The morning light, filtered through peach-coloured drapes, cast a warm but unwelcome glow across the room. I burrowed deeper into the blankets, seeking refuge from the day that lay ahead. The events of the previous night hung over me like a cloud, the memory of our secret conversation, the burning of the label, and the mysterious mention of 'Cody' weaving through my thoughts like threads of a complex tapestry yet to be unravelled.

Despite my efforts to find solace in sleep, Gladys's early morning activities had jolted me from a restless slumber. The alcohol we had indulged in offered no comfort, serving only to sharpen the edges of my unease. My body ached from the fitful hours spent tossing and turning.

A gentle tap on the door, soft yet insistent, sliced through the remnants of sleep that clung to me. "Beatrix," came the soft call, a voice tinged with a note of urgency that the morning light had no right to hold. "Are you awake yet?"

"Oh," I moaned, the sound muffled by the pillow as I turned my back to the door, a feeble attempt to ward off the intrusion. "Go away, Gladys. It's too early to get up." The words were a plea for a few more moments of escape, a brief reprieve from the reality that awaited beyond the confines of the soft, enveloping blankets.

The door creaked open, the sound a herald of the end of my resistance. I let out a heavy sigh, resigning myself to the inevitable as the warmth of the room was slowly infiltrated by the chill of the morning air.

Gladys, undeterred by my reluctance, rushed to my side with a determination that spoke of matters pressing. "Come on, Beatrix. Get up," she insisted, her hands grasping my shoulders with a force that bordered on urgency. Her touch, though meant to rouse, felt jarringly out of place in the soft dawn light, too harsh for the delicate balance of my frayed nerves.

I rolled over to face her. "How the hell are you even functioning this early?" The words left my mouth before I could temper them with kindness, my own exhaustion and frustration bleeding into the tone. Her presence, so alert and determined, stood in stark contrast to the weariness that enveloped me. "Oh wait," I added hastily, a sarcastic edge creeping into my voice as I answered my own question, "I forgot. Of course, you'd be fine."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Gladys snapped, the tension between us crackling like a live wire.

Raising my eyebrows, I met her challenge with a pointed question, "Do you really need me to explain that?" The words hung heavily between us, a reminder of the unspoken grief that had taken root in the aftermath of Brody's death. "I swear, sometimes you are more messed up by Brody's death than I am." It was an accusation, a reflection of the complex web of grief and guilt that entangled us both, but it was also an admission of my own inability to fully grasp the depth of her pain.

The change in Gladys was palpable, her lips pressing into a tight line, a physical barrier against the hurt my words had inflicted. "That's not fair, Beatrix," she protested, her voice a mix of anger and vulnerability.

"Well, it's true," I pushed, unwilling or unable to retract the barb, even as I saw its impact.

Gladys's response was a raw, guttural shout, "You're not the one who found him lying in his own blood!" The words echoed in the room, an unwelcome reminder of the horror she had faced alone, a burden I had unwittingly forced upon her shoulders.

The sharpness of her outburst cut through my defensiveness, leaving a bitter taste of regret. I bit my lower lip, chastened by the realisation of the depth of her suffering. My mind raced with guilt, the knowledge of my own complicity in Brody's fate a heavy chain around my heart. I had known the danger he was in, yet I had chosen inaction, lost in my own world, blinded by the distractions of our antique store.

Guilt gnawed at me, a relentless reminder that I had allowed Gladys to shoulder the burden of our loss alone, letting her believe Brody's death was a tragic accident. The police, unaware of the true nature of the threat, had offered no closure, leaving a gaping wound in our lives that had festered into a source of unending torture for Gladys.

I inhaled deeply. "So, why do you want me up so early?"

Gladys's expression shifted, the shadows of our previous altercation giving way to a semblance of normality. "I thought you might like to come and visit Luke with me," she offered with a casual shrug, as if extending an olive branch. "I have to go round to collect the small truck I left there yesterday."

"Oh," I replied, a bit taken aback by the sudden shift in focus. My hand instinctively went to my eye, brushing away the remnants of sleep that clung stubbornly to the corners. "Sure. But I need a shower first, and coffee."

Gladys's soft chuckle was a sound I hadn't realised I'd missed until that moment. "I'll take you home first," she said, her voice lighter now, as if our plans for the day had momentarily lifted the weight from her shoulders. "Come on, get up," she urged, patting the bed in a gesture that spoke of reconciliation, or at the very least, a temporary truce.

Closing my eyes tightly, I willed my body to cooperate, to move beyond the inertia that gripped me. Rubbing my eyes with closed fists, I sought to erase the vestiges of sleep and the deeper weariness that pervaded my spirit. Opening my eyes, I took a deep breath, filling my lungs with the resolve to face the day. "Okay, I'm coming,” I acquiesced, swinging my legs over the side of the bed in a mechanical gesture of readiness.

As I prepared to follow Gladys, a sense of apprehension mingled with the mundane anticipation of the day's errands. Visiting Luke, collecting the truck—these tasks were simple on the surface but carried an undercurrent of complexity given the layers of unsaid things between us. Each step felt like a move on a chessboard, a negotiation of space and understanding in the wake of our shared and individual traumas.

As I opened the car door and slid off the passenger seat, the cool of the concrete driveway kissed my bare feet. My sneakers, a familiar weight, dangled from my left hand, swaying slightly with each step I took.

"I'll be back in an hour to collect you," Gladys's voice called out from behind me.

I didn't turn around. Instead, I offered a short wave over my shoulder, a silent acknowledgment of her words. Speaking felt superfluous; our actions spoke volumes more than casual farewells ever could. With each step towards the front door, the distance between me and the car grew, alongside a subtle yet palpable shift in my demeanour. I was transitioning from the passive passenger to the protagonist of my own morning saga.

Entering the house, the act of closing the front door behind me was soft, almost reverent. This threshold was a boundary between the world outside and the sanctuary of home, though today, it seemed more a gateway to a scene of domestic disarray. The smell of burning toast, sharp and accusing, invaded my senses, a telltale sign of the morning's tardiness. Father must be running late for work again, I mused, a thread of concern weaving through my thoughts. Nearing his sixtieth birthday, his mornings had become a battleground of his own making, a struggle against time and his diminishing capacity to juggle the demands of the day.

Retirement was on the horizon for him, a mere few years away, yet each day I wished it were closer. Watching him, this man who had always seemed larger than life, succumb to the inexorable march of time was becoming increasingly difficult. It felt as though his vitality was ebbing away with each rushed morning, each burnt slice of toast, a poignant reminder of the fragility of human strength and the relentless passage of time.

Curiosity piqued, I peeked into the kitchen, half-expecting to find another casualty of his morning routine. To my surprise, the toast sat on the breakfast bar, perfectly browned, a small victory amidst the usual morning defeats. The plate, white porcelain, gleamed under the kitchen lights, an island of calm in the sea of morning drama. Father was nowhere to be seen, likely caught up in the next task in his Sisyphean attempt to leave for work on time, but at least, for today, the toast was spared. A small smile tugged at the corner of my mouth, a silent cheer for these little triumphs.

"You didn't come home last night," my mother's voice cut through the morning silence like a cold draft, startling me from my thoughts. Her presence loomed behind me, a palpable tension in the air.

"I was with Gladys," I replied, my voice steady but my heart not so much. I reached for a small knife in the kitchen drawer, its metal cool against my fingertips, a distraction from the conversation. As I spread the butter over the toast, each stroke felt like an attempt to smooth over the unease that lay between us.

"How is she?" my mother probed, her concern genuine but laced with an undercurrent of something else—fear, perhaps, or disappointment.

"She's fine," I found myself saying, the lie slipping off my tongue too easily. The butter clung stubbornly to the knife, mirroring my reluctance to reveal the truth. I knew well the burden of worry that weighed on my mother, her nights spent in tearful vigil, fretting over Gladys's well-being. To confess the depth of Gladys's struggles would only add to that weight.

I couldn't fathom why my mother couldn't see Gladys for what she truly was—a functioning alcoholic, though the 'functioning' part was increasingly debatable. It seemed easier, somehow, to maintain this façade than to confront the painful reality.

Nibbling the corner of the cold, buttered toast, I grimaced. The texture was unappealing, the flavour lacking. It was a poor substitute for the warmth and comfort I longed for.

"Morning, sweetheart," my father's voice broke through my reverie as he entered the kitchen. His presence was a balm, a familiar and comforting force in the midst of our family's silent battles.

"Morning, Daddy," I responded, setting the toast down with a lack of appetite.

He kissed my forehead lightly, a gesture of affection that felt like a lifeline. "You're not going to finish that?" he inquired, noticing the abandoned toast.

"I'm full already," I lied, offering a shrug that was meant to be casual but felt more like a surrender. The lie was a thin veil over the truth—that my appetite for this morning's offerings, both culinary and conversational, was nonexistent.

"Full?" My father scoffed, his laughter a brief respite from the morning's heaviness. "Even a mouse would eat more than you," he joked, his chuckle echoing softly in the kitchen.

Mum's fingers, deft and deliberate, plucked the doctor's appointment reminder card from beneath a fridge magnet. The card fluttered slightly as she held it up. "I have to go into town for an appointment at eleven. Do you want to come for a ride?" she asked, her voice carrying a hint of hope, perhaps for a bit of company or maybe just for the chance to spend time together outside the confines of our home.

I shook my head, the decision quick but weighed down by the anticipation of the day ahead. "No thanks. Gladys and I are going to visit Jamie and Luke this morning. She's coming to collect me in an hour," I explained, trying to sound more upbeat about the plan than I felt.

Mother's gaze shifted, a sideways glance that felt like it could see right through me. "Don't they have work today?" she asked, her inquiry seemingly innocent but laden with an underlying concern. Without waiting for my reply, she pressed on, "Actually, doesn't your sister have work today?" The questions came rapid-fire, interrupting my thoughts and leaving me scrambling for answers that would ease her mind.

"Gladys has the week off, remember?" I replied, my voice steadier than I felt. Focusing on Gladys was a diversion, a way to steer the conversation away from the murkier waters of Jamie and Luke's circumstances. Yet, as I spoke, my mind couldn't help but wander to the very questions my mother hadn't asked but which hung in the air like a heavy fog.

What is Luke doing about work? The thought nagged at me, an itch I couldn't scratch. Has he quit? The possibility loomed large, a sign of the upheaval that seemed to follow Jamie and Luke around. And if Jamie really is gone, how is Luke planning to cover for him? The questions spiralled, each one leading to another, painting a picture of uncertainty and curiosity.

"Sounds like a marvellous idea, honey. Maybe your mother and I should tag along too," my father's voice broke through the morning routine with an unexpected suggestion, his tone light, teasing even, as if proposing an adventure on the spur of the moment.

"No," I responded with a bluntness that echoed more sharply than I intended. The word hung in the air between us, a barrier as solid as the breakfast bar that separated our spaces.

Father's eyebrow arched in response, a silent question at my abruptness.

"You do have work today, remember," I teased, trying to soften the blow of my refusal with a playful poke to his shoulder. It was a light touch, an attempt to bridge the gap my sharp 'no' had created, to bring back the easy banter that usually filled our mornings.

"Yes, he does," my mother chimed in, her voice carrying the weight of authority, tempered with a hint of amusement. "In fact, you'd better go and finish getting ready, or you'll be late again," she continued, her firmness belied by the affection in her eyes. It was a familiar dance of nudges and reminders that underpinned their marriage.

Father's gaze met mine from across the breakfast bar, an unspoken understanding passing between us. "The master has spoken," he declared, his grin wide, infusing the moment with a light-heartedness that felt both comforting and necessary. His words were an acknowledgment of my mother's role in our family, the quiet orchestrator of their daily lives.

The air snapped as my mother flicked a checked tea towel with precision, a playful threat that cracked like a whip between us. "Hurry up, or the master won't miss next time," she warned, her voice steady but her eyes sparkling with mirth. It was a rare glimpse of her playful side, a reminder that beneath her composed exterior lay a well of warmth and humour.

I watched as the corner of her mouth turned up, a wry smile that spoke volumes. It was in these moments that I saw the source of my own ability to mask my emotions, a trait inherited from the woman who navigated the world with a poker face. This skill, this ability to conceal, had served me well, though not without its consequences. My thoughts darkened as I remembered Brody, a shadow of regret passing through me at the memory of how my actions, my little habit of slipping things, nonchalantly, into my handbag on many an occasion, had led to irreversible outcomes.

Jumping down from the stool, I sought to shift the mood, to pull me back from the brink of those heavier thoughts. "Hey," I started, my gaze shifting between my parents, seeking to engage them in lighter conversation. "Do either of you know anyone called Cody?"

Father's head shake was immediate, a gesture of ignorance or perhaps disinterest. "No," my mother echoed, her response succinct, tinged with curiosity. "Should we?"

"Hmm, probably not. I heard Gladys mention the name last night. He's probably just a work colleague," I replied, my tone casual, brushing over the surface of my deeper concerns. The mention of Cody was a pebble tossed into the still waters of our morning, a name that held significance yet remained just out of reach, its implications as unclear as my feelings towards the unfolding day.

I found myself lost in contemplation, gazing through my bedroom window as the familiar sound of the car made its way into the driveway. The precise timing of Gladys's arrival, almost exactly an hour after she had left, was noted with a quick glance at my phone. It was oddly satisfying to see something go according to plan, even if it was just the punctuality of an expectation.

Sitting on the edge of my bed, I wrestled with the first sneaker, pulling it over my foot in a mechanical motion. The abrupt sound of the car horn, a long, impatient honk, shattered the morning's quiet. Gladys is more impatient than usual this morning, I noted with a twinge of annoyance.

"You took your time," Gladys's voice carried a mix of impatience and accusation as I settled into the passenger seat. Her words, meant to be a casual greeting, felt more like a veiled critique.

Seriously? I couldn't help but think, What is Gladys's problem today? The question echoed in my mind, a silent query amidst the growing tension.

"I had to put my shoes on," I retorted, my response laced with a coldness that mirrored my growing irritation. Glaring at Gladys, I reached down to tie the last shoelace, my movements deliberate.

"Doesn't look like you've even finished that yet," she observed, a note of sarcasm in her voice that did little to ease the atmosphere.

Gladys was being especially irritating this morning, her comments sharper, more pointed than usual. As my foot accidentally clinked against a glass bottle rolling around at my feet, frustration bubbled to the surface. "Why do you have a bottle of wine in the car, again?" I asked, lifting my gaze to meet hers. The question was more than a query; it was a silent expression of my concern, my confusion at her choices.

The car jostled us as it rolled over the lip of the driveway, the familiar bump serving as a physical manifestation of the turbulence I felt. The wine bottle clinked against my foot once more, a tangible reminder of the complexities and contradictions that defined my relationship with Gladys.

"It's good to have one nearby. You never know when a good bottle will come in handy," she answered, her voice carrying a nonchalance that belied the gravity of her words.

I exhaled a heavy sigh, the weight of my concerns for my sister pressing down on me like a physical burden. My sister really needs help, the thought was a constant echo in my mind, a refrain that grew louder with each passing moment.

"I know what you're thinking, Beatrix. Stop it," Gladys warned, her voice sharp, cutting through the silence of the car. It was as if she had read my thoughts, a feat that wouldn't surprise me given the years we'd spent navigating each other's moods and silences.

"Stop what?" I asked, opting for a feigned ignorance. It was a defensive play, a way to deflect from the tension that was building.

"You know what," she replied, her tone laden with a mix of frustration and resignation. "We got a little carried away last night." Her admission hung in the air between us, a testament to the unspoken worries that had been accumulating like storm clouds.

I scoffed lightly, the sound more of a reflex than anything else. That was an understatement, I thought, the reality of the situation far more complex than her words suggested.

Gladys continued, her voice taking on a defensive edge, "I've only had one or two glasses a week for the last three months." Her attempt at reassurance felt more like a plea for understanding, for validation of her efforts to control what I feared was spiralling beyond her grasp.

My eyebrow raised in surprise, skepticism colouring my reaction. "Really?" I asked, the disbelief evident. It was hard to reconcile her claim with the evidence that seemed to suggest otherwise.

"Yes, really," Gladys defended, her indignation palpable. The pouting that followed, a childlike gesture of defiance, unexpectedly drew a giggle from me.

"What?" Gladys inquired, her focus remaining on the road ahead, the seriousness of her demeanour untouched by my amusement.

"It's nothing," I replied, the laughter fading as quickly as it had appeared. The brief moment of connection dissolved into silence once more, leaving us enveloped in our own thoughts.

And the car fell silent, a quiet that was both a respite and a reminder of the complexities of our relationship.

As the landscape outside the car window blurred into a monotonous stream of greens and greys, a sudden thought pierced the silence, compelling me to reach for my phone nestled in my bag. The screen lit up under my fingers, a beacon of potential answers in the midst of uncertainty. I initiated a new message, my thumbs hovering with purpose over the digital keyboard.

Beatrix: Hey Leigh. Do you know anyone called Cody?

The question, simple yet loaded with implications, hung in the digital ether as we continued our drive, the silence in the car stretching out like the road ahead of us. Two minutes passed, each second ticking by with the weight of anticipation.

Leigh: No. Why?

Leigh's response, almost immediate and to the point, mirrored the urgency of my query. I found myself hesitating, my fingers poised to type a reply. The words formed and then disappeared as I deleted them, caught in the throes of indecision. What reason could I give? The question loomed large in my mind, a reminder of the delicate balance between seeking answers and protecting those involved. Leigh had warned me about the dangers of sharing names or details, advice that resonated with a newfound significance in the wake of the Brody incident. Though I was certain Brody's situation was unconnected, the memory served as a haunting reminder of how quickly threats could escalate.

Beatrix: What about Luke Smith?

Leigh: Everyone knows Luke Smith.

The response elicited a soft gasp from me, a reaction that I quickly stifled. I darted a glance at Gladys, relieved to find her ensconced in her own thoughts, oblivious to my growing alarm. The simplicity of Leigh's reply belied the complexity of the emotions it stirred within me—surprise, curiosity, and a hint of fear.