I sat on the sofa, staring blankly at the glass of water DCI Campbell had pressed into my trembling hands. The room felt distant, like I was watching it all unfold from somewhere far away. My legs were stiff, and the scissors still rested on the cushion beside me, smeared with faint marks from my sweaty palms.

The voices drifted in from the hallway, muted and sharp at the same time. DCI Campbell's tone was controlled but edged with suspicion, while Mr. Turner's voice carried that same unsettling calm, like he had rehearsed every word.

"...front door was wide open..." Campbell's words cut through the fog in my head. "...what exactly were you doing here?"

"I was driving past," Turner replied, his tone smooth, almost casual. "I saw the door and thought something might be wrong. I just wanted to make sure Sam was safe."

Driving past? My fingers tightened around the glass, the condensation slick against my skin. Nobody just drives past. I live at the end of a country lane. You don't end up here unless you're looking for it. The thought churned in my stomach, adding to the gnawing unease that had rooted itself deep inside me.

"I see," Campbell replied, her tone unreadable. "But why wouldn't you contact the police? It's unusual to... intervene like this."

"I acted on instinct," Turner said smoothly. "Sam is one of my students. I've always looked out for her."

Looked out for me? My stomach twisted tighter. Why would he even say that? It wasn't true. I hadn't asked for his help, and I certainly didn't need him showing up unannounced in the middle of the night.

"Mr. Turner," Campbell's voice sharpened, cutting through the muffled haze of my thoughts. "You're free to leave. If I need a further statement, I'll contact you."

I heard his footsteps, heavy and deliberate, heading for the door. Relief began to edge in, but it was fleeting.

The door swung open, and instead of closing behind him, my mum stepped through, her expression a mix of confusion and concern.

"What's going on here?" Mum's eyes flicked from Turner to Campbell, then landed on me, curled up on the sofa, clutching the glass of water. 

Campbell explained the situation with clipped precision, detailing the broken kitchen window and the shattered glass from the upstairs room. Each word hung heavily in the air, adding to the oppressive weight that seemed to fill the house. The tension was suffocating, the atmosphere thick with unease.

Despite Campbell's pointed stance against the stairs, her arms crossed and her glower fixed firmly on him, Mr. Turner managed to linger for another twenty minutes. His explanations of "just trying to help" dragged on, his smooth tone grating against the palpable discomfort in the room. He seemed entirely unfazed by Campbell's steely glare, as if he didn't even register her silent challenge.

Finally, Campbell stepped in, her voice professional yet laced with an edge that made it clear she was done entertaining him. "Mrs. Calloway, I was already on my way to speak with Sam about an ongoing investigation. Mr. Turner says he arrived here out of concern, but I agree his presence is... unexpected."

Mum straightened, her tone sharp as she addressed him directly. "Thank you, Jim... but I think we can handle everything now." She barely spared him a glance, her focus shifting protectively toward me.

Turner hesitated, his gaze lingering on me longer than it should. "Well, if you need anything..." His voice trailed off, his tone almost too familiar, too soft.

I nodded, not trusting my voice to respond. But the feeling wouldn't leave me—the gnawing sensation that something was deeply wrong. The way he looked at me. The way he lingered. It wasn't concern. It wasn't casual. It felt too familiar. Too intimate.

As the door finally closed behind him, a cold wave of relief washed over me, but it wasn't enough to shake the unease. My mum let out a breath she seemed to have been holding, her shoulders dropping slightly.

Campbell's voice broke the silence, calm but firm. "Sam, I know this has been an overwhelming night, but we need to talk." Her eyes softened slightly as they met mine. "Let's sit down, and you can tell me everything."

I nodded again, my throat too tight to speak. My legs felt like lead as I followed them to the living room. The house still felt heavy, like the shadows weren't ready to let go of the tension that had settled here.

And in the back of my mind, one thought kept circling, relentless and unwelcome.

Nobody just drives past.

I stayed on the sofa and gulped down the water Campbell had given me. Mum lingered nearby, leaning against the armchair, her arms crossed over her chest. The usual aloofness she carried hadn't completely disappeared, but tonight there was something different—a stiffness in her posture, as if she were caught between irritation and worry... maybe.

DCI Campbell remained calm, sitting across from me on the edge of the coffee table. She placed her notepad on her lap, her pen poised and ready. Her steady gaze met mine, offering quiet reassurance, but the weight of the night still pressed down on me, the walls of the living room seeming to close in.

From the kitchen and upstairs, the faint sounds of movement kept pulling my attention. I don't think we'd ever had this many people in the house before. Every creak of a floorboard or muffled voice felt like it didn't belong, adding to the surreal quality of the night.

"Sam," Campbell began, her voice calm but laced with a quiet firmness, "I need you to walk me through everything that happened tonight. Start from when you were alone."

The words stuck in my throat, my thoughts swirling in fragments—shards of glass glittering in the moonlight, the heavy tread of footsteps on the stairs, the hooded figure staring from the garden. Each memory was jagged, out of place, refusing to slot into any kind of order.

I blinked rapidly, my grip tightening on the glass. The condensation made it slippery against my skin, grounding me just enough to force the words out. "I... I was upstairs," I said, my voice thin and shaky.

Campbell nodded gently, encouraging me to continue without rushing. Her steady presence was the only thing tethering me to the moment, even as my mind threatened to spiral.

Mum shifted by stairs looking awkward crossing and then uncrossing her arms as I retold what happened Campbells pen moved swiftly over her pen and paper once i had finished the room fell silent for a moment, the weight of my words settling between us. Campbell exchanged a brief glance with Mum before she asked "And Mr Turner?"

"One minute there was somebody who broke in the next minute he was outside my bedroom door asking if I was okay" 

Campbell didn't respond immediately, her pen pausing mid-word. She glanced toward Mum again, but Mum's focus was fixed on the carpet, her expression unreadable "Does he usually pop by like that, your teacher?" 

"No never, I'm in one of his classes, I barely have anthing to do with him" I said quietly. 

before Campbell could ask anything further, Mum cleared her throat. "Can we talk about this tomorrow? It's been a long night."

Campbell's lips pressed together briefly, but she nodded. "Of course. I'll follow up soon." She stood, her notepad tucked under her arm, and looked at me one last time. "You've been very brave, Sam. Get some rest."

She then turned to my mum. "They'll have taped up the windows for now, but I'd recommend getting them replaced as soon as possible," she said, her voice calm yet firm, as if trying to bring some normality to an otherwise chaotic night.

After the police left, Mum and I cleaned up the shattered glass in silence. The crunch of the fragments underfoot filled the void where words should have been. My hands moved automatically, sweeping the shards into the dustpan, but my mind was anything but still. Questions swirled relentlessly, each one louder than the last.

Why was Mr. Turner really here? Was the hooded figure still watching, lurking somewhere in the darkness? And why did Mum seem so... detached, like this was just another inconvenience to deal with?

Every so often, I glanced at her, hoping she might say something—anything—that would make this all make sense. But her face remained set, her movements precise and measured, as though we were cleaning up after nothing more than a broken vase.