camaraderie and support, now felt like another element in the complex puzzle I was desperately trying to solve.

"I see you got your gun back," she commented casually, her eyes briefly flicking towards the holster at my side.

I didn't reply. Instead, I fixed her with a look that I hoped conveyed my need for answers, my demand for an explanation about what had transpired in her absence.

"They didn't find anything," she began, her voice betraying a hint of uncertainty. "Nobody answered the door, and the premise was all secured," she continued.

I was puzzled by this turn of events. "So, you didn't go inside?" I asked, trying to piece together the situation in my mind.

"No," Sarah replied. She settled into her chair, the familiar sound of the wheels rolling over the floor as she pulled herself toward her desk. Then she looked directly at me, a seriousness in her gaze. "Oh," she added, "And the broken window has been fixed," she said, her eyes scrutinising my face for any hint of a reaction.

I felt a jolt of surprise, my mind racing to process this new information. My immediate instinct was defensive. "Are you spying on me?" I blurted out, the words leaving my mouth before I could weigh their implications.

Sarah's face drained of colour. "No," she said defensively, her body language shifting as she turned back to her computer, creating a physical barrier between us.

"Sarah," I said, my voice softer this time. I didn't like the tension that had crept into our interaction, the strain that was palpable in the air between us.

"I have a report to finish," she replied, her tone icy, a stark contrast to the warmth that usually characterised our exchanges.

I let several minutes pass, the silence between us thick with unspoken words and emotions. I needed to bridge the gap, to restore some semblance of normalcy to our relationship. "Sarah," I said again, my voice barely above a whisper. She didn't look up, her attention seemingly fixed on her computer screen. "Luke arrived in Adelaide this morning,” I informed her, hoping this piece of information would somehow mend the rift that had formed, unaware of how she would receive it or what her reaction might be.

Exhausted and weary, both mentally and physically, from a day that seemed to consist of nothing but clashes with Sarah and the elusive pursuit of Luke Smith, I was on the verge of leaving the station. Just as I began to gather my things, the shrill ring of the desk phone pierced the silence of the nearing end of the day.

"Ah, shit," I muttered under my breath, casting a glance over to Sarah's desk. She, too, appeared to be winding down, preparing to leave the station for the night. The phone's insistent ringing pulled my attention back, its sound almost accusatory in the quiet of the evening.

I noted the interstate number flashing on the caller ID as I picked up the handset. "Detective Jenkins," I said, my voice betraying a hint of the day's weariness.

For the next few minutes, my role in the conversation was mostly that of a listener. The information coming through the other end of the line was concerning, each word adding weight to an already heavy burden. My brow furrowed deeper with each passing second, the creases a testament to the gravity of what I was hearing. The situation, it seemed, was not just unresolved but actively worsening.

"Thank you for the update. Good night to you too, sir," I said eventually, my tone more formal than I intended, a reflex of professionalism in a moment of personal turmoil. I ended the call abruptly, not out of rudeness, but out of a need to process the new information, to absorb its implications in solitude.

The phone clicked softly as I returned it to its cradle, the weight of the call still pressing heavily on my mind. A sense of foreboding, thick and ominous, settled over me like a dense fog. The puzzle pieces of the case were in motion, shifting and turning in ways that were elusive and perplexing. I stood there, momentarily transfixed, my hand still lingering on the phone, my thoughts racing to make sense of the new information. The precinct, usually buzzing with activity, now lay quiet, its silence amplifying the echo of the day's events. It felt surreal, like a theatre after the final act, when the audience has left and only the ghost of the performance remains.

"Well, you look grim," Sarah's voice suddenly cut through my reverie. I hadn't noticed her approach; she had silently manoeuvred herself to my side, likely in an attempt to eavesdrop on my conversation. Her presence, once a source of camaraderie, now felt like an intrusion into my troubled thoughts.

"Who was it?" she asked, her curiosity evident.

I couldn’t help but respond with a touch of petulance, "I thought you weren't talking to me," reflecting the childishness that sometimes surfaced in our strained exchanges.

Sarah frowned, clearly torn between maintaining the cold war of silence we had been waging and her inherent drive to solve crimes. It was a battle I knew all too well, the detective in her always striving to rise above personal conflicts.

"Just tell me," she said bluntly, her professional curiosity overriding any residual animosity.

My expression grew even more serious, if that was possible. "That was Detective Santos from the Adelaide CIB,” I divulged, feeling the weight of each word. "They called to provide a courtesy update."

Sarah’s gaze was intense, expectant, urging me to continue. She gestured with a subtle movement of her hand, silently prompting me to give her more details.

"There's not much to say, really," I began, feeling a sense of futility as I recounted the scant information. "When they arrived at Luke's parent's house, there was nobody there. They have an officer watching the property, but there has been no sign of anybody. Both of the family cars are still at the house. There's no sign of forced entry." I paused, collecting my thoughts. "They questioned the neighbours to see if they had seen anything suspicious."

"And?" Sarah prodded further, her eyes keen and expectant. She was like a dog with a bone when it came to getting information, and I knew she wouldn’t let it go easily.

"Well–" I began, trying to articulate the only piece of information that had felt even slightly significant in the call. "The only piece of information that seemed remotely useful was that the elderly lady across the street said she saw a young man, matching Luke's description, arrive at the house some time before lunch. She didn't see or hear anything unusual and hadn't noticed anybody leave the house all day."

"Well, that's great," Sarah chimed in, her tone trying to infuse some optimism into the grim narrative.

I shook my head, not entirely convinced by her attempt to lift my spirits. "Well, not really. All it implies is that Luke really is in Adelaide and maybe went to his parent's house. Anything beyond that is circumstantial."

"But?" Sarah pressed, her intuition clearly picking up on something I hadn't said.

"What do you mean 'but'?" I responded, a bit thrown off by her perceptiveness.

"I see a 'but' on your face. You should know you can't hide your suspicions from me by now," she said, her confidence piercing through the heaviness of the conversation, a faint glimmer of our usual playful banter returning.

I managed a slight smile amidst a heavy sigh. "But it doesn't make any sense," I admitted. "They did a thorough search of the property and all they found was a single drop of fresh blood on the shed door."

"Fresh?" Sarah’s tone perked up, a spark of enthusiasm in her voice.

"Apparently, it was still wet. They've taken a sample and sent it to the lab for priority testing. In the meantime, they're having forensics spend the next forty-eight hours examining the house and property for traces of human remains. Or anything, really," I explained, feeling a mix of hope and skepticism at the potential outcomes.

"That is very bizarre," Sarah agreed, her brow furrowing in thought.

I nodded in agreement. "Whatever Luke is up to, he's been very precise so far. We just need something, anything, that will give us some answers." I paused, a sense of realism creeping into my voice. "Knowing our luck, I don't expect forensics will turn up anything new. At least nothing that will hold up in court."

Sarah shrugged slightly, her expression mirroring my own resignation. "Perhaps you're right," she said, the mood deflating once again. The case was like a maze, and with each turn, we seemed to be facing more walls than exits. Despite the brief moment of camaraderie, the weight of the unsolved case hung heavily between us, a reminder that we were far from finding the answers we desperately needed.