Holding my brown bag of lovelies securely under one arm, my other hand knocked assertively on Luke's front door. The tight knot in my stomach twisted even more, suffused with anxiety. Did Luke get my warning message about the police? The thought of him carelessly opening the door, unaware of the officers' presence, sent chills down my spine.

My heart raced as I waited for a response, but there was only silence. Relief washed over me momentarily when the door remained firmly shut. No sign of Luke inadvertently complicating matters further.

I turned back to face Detectives Jenkins and his partner, who were now closing in on the front steps. My mind raced for a plausible explanation.

"Well, that's a bit odd," I said, trying to sound as surprised and nonchalant as I could manage. "There doesn't appear to be anybody home. I wasn't gone that long.”

I watched their reactions closely, trying to gauge whether they suspected anything amiss. Inside, I was reeling. My brain frantically searched for an exit strategy from this increasingly complicated situation. Luke's absence was both a blessing and a curse. It bought me time but also intensified the detectives' scrutiny.

My heart pounded as the female officer emitted a loud, contemptuous huff.

"But you have a key, don't you Gladys?” Detective Jenkins' gaze, fixated on the set of keys in my hand, sent a jolt of panic through me. They included Jamie's car keys, and now, they were unmistakably in the detective's sight.

"Oh yeah," I said with a nervous laugh, trying to sound casual as I raised the jangling keys. "How silly of me." My grip on the brown bag tightened, the sound of the wine bottles clinking together echoing my internal scream of frustration. I was cornered, with no clear way to persuade the officers to leave.

"Well, aren't you going to invite us in?" Jenkins pressed, his tone suggesting it was more a statement than a question.

I fixed him with a desperate look, silently begging him to just leave. "Wouldn't that be a bit rude of us to enter his house if he wasn't home?" I blurted out, clutching at straws.

Jenkins' response came with a smug smile that made my stomach churn. "I'm pretty sure he wouldn't have given you his keys if he didn't want you being here," he pointed out.

The second officer snorted loudly, her hand rushing to cover her mouth. The sound was so unprofessional and unexpected that I couldn't help but glare at her, taken aback by her behaviour.

Feeling defeated, I muttered, "I guess so," and turned back to Jenkins with a resigned shrug.

As I inserted the key into the lock, a sense of dread washed over me. I was leading the detectives into a situation I was completely unprepared for. What if Luke was there? What if he wasn't? Either scenario filled me with anxiety.

I turned the key and pushed the door open, stepping into the uncertain future that lay inside Luke's house. My mind raced with possible explanations, contingencies, and worries. I hoped against hope that the house would be empty, giving me some room to manoeuvre in this increasingly complex game of deception.

I set the brown bag of wine on the kitchen bench, its contents a temporary reprieve from the tension that filled the house. Leaving the detectives in the living room, I started up the hallway, feigning a casual demeanour as I called out for Jamie. The absurdity of the situation wasn't lost on me; I knew full well Jamie wasn't there, yet I had to maintain this charade for the detectives' sake.

My heart beat a little faster with each step. I was aware of the detectives' potential line of sight from the living room, so I made sure to appear as though I was conducting a genuine search. The hallway seemed to stretch longer under their watchful eyes.

"Jamie, you here?" I called out, my voice echoing slightly in the empty house. The sound felt hollow, mirroring the pretence of my actions.

As I moved through the master bedroom, the reality of my search hit me. I wasn't just looking for Jamie; somewhere in my mind, I was also hoping to find Luke, or at least some clue as to his whereabouts. I had to warn him of the presence of the detectives. "Jamie?" I called again, more out of necessity than hope.

The last room to check was the one with the broken window, where garbage bags had started to accumulate. My heart raced, thumping against my ribs like a frantic bird trapped in a cage. Glancing nervously over my shoulder, I was relieved to find the doorway obscured from the detectives' direct line of sight - a small but significant mercy. Yet, this relief was fleeting, ephemeral as a shadow in the twilight.

With each step into the room, I felt the gravity of my situation pressing down on me, a weight so heavy it seemed to warp the very air around me. I entered with a startled jump, my nerves frayed and senses on high alert.

"Luke! What the fuck!" I hissed, my voice a mix of fear and frustration, as I spotted him lurking in the shadows.

Luke, his expression a mask of urgency, opened his mouth to speak, but I was quicker. Pressing my hand against his mouth to silence him, I leaned in close, whispering, "There's two detectives in the living room, waiting for me to return with Jamie."

"Karl Jenkins?" Luke asked, a flicker of recognition, perhaps even apprehension, crossing his features.

"Yes," I confirmed, my curiosity piqued. "You know him?" The room felt smaller, the walls closing in as our situation seemed to grow heavier.

"Yeah," he admitted, halting mid-sentence, his gaze drifting to a point somewhere beyond the cluttered room. It was as if he was replaying a memory, one he wasn't fully willing to share. "I caught him snooping around here the other day."

"Did he see you? Did you talk to him?" I pressed, eager for details, for anything that might help us navigate this perilous game we found ourselves in.

"No," Luke responded quickly, too quickly perhaps, but there was no time to ponder his hastiness.

"Do you know the detective with him?" Luke's voice was tinged with a curiosity that matched my own.

I shook my head, my description of her emerging as though I was painting a portrait with words. "No. She's a little taller than me, long, black hair, and quite attractive, really." The details felt oddly intimate as they left my lips, a stark contrast to the grimy, forgotten atmosphere of the room.

Luke's recognition was almost instantaneous. "Sounds like Sarah Lahey," he said, his forehead creasing not just with thought, but with a strategy forming behind those deep-set eyes. "Befriend her."

The suggestion, floating in the stagnant air of the room, felt like a sudden gust of icy wind, jarring in its audacity. "Befriend her?" I echoed, my words tinged with a mix of disbelief and skepticism. How could he possibly deduce her identity from such a brief description? And why befriend her, of all people?

"Yeah," he said simply, as if the idea was the most natural thing in the world.

"What? Why?" I pressed, my mind racing with confusion and a growing sense of unease.

"We need to find some allies. My gut tells me that Sarah might help us," Luke stated, his tone firm, as if he had pondered this plan for a while. His words hung heavily in the air, suggesting a deeper game at play, one that I wasn't fully privy to.

Questions swirled through my mind like a maelstrom. What the hell is Luke thinking? Allies for what? And how would Sarah Lahey, a detective, help us? His plan seemed far-fetched, almost delusional.

"To cover up the disappearances?" The words slipped out before I could stop them, my voice barely above a whisper, revealing my deepest anxieties.

Luke's reaction was immediate and forceful. "You'd better get back there," he urged, his hands guiding me towards the door with an insistence that brooked no argument. "They'll be getting suspicious if you don't get back there."

My heart pounded in my chest like a drum, each beat echoing my escalating panic. "What do I tell them?" I asked, my voice quivering with the weight of the situation as Luke nudged me out of the room.

His brow furrowed in thought, a gesture that betrayed his own uncertainty. "I really don't know," he admitted with a helpless shrug. "Just don't tell them about me." His words were a lifeline thrown in turbulent waters, but they offered little solace.

The door closed with a soft click, leaving me alone in the dimly lit hallway. Befriend her? The thought reverberated in my mind as I walked back towards the living room. What an impossible situation. I wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans, a futile attempt to calm my nerves. Damn you, Luke! My mind raced with scenarios, none of them promising, as I stepped back into the lion's den, armed with nothing but a half-baked plan and a growing sense of dread.

Stepping back into the living room, the air felt heavy with unspoken questions and veiled scrutiny. "Jamie doesn't appear to be here," I said, injecting a tone of surprise into my voice that I hoped was convincing.

Detective Jenkins, with his sharp, analytical gaze, asked, "Does Jamie live alone?"

"Um. No," I replied, moving towards the kitchen as if the change in location could somehow dilute the intensity of the interrogation. "He has a partner." My voice wavered slightly, betraying my nervousness.

"Oh," Jenkins responded, his attempt at feigning surprise barely concealing his underlying knowledge. "Is she about?"

She? The word echoed in my mind, a jarring note in the tense melody of our conversation. What the hell is he on about? I could feel the heat rising to my cheeks, a physical manifestation of my inner turmoil. I know he already knows about Luke, but...

Jenkins, perceptive as ever, interrupted my spiralling thoughts. "I'm sorry I've embarrassed you," he said, his tone somewhere between apologetic and probing.

I forced a smile, a thin veneer over my growing realisation that Jenkins was playing a cunning game of fishing and entrapment. Knowing there was no point in lying about Jamie and Luke's relationship, I confessed, "His name is Luke." The memory of what Luke had told Jamie's sister suddenly surfaced, prompting me to continue the charade. "But they've been having a few personal troubles lately, and Luke has gone to Melbourne for a few weeks to think things through."

As the words left my mouth, a cringe involuntarily contorted my face. Shit, Luke had told Louise that it had been Jamie who went to Melbourne. The detectives wouldn't know that though, would they? The uncertainty gnawed at me, a relentless reminder of the precarious nature of my situation.

"Oh, I see," Jenkins said calmly, his demeanour unchanging, revealing nothing of his thoughts. He cleared his throat subtly, a small gesture that somehow seemed significant. "May I use the bathroom, please?"

"Sure," I replied, eager to steer the conversation away from dangerous waters. "It's just down the end of the hallway on the left." I gestured in the direction, my heart still racing, each beat a loud drum in my ears, echoing the growing complexity of the web I found myself entangled in.

Jenkins had barely stepped out of the room when Detective Lahey, who had been a silent presence until now, seized the opportunity to start her own line of questioning. Her voice, calm yet authoritative, cut through the tense air as she spoke for the first time since entering the house.

"So, what was it you said that Jamie was cooking again?" Lahey inquired, her fingers lightly brushing across the surface of the kitchen island. The island bench was conspicuously clean and clear, almost unnaturally so.

I turned away, hoping to conceal the flush of embarrassment that I could feel colouring my cheeks. The lie about Jamie cooking felt foolish now, so transparent in the face of the pristine, unused kitchen. Every bench was bare, devoid of the usual culinary chaos that would accompany cooking.

"Would you like a glass of wine?" I deflected, reaching for a distraction. Opening a high cupboard, I pulled out a large, beautifully decorated wine glass. I tried to reassure myself with a smile, thinking of wine as a solution to life's problems, even ones as complicated as this.

"No," Lahey replied tersely, her response simple and direct.

I shrugged nonchalantly, trying to mask my growing nervousness. Pulling a bottle from a brown bag, I poured myself a glass, the rich liquid a momentary respite from the relentless pressure.

Lahey's persistence was unwavering. "You still haven't answered my question," she pressed, her eyes narrowing into a suspicious glare that seemed to bore into me.

"Oh, haven't I? I'm sorry. What was your question again?" I feigned forgetfulness, raising the glass to my lips and taking a generous sip of the wine. The taste provided a fleeting moment of comfort, a delicious reinforcement against the barrage of questions.

"What is Jamie—" Lahey began, only to be interrupted by my sudden exclamation.

"Did you hear that?" Without waiting for her response, I seized the opportunity to escape the interrogation. Hurriedly, I moved away from the kitchen, my footsteps echoing down the hallway. My heart pounded in my chest, each step a frantic beat in a desperate symphony of evasion.

"Hey! What the hell are you doing in there!" The words tumbled out, a mix of fear and outrage, as I watched Detective Jenkins poised at the door of the spare room, hand on the handle, threatening to unveil the secrets it held – Luke, the broken window, and the accumulating garbage that told a story of recent Guardian activity.

Gathering every ounce of bravery I could muster, I faced Jenkins squarely. "I think you better leave," I declared, my voice firm despite the tremor of fear that underlaid it. It was a demand, a line drawn in the sand, but my heart raced with the knowledge of what was at stake.

As Jenkins stepped back into the hallway, the overhead lights flickered ominously, casting eerie shadows that danced along the walls. The crackling of his radio broke the tense silence, a harbinger of the chaos that was about to unfold. In that moment, I knew with certainty that Luke was making his escape.

"You bastard!" Jenkins' shout shattered the fragile calm. He spun around, fury in his movement, and threw himself at the bedroom door. The sound of splintering wood filled the air as the door crashed against the wall with a violent force.

"Karl!" Lahey's voice rang out, a mix of shock and reprimand. "What the hell are you doing!?"

"He's here!" Karl's voice was thick with a mixture of triumph and desperation. "Luke is here!"

Well, Luke was here, I thought to myself, my mind racing as I silently corrected the detective's present tense. Contempt and surprise collided in my thoughts, a tumultuous blend that mirrored the events around me. My eyes widened in fear as I watched the scene unfold before me, every nerve in my body tensed for what might come next.

Lahey, her movements swift and decisive, drew her gun with a practiced ease that spoke of years in the field. She pushed past Karl, her figure a blur of motion as she entered the room, her presence an ominous sign of the severity of the situation.

"Go, I've got you covered," Lahey's voice was a tense command, her gun poised and ready as she swung it towards the wall, her eyes scanning for any sign of movement.

In that surreal moment, as chaos unfolded around me, I was bizarrely grateful that my legs seemed to have a mind of their own, hesitating to follow the frenzied detectives. Jenkins, with a force that spoke of desperate determination, slammed the bedroom door shut, its edge halting mere inches from my face.

Chest heaving with short, shallow breaths, I stood frozen, listening to the muffled sounds of commotion from the other side of the door. My hand, trembling uncontrollably, brought the wine glass to my lips, the glass clinking slightly against my teeth as I took several deep gulps, each swallow an attempt to calm the storm inside me.

"I know he's here!" Jenkins’ shout was muffled but unmistakable, a declaration filled with conviction and frustration.

A sudden thump resounded, quickly followed by a sharp cry of pain, the sounds painting a vivid picture of struggle and desperation. I took another gulp of wine, its taste barely registering as my mind raced with thoughts of what might be happening just beyond the barrier of the door.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the commotion ceased. The bedroom door swung open, and Jenkins, his attention fixed on some unseen point ahead, brushed past me without a glance. His exit was a storm in itself, his footsteps heavy and purposeful as he stomped down the hallway. The sound of the front door slamming shut was like the final note of a symphony, loud and final.

Turning my attention to the bedroom, I stepped inside, apprehension knotting my stomach. The scene that greeted me was one of utter disarray: every black garbage bag had been torn to shreds, their contents strewn across the room in a chaotic mess. Stinky garbage covered almost every inch of the carpet, a testament to the detectives' frantic search. The room, once a forgotten space, now bore the scars of intrusion and desperation.

As I stood amidst the havoc in the spare bedroom, my gaze was suddenly drawn to Detective Lahey. She was hunched against the side wall, a striking figure of vulnerability in stark contrast to her earlier assertiveness. Blood was dripping from a slash across her palm, a vivid red against her pale skin. My instincts kicked in, and I found myself rushing toward her, driven by a mix of concern and a desperate need to do something, anything.

"Are you okay?" I asked, my voice laced with genuine worry. In a spontaneous gesture of solidarity, I offered her my glass of wine, an olive branch in the midst of turmoil.

Lahey hesitated for a moment, her eyes meeting mine. Then, accepting the glass, she took a sip, her expression softening slightly. "I think I'll have that glass of wine now," she said, handing back the glass. There was a hint of gratitude in her voice, a small connection forged in the heat of the moment.

"Sure. I'll go and get it for you," I responded, feeling a warm smile break through the tension that had tightened my cheeks. Trying to maintain a semblance of hospitality, I added, "Oh, and I'll meet you in the bathroom. It's just off the hall down there," pointing down the hallway to guide her.

As I turned to leave the room, a call from Sarah stopped me in my tracks. "Hey, Gladys," she said, her tone carrying a mix of curiosity and something else I couldn't quite place.

I paused, turning back. "Yes?" I responded, a sense of apprehension creeping into my voice.

"What happened to the window in here?" Her question was straightforward, but there was an undercurrent of suspicion that made my heart skip a beat.

I shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. "I'm not really sure. It was like that when Luke and I arrived earlier today." The words tumbled out before I could stop them.

"You mean you and Jamie?" Sarah's head tilted, her gaze piercing, as if trying to unravel the truth hidden within my slip of the tongue.

Fuck! The realisation of my mistake hit me like a punch to the gut. "Oh, yes. I meant Jamie. Me and Jamie," I quickly corrected, my voice tinged with a panic that I couldn't fully conceal.

Without another word, I hurried out of the room, each step away from Sarah a desperate attempt to escape the tangled web of lies I was weaving. My mind raced, chiding myself for the slip-up, for the growing complexity of the situation. The need to maintain my composure was paramount, yet with each passing moment, it felt like an increasingly difficult mask to wear. As I moved down the hallway, the weight of the detectives' scrutiny and my own tangled lies felt like a heavy cloak, suffocating and inescapable.

Rubbing at my left temple, I felt a throbbing headache begin to set in, a physical manifestation of the stress and chaos of the afternoon. With my right hand, I reached into the cupboard for a fresh glass, the cool touch of the glassware offering a brief respite from the mounting tension.

As I poured the wine, the dark red liquid cascaded smoothly into the glass, a stark contrast to the complexity of my thoughts. Perhaps the detective and I have more in common than I initially judged, I mused silently, watching the wine swirl in its new home. The notion was strange, unsettling even, but there was something about Sarah Lahey – a certain depth, a hint of understanding beneath her professional demeanour – that intrigued me. My mind was a whirlpool of thoughts, and amidst the tumult, a small, persistent niggling at the back of my mind suggested that perhaps Luke was right, she might play a significant role in the unfolding events.

"Best pour her a big one," I muttered to myself, a wry smile tugging at the corners of my mouth as I allowed a few extra drops to fall into the glass. The act was almost ceremonial, a small gesture of camaraderie in a situation where allies seemed as scarce as truth.

I took a moment, holding the glass up to the light, watching the wine's rich colour dance in the bright illumination of the kitchen. It was a brief pause, a fleeting moment of tranquility amidst a storm of uncertainty and fear. In that instant, the glass of wine was more than just a drink; it was an offering, a symbol of an unspoken bond that I hoped to forge, however tenuous it might be.

With a deep breath, I steadied myself, preparing to face Detective Lahey once again. There was a part of me that dreaded the encounter, wary of the questions she might ask, of the truths I might need to conceal. Yet, there was also a burgeoning sense of curiosity, a desire to understand this woman who had stepped into the chaos of my life, and perhaps, to find in her an unexpected ally. With the glass of wine in hand, I stepped out of the kitchen, each step a balance between fear and hope, as I navigated the treacherous waters of deception and truth.

As I flicked on the bathroom light, the stark brightness momentarily disoriented me, a harsh contrast to the dimly lit corridors of the house. "Here," I said, offering the glass of precious Shiraz to Detective Lahey.

"Sorry about the blood," Lahey apologised, her voice tinged with a mix of professionalism and a subtle, unexpected vulnerability. She accepted the glass, nodding towards the small trail of blood that had followed her from the hallway.

I took a sip of my wine, the rich flavour momentarily grounding me. "That's okay," I replied, trying to sound nonchalant. But internally, my thoughts were racing. The blood stains quite possibly aren't all yours anyway, I mused silently, my mind casting back to the earlier mayhem. I remembered the bloodied handprints and spatters from Beatrix, the visceral reminders of a struggle that had taken place. Luke and I had argued about it. The house, once a sanctuary, was quickly becoming a hollow shell - empty and abandoned. The broken window in the bedroom, the garbage bags accumulating - they all spoke of a space being forgotten by time and care. Luke's insistence to clean up Beatrix's mess suddenly made sense. He must have anticipated the police's arrival, understanding that a house smattered in blood would have spelled disaster for us.

A sudden pause halted my train of thought. My head tilted as a curious realisation dawned on me. We hadn't even started cleaning before getting distracted. Did Luke manage to clean up after all? Or, more intriguingly, does he have more help than I'm aware of?

"It wasn't your fault," I reassured Lahey, trying to offer some solace amidst the situation's grim reality. Resting my glass atop the vanity unit, I began rummaging through the drawers and cupboards, searching for medical supplies to tend to her wound.

Even in this quest for bandages or antiseptic, Luke's influence was evident. The bathroom, usually a place of order and cleanliness, bore the marks of his haphazard rummaging. I couldn't help but notice how even the most mundane aspects of the house had been affected by our current predicament. Each drawer I opened, each empty space I found, was a reminder of how far we had strayed from normalcy, how deeply Luke's actions had permeated every corner of our lives. As I continued to search, the realisation settled in - this house, once a home, was now nothing more than a stage for an unfolding drama, each room a backdrop to a story that was growing darker by the moment.

As Lahey rose to her feet, there was a palpable shift in the atmosphere of the bathroom, a mix of resolve and discomfort emanating from her. She turned on the vanity taps, the sound of running water filling the small space. I watched as she began to wash away the blood that had oozed from her palm, the red trails dribbling down her arm. Her movements were careful, methodical, but I noticed the slight wince that crossed her face as she cleaned the wound – a fleeting glimpse of vulnerability beneath her professional facade.

I took another sip of my wine, the rich taste a stark contrast to the clinical sterility of the bathroom. Sarah, showing a degree of trust, held her injured palm toward me. I set my glass down and took a moment to carefully dab her wound dry, focusing on the task with a precision that belied my inner turmoil. Then, with gentle movements, I applied several butterfly bandages, trying to ensure the wound was adequately covered.

"Thanks," said Sarah, her voice carrying a note of gratitude. Withdrawing her hand, she took another sip of wine, the simple act seeming to bring her a moment of comfort.

Satisfied that I had done a decent job and that no more blood would smear the house, I felt a small sense of accomplishment. Encouraging Sarah back into the living room, I led the way.

We sat at opposite ends of the couch, a physical distance that mirrored the invisible barriers between us – detective and civilian, investigator and potential suspect. The tension in the room was palpable, an unspoken acknowledgment of the complexity of our situation. I could feel Sarah's analytical gaze on me, her mind undoubtedly piecing together the fragments of the afternoon’s events, trying to make sense of it all.

The silence that stretched between us was filled with the awkward sipping of wine, each gulp seeming to amplify the tension in the room. Sarah, her gaze thoughtful and probing, finally broke the silence. “So..." she began, drawing out the word slowly, as if each syllable was weighed down with significance. "What do you know about Jamie and Karl?"

"Karl, nothing," I responded, my voice carrying a blunt honesty. It was almost the truth. My knowledge of Karl was limited to his vague connection with Beatrix during the time of Brody's death, a puzzle piece that never quite fit into the broader picture. I had sensed an odd familiarity between him and Beatrix, but she had always been tight-lipped about it, leaving me to speculate in the dark. "But Jamie and I have been close friends for many years," I continued, hoping to steer the conversation in a direction that might somehow mitigate Sarah's concerns about Jamie.

"Really? Karl seemed like he knew rather a lot about Louise yesterday," she replied, her tone casual but her eyes sharp.

"Jamie's sister, Louise?" I echoed, a wave of concern washing over me. The thought of Karl taking an interest in Louise was unsettling, a new wrinkle in an already complex situation.

"Yes," Sarah confirmed, her words measured. "She came into the station to report Jamie as a missing person. She reckons she hasn't seen Jamie or her son, Kain, for several days."

A nervous shiver ran down my spine at her revelation. Everyone is beginning to dig too deeply already, I thought, a sense of foreboding enveloping me. The realisation that Luke’s time to keep his secrets might be running out filled me with a sense of urgency and fear. The stakes were higher than ever, and the intricate web of lies and half-truths we had woven seemed increasingly fragile under the scrutiny of the police.

Sitting there, the weight of Sarah's gaze upon me, I felt the precariousness of our position. Each revelation, each piece of information, felt like a step closer to an edge we couldn't see but knew was there.

"Well, that's a bit odd," I remarked casually, peering over the rim of my wine glass. "I haven't seen Kain recently, but Jamie is definitely safe and well." The words were carefully chosen, a blend of truth and deception tailored to alleviate any immediate concerns Sarah might have.

"And Luke?" Sarah's question was direct, cutting through the air like a sharp knife. A shiver down my spine, an involuntary reaction as the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. Just then, the living room lights flickered, casting brief shadows that danced across the walls, mirroring the uncertainty of the moment. A knowing smile crossed my face, a mask to hide the sudden rush of anxiety that question provoked.

Sarah glanced upward at the flickering lights. "You better have an electrician look into that."

I returned her gaze with a warm smile, maintaining my façade of calm. "Luke is definitely safe," I assured her, my voice steady.

Sarah's eyes narrowed slightly as she looked at me, a subtle shift that didn't go unnoticed. The intensity of her gaze was like a spotlight, exposing every nuance of our interaction. "Well, cheers to that," she said, a hint of skepticism in her tone. She leaned across the couch, extending her glass toward mine in a gesture that was part toast, part challenge.

"Cheers," I echoed, the clink of our glasses a brief respite from the tension. I watched as she finished her wine in three large gulps, a sign that our encounter was drawing to a close.

"I had better be off then," Sarah announced, her voice carrying a note of finality. "I'm not supposed to be drinking while on duty." There was a wry humour in her words, a brief glimpse of the person beneath the detective.

"My lips are sealed," I replied playfully, mimicking the action of zipping my lips with my fingers. It was a light-hearted gesture, but my heart was pounding in my chest. I remained seated, my eyes following Sarah's every movement as she stood up and placed her empty glass on the kitchen bench.

As she left the house without another word, a heavy silence settled over the room, a stark contrast to the intensity of our conversation. I was left alone with my thoughts, the echoes of our exchange reverberating in my mind.

"That was an interesting conversation," Luke's voice, unexpectedly emerging from the hallway doorway, cut through the lingering silence in the room. His presence, a sudden intrusion in the wake of Sarah's departure, startled me slightly. The tone of his voice carried a hint of irony, perhaps an understated acknowledgment of the delicate dance of words and implications that had just transpired.

"You don't say," I replied dryly, the remnants of tension still clinging to my words. I raised the glass to my lips, downing the last few dregs of wine, a bitter finish to a conversation that left a complex aftertaste of uncertainty and suspicion.

"Another?" Luke's question was casual as he walked over, but his eyes were keenly observant, searching my face for signs of how the events had affected me. He reached out to collect the empty glass, his movements fluid yet somewhat tentative.

"Cheers," I responded, the word escaping me more as a sigh than a toast. I was in no mood to argue, nor did I have the energy for further pretence. The emotional rollercoaster of the day had left me feeling drained, the adrenaline of the earlier confrontation with the detectives now giving way to a weary resignation.

As Luke refilled the glass, I watched him move about, his familiarity with the space a stark reminder of the duality of his existence in this house – a place that was both a sanctuary and a stage for intricate deceptions. The wine, once a symbol of relaxation and escape, now felt like a necessary crutch, a temporary solace in a world where the lines between ally and adversary were becoming increasingly blurred. As I sat there, waiting for the glass to return, I couldn't help but wonder what the next move in this dangerous game would be and whether the cost of playing would be more than any of us were prepared to pay.