A few hours earlier, the call had disrupted the monotony of my restless thoughts. A distressed neighbour had reported not seeing Karen or Chris Owen for several days. Initially, the call didn't strike me as particularly unusual. Cases like these weren’t typically in my wheelhouse.

The Owens were well-known figures in Tasmania, their commitment to environmental conservation and the preservation of our state's natural beauty earning them widespread respect. Their frequent travels across Tasmania for various environmental projects meant their absence from home wasn't necessarily alarming. I had considered delegating the initial check to a standard patrol unit, but then a crucial detail caught my attention.

The neighbour had reported "disturbing activity" at the Owens' residence, including multiple deliveries by a small truck. The mention of a small truck piqued my interest, especially since it wasn't the first time such a detail had surfaced in recent missing persons reports. This coincidence couldn't be ignored, so I decided that Sarah and I should take a closer look.

Now, as I sat in my car, gripping the steering wheel, my gaze drifted to the sky. Fluffy white clouds lazily drifted across the sun, their passing casting transient shadows over the landscape. It was a serene, almost idyllic sight, but to my left, the tranquility was being overshadowed by the approach of darker, more menacing clouds. They moved quickly, foreboding in their intensity, heralding the imminent arrival of a storm.

Turning to Sarah, I spoke with a sense of urgency. "We'd better make quick work of this investigation," I said. "I don't think we have much time before it hits." My words were not just about the approaching storm but also about the sense of impending urgency in the case. The Owens' disappearance, the small truck, the storm rolling in – it all felt interconnected, pieces of a larger puzzle that we needed to solve swiftly. The atmosphere was charged, not just with the impending storm, but with the anticipation of uncovering something significant in our investigation.

Sarah's silent nod was a stark reminder of the tension lingering between us since my uncharacteristic outburst at the Smith house. The regret over my actions weighed heavily on me, but the complexities of this case, with its echoes of past experiences and unresolved threads, seemed to cloud my judgment. Was it the presence of Luke that unsettled me, or the resurgence of memories related to my days with Jamie? I hadn't quite figured it out.

Our drive was abruptly interrupted as Sarah suddenly cried out, "Watch out!" Her hand instinctively reached towards the wheel. Reacting swiftly, I slammed on the brakes, narrowly avoiding several brown chickens that had scurried onto the road.

Looking at Sarah, I noticed her struggle to suppress a smile at the absurdity of the situation. "We must be getting close," I remarked, trying to lighten the mood.

"We are," she confirmed, pointing to a nearby street sign. "That's the road to the Owens' property."

I beeped the horn, hoping to hasten the hens across the road. Yet, the last hen, trailing behind her companions, seemed in no hurry. She gazed up at me with beady, defiant eyes, unaffected by the horn's blare. It was as if she was reproaching me for the disturbance. Unhurriedly, she continued her way, pecking at the ground after every few steps.

"This is ridiculous," Sarah exclaimed, her frustration evident as she opened her car door to intervene.

I couldn’t help but chuckle as I watched Sarah attempt to shoo the chickens off the road. They had obviously strayed from a nearby yard and now, amusingly, several seemed inclined to follow her back to the car.

I rolled down the window. "You shoo, I'll drive," I called out, laughter in my voice.

"Fine," she responded, slightly exasperated.

Driving cautiously, I navigated past the hens and pulled up a few car lengths ahead. As Sarah walked back towards the car, the scene became almost comical. The determined hens seemed hell-bent on giving us a hard time.

"Karl! Wait!" Sarah's voice rang out, her tone a mix of amusement and frustration. I was driving slowly up the road, trying to avoid any more chicken-related delays. But as Sarah picked up her pace, the hens seemed equally determined to keep up with her. The sight was almost surreal – Sarah running, the chickens in pursuit, and me at the wheel, laughter bubbling up uncontrollably. This absurd chicken chase provided a brief, much-needed respite from the gravity of our investigation.

As I steered the car onto the laneway leading to the Owens' property, I slowed down to let Sarah catch up. The hens, thankfully, had lost interest in their chase once she left the main road.

"I think the girls like you," I teased Sarah as she climbed back into the car, trying to maintain the lighter mood for just a bit longer.

"Not funny, Karl! There's a reason I don't do country," she retorted, shooting me a glare that seemed to expect my understanding of her aversion.

"Sarah, you were born in the outback," I reminded her playfully. "That's more country than country."

"That doesn’t mean I liked it," she huffed back, her demeanour a mixture of irritation and amusement.

I couldn’t help but chuckle at her reaction. "That's not what your brother says," I added, nudging her playfully with the memory of her past.

Her response was immediate – a swift punch to my shoulder. "Just drive," she commanded, though the corner of her mouth twitched, betraying her amusement.

We continued along the laneway, which soon gave way to a narrow dirt road. The car jostled uncomfortably, bouncing over an uneven mix of pebbles, rocks, and potholes. Dense native forest flanked the road, its thick foliage obscuring any view beyond the immediate path ahead and the road we had left behind.

Sarah's exclamation broke the silence as we emerged onto a spacious clearing. "Oh my God!" she gasped, taking in the sight before us.

The Owens' cottage was a picture of rural charm. Small and simple, the stone-and-cedar structure exuded a quaint beauty. It was modest in size, likely no more than three bedrooms, but it stood proudly against its backdrop. The varying shades of green from the surrounding forest enhanced its appeal, lending it an almost storybook quality.

Sarah's reaction to the cottage was a mixture of awe and nostalgia. As she stepped out of the car, she stood for a moment, just taking in the sight of the humble yet captivating structure. Its rustic charm seemed to transport her to another place.

"Bringing back memories?" I teased, unable to resist the opportunity for a lighthearted jab, my grin widening as I observed her reaction.

Her response was a beautiful, radiant smile that seemed to light up her entire face. Sarah's eyes, a striking shade of green, sparkled with a joy and warmth that was infectious. It was moments like these, amidst the seriousness of our work, that reminded me of the lighter, more human side of my partner.

Suddenly, Sarah's attention shifted. "Look!" she exclaimed, pointing towards a group of small potoroos nibbling on the long grass by a large barn off to the left of the cottage. Her fascination was evident as she began to move towards them, her approach gentle and unthreatening. Her fingers clicked softly, and her voice, carried by the wind, was soothing and inviting, coaxing the shy creatures to trust her.

I watched, momentarily captivated by the scene, a brief respite from the intensity of our investigation. However, the reality of our situation quickly pulled me back. We had a job to do, and as much as I wanted to indulge in the peacefulness of the moment, duty called.

The radio crackled to life, breaking the tranquility. "CITY632. Are you there? Over," the voice from dispatch cut through the quiet.

I reached back into the car, grabbing the radio. "CITY632. We're at the Owens' property now. Over," I responded, shifting back into professional mode.

The dispatcher's next words heightened the sense of urgency. "CITY632. The neighbour who called this morning has just called back. She is pretty shaken. Said there was a lot of activity at the property. Went quiet about thirty minutes ago."

"Copy that, dispatch," I confirmed into the radio, my voice embodying the resolve and concentration that the situation demanded. "We'll proceed with caution." I clipped the radio back into place, my mind already racing through various scenarios we might encounter.

Surveying the Owens' property, I noted how it was enveloped by dense forest. The isolation was striking, the nearest neighbour residing hundreds of meters away. This only deepened the mystery of the neighbour’s call – how could they have observed so much from such a distance?

Lost in thought, I was startled when I noticed Sarah already prepared for whatever might lie ahead, her firearm at the ready. "For once, you're actually right about the gun," I muttered, almost to myself. I unholstered my own weapon, feeling its familiar weight in my hand. "Follow my lead," I instructed, trying to mask the unease that the situation evoked.

Together, we moved stealthily towards the cottage's front veranda. I took the direct approach, heading for the steps, while Sarah veered left. My heart raced as the first step creaked loudly under my weight, a stark reminder of the need for silence and stealth.

Suddenly, Sarah's whisper broke my concentration, causing my next step to land with an even louder thud. I turned to see her crouched in the flowerbed, an action that initially baffled me. What is she doing?

Sarah held up a small bunch of white daisies. "These look like they've been freshly picked," she said. "They were lying on the edge of the decking here." She pointed toward where she had found the bunch.

"Daisies?" I asked, my mind trying to piece together their significance.

"Yeah," Sarah replied. "It's a bit odd. Maybe the neighbour was right. There were people here earlier. Do you think they're still around?"

I paused, considering her words. "Not sure," I admitted. The silence that enveloped the property suggested abandonment, yet the daisies indicated recent human activity. "Why don't you go check out the barn?"

"Yeah, alright," she agreed, her tone business-like as she prepared to investigate further.

As she walked away, I felt a surge of protective instinct. "Sarah," I called out in a hushed yet urgent whisper. A myriad of sarcastic remarks flitted through my mind, but I settled on a sincere caution instead. "Be careful," I said.

She nodded, acknowledging my concern. As Sarah disappeared into the distance, her figure blending with the shadows as she approached the barn, I turned back to the cottage, steeling myself for what lay ahead. My trust in Sarah's abilities was absolute, but the unpredictable nature of our current case left a knot of anxiety in my stomach.

I gazed up at the steps leading to the front door, trying to steady my nerves. "Only three more to go," I murmured under my breath, psyching myself up for what could be on the other side.

Reaching the final step, I noticed the front door was slightly ajar. My pulse quickened. Is someone still inside, or had they fled in haste? The possibilities raced through my mind, each scenario more unsettling than the last.

"Hello? Police!" I called out, nudging the door further open with a gentle tap of my foot. The silence that greeted me was almost as disconcerting as a response would have been.

"Hello? Police!" I called out again, louder this time, announcing my intention to enter. "I'm coming in." With caution, I pushed the door wide open and stepped inside, my gun leading the way.

The narrow hallway was shrouded in a quiet that felt almost oppressive. Every step I took was deliberate, my ears straining for any sound of movement. But the silence remained unbroken.

Entering the master bedroom, I was greeted by an empty, almost barren room. The bed was stripped of sheets and blankets, giving the space a desolate feel. The open mahogany wardrobe stood as a silent testament to a hurried departure, its contents sparse. I lowered my gun slightly, the immediate sense of threat ebbing away. It seemed evident that the Owens were away, perhaps on one of their environmental excursions.

Moving on, I entered the kitchen, which was small but tidy. A peek inside the fridge confirmed my suspicions - it was nearly as empty as the wardrobe. They weren't here. The mystery of the slightly open door lingered in my mind, but it didn't seem to be connected to our current investigation. Perhaps it was indeed a case for local police or a curious neighbour to ponder over.

The urgency to refocus on finding Jamie gnawed at me as I moved through the Owens' cottage. This side investigation, though necessary, felt like a detour from our main objective. The distant rumble of thunder echoed my growing restlessness, a reminder of the brewing storm outside and the tumultuous nature of our case.

As I stood in the kitchen, a loud thunderclap shattered the silence, jolting me into high alert. Instinctively, my gun came up, ready for any threat. "Is anyone there?" I called out, my voice steady but loud enough to carry through the cottage. Moving cautiously from the kitchen to the dining room, I kept my focus sharp, my eyes scanning every inch of the space ahead.

Navigating through the cramped dining area, I noted the odd placement of a large, overflowing bookcase filled with various science books. It struck me as peculiar, yet fitting for the Owens, who were known for their unconventional ways.

My concentration broke for a split second as my elbow inadvertently brushed against a slim scientific journal on the dining table, sending it tumbling to the floor. Papers flew out, creating a whispering swish as they floated to the ground.

Crouching down carefully, still mindful of my surroundings, I reached for the journal and the papers. As I did so, my finger brushed against something wet on the floor. Straightening up, I examined my fingertip, now smeared with a reddish fluid. "Blood!" I gasped, a surge of adrenaline shooting through me as I realised the potential danger I was in.

My eyes quickly traced the small drops of blood that started near the dining table, following a trail that snaked through the lounge and ended near the coffee table. The droplets appeared dry, indicating they had been there for some time, possibly around forty-eight hours. But why was the first drop still wet?

As I followed the blood trail to the coffee table, my heart pounded in my chest. The fear of finding a body, the first casualty in our investigation, loomed over me. I reached the end of the trail, my eyes searching desperately for any sign of a struggle or further clues. But there was nothing – no signs of violence, no more blood, just an ominous silence that hung heavily in the air.

The mystery deepened. The dried blood suggested an incident had occurred days ago, yet the fresh drop hinted at something more recent. The puzzle was complex, the pieces not quite fitting together. I stood there, my mind racing, trying to piece together the clues in front of me. What had happened here? And did it connect to our search for Jamie? The answers felt just out of reach, hidden within the walls of this seemingly tranquil cottage.

The next thunderclap, much closer and more menacing than before, yanked my attention away from the mysterious blood trail. Peering out the window, I saw how the sky had transformed into an ominous canvas of dark, roiling clouds. It seemed to mirror the growing unease I felt inside.

Then, cutting through the growing storm, a scream pierced the air, chilling and desperate. It was followed almost instantly by the sharp, unmistakable sound of a gunshot. My heart leapt into my throat.

"Sarah!" The name tore from my lips as I raced toward the front door, all thoughts of caution abandoned. Adrenaline surged through me, propelling me forward with singular focus.

I burst out of the cottage, leaping off the veranda and hitting the ground running. I skipped the steps entirely, my mind only on Sarah. The fear that something might have happened to her was overwhelming.

I sprinted toward the barn, desperate to find her. But my heart sank when I saw the padlocked door. "Shit!" I cursed aloud, frantically searching for another entry point. The thought of Sarah in danger was unbearable. I couldn't let anything happen to her; the guilt would be insurmountable.

Rounding the final corner of the barn, I spotted her. She was sitting among the tall reeds by a small, spring-fed dam. "Sarah!" I called out again, dread and fear mixing with relief as I ran toward her. My mind was racing with horrific scenarios, each one more terrifying than the last.

As I neared her, Sarah turned her head, her face streaked with tears, her expression one of shock and despair.

I skidded to a halt, my heart dropping at the sight before me. Beside her lay a small, motionless body in the reeds, a pool of blood slowly expanding from a single bullet wound in the chest. "Ahh. Shit, Sarah," I whispered, my voice barely audible over the pounding of my heart.

The scene was a nightmare come to life. The realisation of what had happened, the gravity of the situation, hit me like a physical blow. This investigation had taken a tragic and unforeseen turn, one that would undoubtedly leave an indelible mark on both of us. I stood there, rooted to the spot, struggling to process the scene before me, the weight of the tragedy settling heavily upon my shoulders.

"I didn't mean to," Sarah murmured, her voice breaking as she wiped another tear from her eyes. The remorse in her tone was palpable, and despite my frustration, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for her.

I reached out and grabbed Sarah by the arm, helping her to her feet. The situation was absurd, almost surreal. "You just shot their goose!" I exclaimed, my voice a mix of disbelief and irritation.

"It was an accident! She flew at me. I swear she was coming for my face," Sarah defended herself, her voice tinged with a mix of distress and defensiveness. The oddity of the situation did little to alleviate the tension.

I looked at her, my frustration clearly written on my face. "Do you have any idea how much paperwork this is going to be?" I asked, though it was more of a rhetorical question, a venting of my exasperation at the situation.

Sarah’s expression soured even more. "I could have been seriously injured," she retorted, her tone sharp.

"Well, at least you wouldn't be dead," I responded, gesturing towards the lifeless goose at our feet, my comment a mix of dry humour and pointed reality.

"You can be a real insensitive bastard sometimes, Karl!" Sarah snapped, her patience clearly worn thin by the events. With that, she turned and stormed off towards the car.

I stood there, watching her go, and took a deep, slow breath, trying to calm the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside me. Another breath followed, a bit steadier this time.

"Sarah, wait!" I called out after her, but she didn’t stop, her stride purposeful and angry.

“There's blood in the house,” I yelled, hoping this piece of information would get her attention.

Sarah paused and turned slightly. "And a body?" she asked, her voice carrying a mix of hope and dread.

I shook my head in response. "No. Just this goose," I replied, giving the unfortunate bird a slight nudge with my foot.

"I'll go call for forensics," Sarah declared, her voice still laced with frustration as she resumed her walk to the car.

Watching her leave, I couldn’t help but feel a mix of regret and concern. The tension between us had escalated, and the situation with the goose, bizarre as it was, had only added to the strain. I hoped that, in time, we could move past this and refocus on the search for Jamie and Luke. But for now, I was left standing by the lifeless goose, pondering the absurd twists and turns our investigation had taken.