Seating myself cautiously in the passenger seat of my father's car, I clutched my handbag tightly, as if it were a lifeline, feeling its familiar texture under my fingers. As the car pulled onto the highway, I braced myself for the inevitable barrage of questions from my father.

"You don't look so well," my father observed, his voice tinged with concern. He threw a casual, quick glance in my direction, his eyes reflecting worry, before promptly returning his determined gaze to the road ahead. I could sense the unasked questions lingering behind his words.

I shrugged in response, feeling that words were inadequate to convey the depth of what I was going through. The way I felt, I was certain that my appearance alone was enough to confirm to my father that his visual assessment of my unfortunate state was indeed accurate.

"What happened? How did you manage to get yourself arrested?" my father finally asked.

Rubbing my brow, I sighed heavily, feeling the weight of his question. How the hell am I supposed to explain the events of the last week to my father, let alone the last forty-eight hours, I wondered. The complexity of my situation felt overwhelming. "I'm not sure," I said after a significant period of silence, the words feeling inadequate and hollow.

My father took even more time before he spoke again, his silence a testament to his patience. "I suspect there's a lot you haven't told us, Gladys," he finally said, sighing as we turned off the highway. His voice carried a note of resignation, an acknowledgment that there were depths to my predicament that he was only just beginning to comprehend.

My eyes rolled as I turned to face the side window, seeking refuge in the passing landscape. "You have no idea," I muttered under my breath, a whisper of truth that held more weight than I could express. Watching the gum trees whir past us, a blur of green and brown, I felt a sense of detachment, as if I were a spectator in my own life. The reality of my situation, the enormity of the secrets and dangers I was entangled in, seemed almost surreal against the backdrop of the mundane and familiar scenery outside.

As my father signalled to turn left, the ticking of the indicator seemed to reverberate throughout my entire brain, like an earthquake on steroids. Each click was unnervingly loud in the silent tension of the car, echoing my escalating anxiety.

"I think I'm going to be sick," I said softly, the words barely escaping my lips as a wave of nausea washed over me.

"You can hold it in for a few more minutes," my father said sternly, his voice firm yet not unkind. As much as he loved me, I understood that even his vault of sympathy had some understandable limits. This was one of those moments where compassion met practicality.

"Why didn't they ask for bail?" father asked, his question slicing through the silence as he turned the corner. It was a logical question, one that hinted at the irregularity of my situation.

I shrugged again, feeling a surge of uncertainty. Confessing that a Sergeant in the police force had told me to run didn't seem like the best idea. In this world of shadows and deceptions, I wasn't sure who I could trust anymore. But he's your father, a soft voice whispered inside my brain. You can trust your father. The internal conflict was tearing me apart.

"You're not taking me home?" I asked, a note of confusion and apprehension in my voice, as we missed the turnoff for my street and continued in the direction of my parents' house. The deviation from the expected route was disconcerting, adding to the pile of uncertainties that plagued me.

My father's solemn face and the sudden large gulp he took didn't do much to dispel my concerns. His expressions, usually so open and readable to me, were now closed off, masking thoughts and emotions I couldn't decipher.

"What's happened?" I asked, my voice tinged with a desperate need for clarity. My brain's catastrophised apocalyptic scenarios were becoming unbearable.

The car pulled to a stop at the side of the road. Father turned to me, his face taking on the most serious expression that I had ever seen. It made my heart sink, a prelude to revelations that I wasn't sure I was ready to hear.

"Is Mum okay?" I asked, tentatively, my voice laced with a fear that a permanent fate had befallen her.

"Your mother is fine," father replied, his words offering a momentary relief. "Mostly." The addition of that last word reignited the flicker of fear in my chest.

"What do you mean, mostly?” I probed.

Father took a deep breath, his actions seeming to brace himself for the explanation. "I came to visit you last night," he said, the concern in his voice etching deep trenches across his forehead. The revelation that he had been to my house, combined with his current demeanour, filled me with a sense of dread. Something definitely isn't right!

"Gladys," he said, his hand landing on my knee and gripping it firmly, a gesture meant to offer support and convey seriousness. "Your house has been burgled."

"It has?" I asked, my voice echoing my surprise as I fell back into my seat. "Why would-" I cut the vocal question short, my mind racing with possibilities and implications.

Father continued. "Your mother hadn't been able to contact you all day, so I came to check on you." That makes sense, I guess, I surmised. The realisation that I'd turned my phone off the moment I had arrived at Luke's house, for fear that the police would be able to track it, hit me. It's what all the crime shows indicated, anyway. I knew that in a few hours I'd be in Clivilius where the phone would be no good to me anyway.

Heart accelerating as panic gripped my chest, I worried about the Portal Key that I had left on the bedside table. "Please, I need to go home," I begged my father, the urgency clear in my voice.

"Okay," he agreed, his tone solemn. "But we can't stay for long. You can pack a few necessities, but that is all. You're going to stay with us for a few days, Gladys."

I nodded agreement, a mix of relief and concern washing over me. The thought of my house being burgled, my privacy violated, was disturbing. Yet, at the same time, the idea of being with my parents, being somewhere safe, even if just for a few days, was a small solace.

Pulling into my driveway, a flutter of butterflies flitted in my stomach, an uneasy mix of apprehension and dread. Either those butterflies are ignoring the alcohol in my system, or they are drunk too, I mused wryly to myself, rubbing my belly as I got out of the car. The attempt at humour did little to ease the tension coiling inside me.

My father followed close behind me, a silent, steady presence in the midst of the uncertainty. I climbed the front steps, each one feeling heavier than the last, and shoved my key into the front door's lock. It clicked open as usual, a normalcy that felt oddly out of place given the circumstances.

"Gladys," my father said, stopping me mid-stride as I opened the door. His voice held a note of caution, a preemptive attempt to prepare me for what lay beyond.

"Yes?" I asked, glancing over my shoulder, the apprehension evident in my voice.

"It's not pretty in there." His words were simple, yet they carried the weight of a foreboding warning.

I nodded, steeling myself. Pushing on the door, I stopped once again. "How did the intruder get in?" I asked, turning back to look at my father. The absence of any sign of forced entry at the front door was puzzling, stirring a mix of intrigue and concern.

"The police aren't sure," he replied, his answer unsettling.

I nodded.

"Gladys," he interrupted again.

"Yeah?"

"Sergeant Charlie Claiborne was here. The police have a lot of unanswered questions." The mention of Sergeant Claiborne's name in connection with my house sent a shockwave of worry through me.

"Sergeant Charlie Claiborne was here?" I echoed, my surprise evident.

"Yes," my father confirmed solemnly. "This is serious, Gladys. Please be careful."

Pushing the door open, I stepped inside. The sight that greeted me was devastating. My house had been totally trashed. A considerable number of fist-sized holes lined the length of the hallway wall, a violent testament to the intruder's presence. Various items lay strewn across the floor, their normalcy disrupted, creating a scene of chaos and violation. The invasion of my personal space, the destruction of my home, was a visceral blow. It felt like a physical assault, not just on the house but on my life and security.

"Where's Snowflake?" I asked, my voice tinged with anxiety. My heart twisted in a tight knot, the thought of my remaining fur baby, potentially lost or harmed, intensifying my worry.

"She's fine. Your mother is looking after her," my father replied, his words offering a small island of comfort.

My shoulders rose and fell as I sighed in relief.

Stepping through the harshly thrown around contents of my house, the place I had called home for the last decade, I fought to contain the tears that burned behind my eyes. The sight of my belongings, my memories, scattered and violated was overwhelming. My multiple attempts to reach both Luke and Beatrix remained fruitless, each call going directly to full voicemail boxes, adding to my sense of isolation.

As I expected, the Portal Key was gone from the bedside table. It might still be here, somewhere, I told myself, trying to hold onto hope. Dropping to my hands and knees, I began to search beneath the bed, desperately seeking the one item that might offer an escape or solution to this nightmare.

"Lost something?" my father asked, surprising me from behind. His voice was gentle, yet tinged with concern.

"Just a USB drive," I told him, quickly fabricating a plausible explanation. I knew that if he ever saw the device, that was more than likely what he'd think it was anyway. It was easier, safer, to keep him in the dark about its true nature.

As my father carefully lowered himself beside me, my eyes began to water. On my knees, I rested my bottom on my heels, feeling vulnerable and exposed in my own ravaged home.

"Gladys," my father began, his tone serious, "What the heck is going on?"

I bit my lower lip as it began to tremble, struggling to maintain my composure. Even if I wanted to tell him, where would I possibly start? The truth was too bizarre, too dangerous. Keeping silent was the best option right now. It's my only option, I reasoned.

"I love you, Dad," I told him, my voice choked with emotion. Grabbing his hand, I squeezed it, a gesture conveying all the love and appreciation I felt for him, and the fear and uncertainty that I couldn't voice.

The futile search for the missing Portal Key had left me feeling drained and helpless. Now, I sat on the barstool at my parents' kitchen bench, my hands wrapped lovingly around the bottle of wine that had been my companion for the last half hour. It was a small comfort. Beside me, the hot cup of fresh coffee my parents had offered remained untouched. It's no doubt cold now, I thought, my gaze lingering on the cup and saucer on the kitchen bench. The coffee, once steaming and inviting, now just another forgotten item in the turmoil of my thoughts.

"Abbey dropped by earlier," said Mum, her eyes watching me closely. There was a hint of concern in her voice, a mother's intuition sensing that something was amiss.

I looked at my mother, my eyes requesting her to elaborate.

"She's concerned about you. Said that you haven't been returning any of her calls."

My brow furrowed in confusion. I didn't recall ignoring or even missing any calls or messages from Abbey. In fact, I hadn't seen or heard from her since a few days ago when almost every Guardian that I knew of seemed to converge in my house.

Finally caving to the bottle's sweet temptations, I asked, "Can you grab some glasses, please?" My voice was weary, the request more of a plea for a momentary escape from reality. I unscrewed the bottle cap, the sound echoing slightly in the kitchen.

Ignoring the glare from my mother warning him not to fulfil the request, father retrieved two glasses and placed them on the bench in front of me. His actions, though small, felt like a gesture of support, an understanding of my need for some semblance of relief, however temporary.

The aroma of the wine tantalised my nostrils, the rich scent promising a momentary respite from the worry and confusion that enveloped me.

"Why haven't you been at work lately?" my mother asked, her voice tinged with concern as she moved the glasses from my reach. The question felt like an accusation, an unwelcome intrusion.

I frowned at my mother, feeling a surge of irritation. How could I possibly explain the complexities and dangers of my current situation?

"Talk to us, Gladys, please," my mother implored, her voice revealing her desperation. She reached for the bottom of the wine bottle, attempting to pull it from my firm grip. Her action felt like a symbolic attempt to draw me back from the edge of a precipice.

I lost the battle, the bottle slipping from my fingers. "I got fired!" I barked out, the words a harsh admission of one of the many troubles plaguing me. I snatched back the bottle, a futile attempt to regain some control over the situation, however small.

A heavy sigh came from my father as he leaned against the kitchen sink.

"Gladys, you need to stop this!" my mother warned, her tone stern as she yanked the bottle away from me again. Her words felt like a reprimand, a call to face reality.

I looked to my father, my eyes pleading with him to intervene, to help save me from the wrath of my mother. But my father looked on in forlorn silence, his inability to provide a buffer between my mother and me adding to my feeling of isolation.

In overwhelming frustration, I jumped from the stool. Grabbing my wine bottle with swift precision, I stormed out of the kitchen. The need to escape the confrontation, to find solace in solitude, was overpowering.

"Where are you going?" my mother asked, her voice following me as she trailed close behind.

"I'm going upstairs to wait for Beatrix to come home," I called back, not bothering to stop. The mention of Beatrix was a grasping at straws, but in the moment, I was willing to try anything to escape.

"We haven’t seen your sister for several days," my mother said from the doorway, her voice laden with worry. "We’ve got no idea where she is."

I stopped abruptly, my steps halting as I was caught by my own thoughts. Come to think of it, I haven't seen Beatrix for several days either. The realisation struck me with a sudden force. Not since she picked me up after that stupid car chase! The memory of that day played vividly in my mind. The last thing Beatrix had told me was that Paul had got her doing missions. A smile involuntarily tugged at the corners of my mouth as I reflected on the memory of Beatrix's excitement, her enthusiasm for her new role.

But the smile faded quickly, overtaken by less pleasant thoughts. Especially after the tragic events with Cody, I knew the dangers of a Guardian life were all too real. The reality of that life, its risks and uncertainties, now weighed heavily on me. But Luke would tell me if anything ever happened to my sister, wouldn't he? The thought was both a hope and a fear, a silent plea that my sister was safe.

Reminding myself that I was grumpy with my mother, I decided that it was best not to raise any concerns regarding Beatrix. I didn't want to add to the tension or worry. "She's close," was all I said, a vague reassurance, hiding my own deepening concern.

I closed Beatrix's bedroom door softly as I entered, careful not to disturb Snowflake as she lay curled up in the middle of the bed, napping. The sight of her, so peaceful and oblivious, brought a small sense of comfort. Placing the wine bottle on the dresser, Snowflake barely lifted her head as I lay beside her. "At least you're safe and comfortable," I told Snowflake, wrapping my arms around her. The warmth of her body, the softness of her fur, was a small solace in the whirlwind of emotions and events. In that moment, holding Snowflake, I allowed myself a brief respite from the worries and fears that plagued me. It was a moment of peace, a brief escape, before I would have to face the realities and uncertainties of my situation once again.