As I entered my room, the sight that greeted me was both mundane and laden with expectation—a small, plain brown cardboard box perched innocently on the bed. Its simplicity belied the complexity of its origin and the implications of its presence. I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that it had to be from Leigh. He had once explained to me, with an earnestness that was both fascinating and slightly unnerving, how he had activated his Portal in my room. This act of registering the location in his Portal Key, a device of profound significance to a Guardian, enabled him to traverse the distance between our world and Clivilius at will.

Initially, the thought had unsettled me deeply. The idea that Leigh could come and go into my personal space without my knowledge or consent had struck me as invasive, a violation of a boundary I hadn't realised I valued so fiercely until it was trespassed. The notion had been creepy at best, and at its worst, it teetered on the edge of predatory. Yet, as time passed and our interactions grew in frequency and depth, my perspective had shifted. Understanding blossomed from the seeds of trust and shared confidences. His reasons, once a source of disquiet, now resonated with a sense of necessity and duty that I could not fault.

Reflecting on this evolution of trust, I couldn't help but recall the instances where I'd returned home to find Leigh waiting for me. Each memory was tinged with the surreal quality of stepping into a scene I hadn't known was set for me. The realisation of these moments, in hindsight, sent an odd tingle down my spine, a shiver that was part intrigue and part apprehension. There was something undeniably more unsettling about the thought of him materialising in my absence rather than during it. It suggested a level of forethought and deliberation that felt, in a way, more intimate and invasive than any casual encounter within the confines of my home could be.

I stared at the dull package resting inconspicuously on my dresser. No larger than a shoebox, it sat there, unassuming yet somehow ominous. Lifting it, its weight surprised me, heavy and dense, as if it contained more than just physical objects—perhaps the weight of the unknown, or the heaviness of responsibility.

Upon closer inspection, a name scrawled in black permanent marker caught my eye—Charlie Claiborne. The letters, uneven and hastily written, seemed to pulse with a significance I couldn't yet grasp. "Hmm," I mused aloud, the name unfamiliar, a mystery wrapped within the cardboard confines. "This should be interesting." My mind spun with questions about the package's contents and its intended recipient. Leigh's reliance on me for this task puzzled me. I understood the necessity of his precautions, the layers of security he wove around his existence, but at times, it felt like overkill.

Placing the box down on the dresser, my attention was drawn to a small envelope, an afterthought taped to the side. Its detachment revealed a minor tear in the cardboard, a small wound in the box's side that I smoothed over with a touch.

DRESS NICE, the message scrawled across the envelope in the same hasty handwriting, was a directive that filled me with dread. My heart sank. What the hell is Leigh expecting me to do? The ambiguity of the message, coupled with the formality of the request, left me feeling out of my depth. It wasn't just a package delivery; this was something more, something that required a role I felt ill-prepared to play.

Taking a deep breath, I steeled myself and extracted the small, thick piece of card from the envelope. The invitation that lay before me was elegant, its heavy cardstock a tactile promise of the event's exclusivity. A black-tie charity fundraiser cocktail event at MONA, the Museum of Old and New Art. The words seemed to leap off the card, each one a hammer blow to my escalating apprehension.

"Shit no," I exclaimed, the words escaping in a loud huff of disbelief. Leigh knows I don’t do events like this. The very idea of me, mingling in a crowd of philanthropists and art aficionados, dressed in finery I barely owned nor desired, was ludicrous. Leigh's expectations seemed to clash violently with the reality of who I was, a chasm that felt too wide to bridge.

Grabbing my phone in a flurry of sudden determination, I navigated through the clutter of notifications to the last message I had received from Leigh. The weight of the impending event was a tight knot in my stomach, a silent testament to the anxiety bubbling just beneath the surface. With a shaky breath, I tapped out my response with a mix of defiance and desperation. Sorry, can't do it, I typed, my fingers hesitating just a moment before I pressed send. A part of me hoped for relief, for an escape from the daunting task ahead.

The spinning blue processing circle then appeared beside the unsent message, a digital purgatory holding my fate in balance. My head tilted, eyes locked on the screen, as irritation began to seep into the edges of my patience. The seconds ticked by, each one stretching out longer than the last. I don't normally have reception problems in my room. The thought was a whisper in my mind, a murmur of confusion amidst the growing frustration.

Finally, the relentless spinning halted, but not with the resolution I had hoped for. Instead, an exclamation mark boldly took its place, the words Message Undelivered flashing beneath it like a neon sign in the dimness of my room. "Shit," I huffed into the silence, the word a burst of exasperation that did little to alleviate the tension coiling tighter within me. "He's cancelled his number again." The realisation sank in like a stone, heavy with implications.

With a flicker of hope, yet shadowed by doubt, I tapped the screen to resend the message, my heart holding onto a sliver of possibility. But the digital verdict was swift and unchanging. Message Undelivered, it declared once more, a finality that echoed in the quiet of the room. The small screen, usually so vibrant and alive with connection, now felt like a barrier, isolating me further in my quandary.

I looked back at the package sitting on my dresser, its plain brown surface a constant reminder of the dilemma I was facing. The weight of the decision pressed heavily on me, a tangible representation of the choice I had to make. Was not delivering it worth the risk? The question echoed in my mind, a persistent whisper that refused to be silenced. Leigh's words, often spoken with a gravity that bordered on solemn, reverberated through my thoughts. Every action has an impact. Every decision has consequences. Or some shit like that. Despite my attempts to dismiss his advice as overly dramatic, the sincerity in his voice, the earnestness in his eyes whenever he said it, made it impossible to completely disregard. He genuinely believed in the weight of those words, and over time, so had I.

The phone on the dresser shattered the silence, vibrating loudly against the wood, its sudden noise making me jump. "Leigh?" I murmured to the empty room, a flicker of hope igniting within me. Perhaps, I thought, clutching at straws, I'd still have a chance to bail on this entire situation.

The screen lit up with a message, but it wasn't from Leigh.

Gladys: Holding a memorial service for Joel at Luke's house 11pm tonight. I'll pick you up.

A surge of frustration washed over me as I read the message. My fingers, short and adept, flew over the screen in response.

Beatrix: No I'll come get you at 10:50

The decision to take control, even in such a small way, was a fleeting comfort in the whirlwind of obligations I found myself caught in. I rolled my eyes, a gesture of resignation to the series of events unfolding before me. "Looks like I'm going to some shitty charity function," I huffed out loud, my voice filled with a mix of irritation and defeat.

"Not bad," I murmured to myself, the words barely a whisper as I stood before the full-length leaner mirror. The reflection that stared back at me was one of composed elegance, a telling contrast to the turmoil that churned beneath the surface. I executed slow, half twirls to either side, my gaze critically assessing the fit of the dress. The sweeping skirt, with its gentle cascade from the gathered and fitted waist, fell just below my knees, the fabric moving with a grace that belied my inner restlessness.

My hands traced the contours of the floral lace that adorned the tailored bodice, marvelling at the perfection of its fit against my skin. The elbow-length lace sleeves had required some adjustment, their ties now redone to hug my arms just so. With a side turn, I checked the corset tie at the back, ensuring it was laced properly, a final nod to the meticulous attention to detail that the occasion demanded.

Returning to a full frontal view, my hand brushed my cheek in a soft caress, a tactile memory that transported me back to a day shrouded in grief. The sheer black dress, now a symbol of sombre elegance, had last been worn at Brody's funeral. The weight of that day pressed down on me, a cloak of sorrow that I hadn't fully shed.

Am I being callous by wearing this again? The question echoed in the silence of the room, a spectre of doubt amidst the ritual of preparation. "No," I answered softly, a reaffirmation spoken to the reflection that held my gaze. I could almost feel Brody's presence, his hands on my waist, his eyes locked with mine as he offered reassurance in the face of my insecurities. "Brody would have told me that I was beautiful."

Exhaling loudly, I acknowledged the passage of time, the distance between those days and the present. The dress, though a relic of a mournful past, felt fitting for tonight's function—simple, yet elegant, a bridge between the person I was and the one I needed to be this evening. And besides, I reasoned with myself, a brief glance at my phone revealing no miraculous reprieve from the night ahead, After the day I'm having, I feel like I'm about to attend my own funeral.

The thought, morbid though it was, carried a thread of grim humour, a momentary lightness in the sombreness of my preparations. Dropping the phone into the small, matching black purse, I turned away from the mirror, from the reflection that held both memories and possibilities. The room I left behind was a silent witness to the transformation, a space that had seen me at my most vulnerable and now, at a moment of forced resilience.

As I stepped out, the dress a soft whisper against my legs, I carried with me not just the physical weight of my attire, but the emotional weight of the evening ahead. The function, with its promise of social niceties and forced pleasantries, loomed large, a trial of endurance in the face of my own personal grief.

Taking my place at the end of the short queue outside the venue, I pulled out my phone and dialled the last number I had for Leigh, my heart holding a sliver of hope for connection. The familiar, sterile voice of the automated reply cut through the night, stark against the buzz of anticipation from the crowd around me. "Your call could not be connected." The words, blunt and devoid of empathy, echoed a sentiment that was becoming all too familiar.

Despite the chill that wrapped the night air around me, a warmth born of anxiety blossomed in my palms, moisture gathering against the cool surface of my phone. This wasn't the first time Leigh had vanished into the ether, changing numbers like one might change clothes, yet the timing couldn't have been worse. Right now, my focus had to shift; I had a charity event to navigate, a package to deliver to Charlie, and a desire to escape the evening's obligations as quickly as possible.

Goosebumps danced along my exposed forearms, a testament to the cold that seeped into the fabric of my dress, piercing the armour of composure I had carefully constructed. The box I carried, an unwelcome companion for the evening, prevented any attempt to warm myself, its presence a constant reminder of the task at hand. A task that, under the gaze of the harsh and unpredictable Tasmanian winter night, seemed even more daunting.

I cast a rueful glance at the sky, cursing my own optimism—or perhaps stubbornness—in choosing attire over practicality. The perfect little jacket that would have complemented my dress lay forgotten, a victim of my rushed departure and a testament to my underestimation of the season's cruelty. A frown etched itself deeper into my expression as I lamented the oversight, the cold biting a little sharper with the regret of my choice.

"You look a bit cold there," echoed a deep, familiar voice, breaking through the evening's chill and the murmur of the crowd. The voice, unexpected yet unmistakably recognisable, prompted an involuntary shiver that wasn't entirely from the cold.

I spun around, my reaction a mixture of surprise and something akin to relief. "Jarod," I acknowledged, my voice steadier than I felt. My gaze travelled upwards, taking in the full six feet and more of him. Jarod always had a way of filling the space around him, his presence somehow both imposing and comforting. "What a surprise to see you here tonight," I added.

Jarod's response was a smile, one that transformed his face, exposing freshly bleached teeth against the backdrop of the night. "I think it is I who should be more surprised to see you. And at a black-tie event no less," he remarked, his tone carrying the light touch of humour and disbelief.

I managed an awkward smile in return, a gesture that felt as forced as my attendance at this event. The social dance of pleasantries we were performing seemed almost a parody of genuine interaction, a reflection of the masks we all donned for occasions such as these.

"Here," Jarod said, his actions cutting through the pretence. He removed his black suited jacket with a fluidity that spoke of his comfort with the gesture. "Take mine." His offer was both a kindness and a reminder of past moments shared, a history that lingered in the space between us.

Accepting the jacket gracefully, I allowed Jarod to slip it over my shoulders, his movements careful and considerate. The warmth that enveloped me was immediate and profound, the fabric of the expensive garment holding the residual heat of his body. It was a sensation that was familiar, comforting in its intimacy. This wasn't the first time I'd found refuge in the embrace of his jacket, nor was it the first time I'd been caught in the subtle cloud of his distinct and memorable Creed cologne.

"Thank you," I murmured softly, my gratitude genuine but my gaze averted, avoiding the dark eyes that sought mine from beneath carefully manicured, yet full eyebrows. In that moment, with the warmth of his jacket wrapped around me, I was reminded of the complexity of our past encounters. You haven't changed a single bit, Jarod James. The thought was both an observation and an unvoiced question, wondering how someone so familiar could still remain such an enigma.

"Which charity are you supporting tonight?" Jarod's question sliced through the ambient noise, catching me unprepared as I stood amidst the glittering array of attendees.

"Oh," I stumbled for a moment, the question pulling me back from my thoughts, which had drifted away from the immediate surroundings. "Bonorong," I answered more quickly than I intended, my voice carrying a hint of surprise at my own response.

"Bonorong?" Jarod echoed, his interest piqued, his brow arching in a blend of surprise and curiosity. "I didn't realise Wildlife Parks were charities."

As Leigh's gaze lingered on me expectantly, I offered a casual shrug, desperately attempting to conceal the sudden tightness in my chest. "There's always a few exceptions," I replied, the words slipping out with forced nonchalance, despite the weight of insincerity that hung in the air. My mind raced, scrambling to undo the unintended commitment I had just made, regretting the hasty response that now threatened to entangle me in a web of deceit.

Before Jarod could delve any deeper, a welcome interruption materialised in the form of Mrs. Enid Pennicott, her presence as commanding as her voice. "Jarod! It's so lovely to see you again," she declared, her tone filled with genuine warmth as she approached to kiss Jarod's cheek.

Internally, I breathed a sigh of relief. Thank God for that! The sentiment was a silent prayer of gratitude for the escape she offered. As I rolled my eyes and edged away, using the moment to put physical and emotional distance between Jarod and myself, I couldn't help but acknowledge the complexity of my feelings towards him. That man has only ever caused me trouble.

Since Brody's death, I had been living in a self-imposed exile from the world we once shared, a world that Jarod was undeniably a part of. Avoiding him, along with everyone else from those days, had been my method of coping, a way to shield myself from the pain and memories that seemed to linger in every corner of my old life.

"Oh well," I muttered under my breath, a whispered concession to the evening's unfolding events. Pulling Jarod's jacket tighter around me, I sought comfort in its warmth, a physical barrier against the chill of the night and the emotional turmoil swirling within. The package, a tangible reminder of my purpose here, felt heavier in my arms, its significance growing with each step towards the front of the line.

The queue moved swiftly, a steady progression towards the heart of the event, each step forward a step further into a world I had once known so well yet now felt alien and intimidating. Holding the package close, I prepared myself for what lay ahead, the weight of the night's expectations pressing down on me with an intensity that was both familiar and wholly new.

"You're not going to ask about mine?" Jarod's question cut through the hum of conversation around us, his return to my side pulling me back from the edge of my thoughts.

"I wasn't going to," I admitted, turning my head to face him once more. There was a certain defiance in my tone, a resistance to play into his hands. "I'm sure you're about to tell me anyway," I added, a hint of sarcasm lacing my words as I observed his mouth open, ready to spill his secrets or, more likely, his well-crafted illusions.

"Umm, no. As a matter of fact, I'm going to keep you in suspense about it," he retorted, his voice laced with a playfulness that I found both irritating and mildly amusing. His attempt at light-heartedness felt out of place, a stark contrast to the depth of my disinterest.

"I think there needs to be a bit of interest before there can be suspense," I shot back, my words tinged with a coy tease yet underpinned by a serious current. My interest in Jarod's charitable affiliations, or lack thereof, was nonexistent. It was clear to me that his presence here, like mine, was driven by motives layered in complexity and self-interest. Any claim of support for a charity was, in my eyes, merely a façade, a strategic move in the social chess game he played so well. In his mind, these manoeuvres towards charity likely served a greater purpose, though I doubted the sincerity of such actions. Others, too, I imagined, would view his gestures with a healthy dose of skepticism.

Mrs. Pennicott's laughter broke through the tension, a hearty sound that filled the space between us. "Oh, Beatrix, you always were a funny one," she declared, her amusement evident. Her white-gloved hand fluttered through the air, a gesture that seemed both dismissive and endearing. "How are you doing, my dear?" she inquired, her attention shifting towards me with a genuine concern that felt like a warm blanket in the chilly evening air.

"Fine, thank you, Enid," I responded, my reply polished with the veneer of politeness that such occasions demanded.

"And your parents?" she continued, her interest extending beyond the immediate, a probe into the well-being of my family.

"They're fine too," I answered, keeping my response brief yet courteous.

"Next, please," beckoned the young woman stationed at the arrival desk, her voice cutting through the low hum of conversation and the rustle of evening attire. I excused myself from Enid with a polite nod.

Stepping up, I presented my invitation with a practiced ease, despite the internal churn of apprehension at the formalities ahead. "Your name?" the woman inquired, her attention shifting from the paper in my hand to her meticulously organised list.

"Beatrix Cramer," I announced, maintaining a façade of calm I scarcely felt.

"Cramer, Beatrix," she echoed, her index finger tracing the names on her list until she found mine. "Yes," she confirmed with a small tick of approval next to my name, a simple gesture that felt disproportionately significant in the moment.

"And your charity of support?" she continued, the question lobbed at me like a test I hadn't studied for.

For fuck's sake! The question irked me more than I cared to admit, a reminder of the charade these events often were. "Bonorong," I replied, forcing a smile that I hoped conveyed confidence rather than the irritation brewing beneath.

"Bonorong," she repeated, her brows knitting in confusion as she consulted a second list. The pause that followed, filled with her scrutiny, felt longer than it probably was. "I'm sorry," she finally said, her eyes meeting mine. "Bonorong doesn't appear to be on the approved list."

The small package under my arm felt suddenly heavier, a physical burden echoing the weight of my task. With a gamble that felt more like a leap of faith, I offered her a warm smile. "Just add them to the bottom of the list. Charlie will take care of it from there," I suggested, the name 'Charlie' wielded like a talisman, hoping it carried enough weight to bridge this unexpected hurdle.

"Of course," the woman acquiesced, perhaps swayed by the confidence in my tone or the implied authority of Charlie's name. She scribbled something down, then handed me a receipt, a token of my passage through this checkpoint.

As I was motioned to move along, the two young men in shiny tuxedos at the door appeared like gatekeepers to another realm, the large, double glass doors behind them a portal to the evening's unknowns. Each step forward was a step into a meticulously choreographed dance of appearances and alliances, a world where my presence felt both incongruous and necessary. The weight of the package, now officially smuggled into the event under the guise of charity, was a constant reminder of the real reason I was here, a mission that lay hidden beneath the surface of pleasantries and polite smiles.

After taking several steps forward, the weight of Jarod's jacket on my shoulders felt like a tangible link to a past I was trying to navigate around, not through. With a decision made more out of necessity than desire, I slid the jacket from my shoulders and extended it back to Jarod. I don't need to give him a reason to follow, I reasoned silently, the gesture a symbolic severing of the immediate connection he offered.

"You don't want to keep it?" Jarod's voice followed me, a mix of surprise and something unidentifiable in his tone. I didn't turn to face him as he continued towards the check-in desk, where his presence would be officially acknowledged.

"Events like these are always too hot inside," I called back, the excuse rolling off my tongue with practiced ease. A light wave of my purse-clutching hand served as a casual goodbye, a nonverbal punctuation to a conversation I was eager to leave unfinished.

As I approached the entrance, the two young gentlemen tasked with greeting the guests pulled open the doors, their movements smooth and practiced. The lobby beyond them beckoned, a sprawling space filled with the murmur of voices and the subtle undercurrent of anticipation.

That gamble paid off, I mused internally, a small smirk playing at the corners of my mouth as I stepped into the warmth of the lobby. The mention of Charlie's name at the check-in had been a shot in the dark, an attempt to navigate through the bureaucracy of the event with the least friction possible. Whoever this Charlie guy is, he must wield some significant influence within these circles. The thought was both reassuring and a reminder of the complexities of the social labyrinth I found myself in. The acceptance of Bonorong as a charity of support, despite its absence from the official list, was a testament to the power of names in this environment—a power I intended to leverage to the fullest in order to fulfil my obligations for the evening.

Immediately upon entering the lobby, I made a beeline for a tray of sparkling bubbles being navigated through the crowd by a diligent server. Grasping a glass, I bypassed the opportunity for idle chatter, my mind singularly focused on locating Charlie Claiborne amidst the sea of guests. The task felt akin to finding a needle in a haystack; after several futile spins, scanning faces in the hope of a recognisable one, the absurdity of my endeavour became painfully clear. Name tags, it seemed, would have been a blessing.

With a sigh bordering on exasperation, I took a generous sip from my glass, the bubbles offering little in the way of solace for my mounting frustration.

"Need help finding your table?" Jarod's voice, unexpectedly close, prompted me to turn with a start.

"Table?" I echoed, the word feeling foreign in the context of my current predicament. The concept of a predetermined seating arrangement hadn't even crossed my mind amidst my preoccupation with the package and its intended recipient.

"There's a table and seat number on the receipt they gave you before you entered," Jarod explained, his tone imbued with a patience I hadn't expected.

"There is?" I stammered, feeling suddenly like a kangaroo caught in headlights.

"You know it's a dinner function, right? It would be advisable to sit for such occasions," he continued, his jest only amplifying the sense of mortification that washed over me.

A kangaroo that's about to become roadkill, I thought, my stomach feeling like it had just flopped out of my body, landing on the floor for everybody who was anybody, or nobody, to trample over.

"Oh," was all I managed to muster, my voice a faint echo of its usual certainty. Hastily, I rummaged through my purse, fingers seeking the crumpled receipt I had dismissed so carelessly upon my arrival.

Jarod's swift action of taking the crumpled receipt from my grasp felt like an intrusion into my personal chaos, his fingers deftly straightening out the paper as if he were smoothing away the complications of the evening. "Must be fate," he declared, his grin wide and unabashed, as if he'd been awarded a grand prize. The implication of his words sent a fresh wave of dismay through me, confirming my worst suspicion without need for further clarification. We have been seated beside each other.

His arm extended towards me, an invitation, a gesture from a bygone era of our acquaintance that now felt oddly out of place. I stared at him, the stern pout on my face barely masking the whirlwind of emotions stirring within. Seriously? The incredulity of the situation was not lost on me, yet here we were, about to navigate an evening that fate, or perhaps a mischievous seating planner, had thrown our way.

"Come on. You used to enjoy this, remember?" His voice held a hint of teasing, a reminder of past moments shared with a levity that seemed foreign in the current context. His elbow nudged me gently, a physical prompt that broke through my hesitation.

"I've tried to forget," I retorted, the words slipping out tinged with a mixture of sarcasm and a subtle acknowledgment of our shared history. Despite the resistance in my voice, I found myself linking arms with him, a concession to the unspoken truce his presence offered. As we began to move towards our designated table, a surprising zing of excitement fluttered through me, betraying my outward show of reluctance.

The memories of our past interactions, once buried under layers of time and circumstance, began to surface with an intensity that caught me off guard. Jarod was right, I did enjoy it. The realisation was both unsettling and oddly comforting, a reminder of a time when the complexities of life hadn't yet clouded the simplicity of such moments. The contradiction of my feelings was a testament to the intricate dance of human emotions, where past and present often intertwine, leaving us to navigate the delicate balance between what was and what could be.

"So, who's your gift for?" Jarod's question, accompanied by a curious tilt of his head towards the nondescript package I clutched like a lifeline, momentarily caught me off guard. His casual inquiry felt like a probe into a part of my evening I was desperately trying to keep under wraps.

"Charlie Claiborne," I managed to say, my voice steady despite the inner turmoil. We were moving away from the safety of the lobby, descending the staircase into the heart of the evening's event, each step taking me further into unknown territory.

"A gift for the organiser. I'm impressed," Jarod remarked, a note of genuine surprise in his voice. His words echoed in my mind, magnifying my anxiety. Organiser? The realisation hit me with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Fuck!

"Yes," I found myself responding, mustering every bit of faux composure I could. "I thought it would be a thoughtful thing to do." The words felt hollow, even to my own ears, a thin veil over my burgeoning panic.

"Thoughtful," Jarod echoed, his approval evident. "Now you have me twice-impressed." His praise, though likely meant to reassure, only served to heighten the pressure. The façade of confidence I was desperately clinging to felt more fragile with every passing moment.

As we entered the dimly lit function room, warmth enveloping us in sharp contrast to the cool precision of the lobby, I found myself leaning closer to Jarod. "Except I don't actually know what he looks like," I confessed, my voice a whisper barely loud enough to breach the distance between us. In that moment of vulnerability, I questioned my own judgement, pulling back as the realisation dawned on me. He is making me sloppy. The thought was a jolt back to reality, a reminder of the need for vigilance. Or maybe I have simply lost my skills.

Jarod's reaction was a sideways glance, a mix of confusion and curiosity, before his attention shifted, drawn away by a sight across the room. His expression changed, a recognition sparking in his eyes. "Charlie!" he exclaimed, his voice carrying across the space.

Pulse racing, a tumultuous mix of fear and relief coursing through me, I found myself at a crossroads of emotion. Part of me, driven by a visceral, almost primal urge, wanted to pull Jarod back, to halt this unexpected rendezvous and maintain control over the situation. Yet, beneath the surface layer of fear, there was a recognition of opportunity. This was the moment I had been both dreading and longing for—the chance to deliver the package and extract myself from the evening's commitments with a semblance of grace.

"Charlie. Good to see you again," Jarod greeted, his voice carrying a warmth that seemed to cut through the formal atmosphere of the function room. The ease with which he unlinked from me and approached Charlie, extending a hand for a firm handshake, spoke volumes of their familiarity.

"It's been a while," Charlie responded, his tone echoing Jarod's sentiment. "Glad you could come along."

"Thank you," Jarod replied, his manners impeccable as always. Then, with a gesture that felt both grand and inevitable, he turned towards me. "Charlie, I'd like to introduce you to Ms. Beatrix Cramer," he said, making the introduction with a flourish that left little room for hesitation.

"Nice to meet you, Ms. Cramer," Charlie said, his greeting accompanied by an outstretched hand, a bridge across the chasm of our unfamiliarity.

The moment teetered on the edge of disaster as the small box I held, a silent testament to my mission, began to wobble precariously. My attempts to juggle it alongside my purse felt like a metaphor for the evening itself—a delicate balancing act fraught with potential for error. Just as the box threatened to escape my grasp, Jarod, ever observant, reached out to steady it, his quick reflexes saving me from what could have been a minor catastrophe.

I afforded Jarod a short, appreciative smile, a silent acknowledgment of his timely intervention. With the box now securely in his care, my hand was free to meet Charlie's. The handshake, a formal exchange in an evening filled with calculated interactions, felt like a pivotal moment.

"You've got an incredible set-up down here," I remarked, allowing my gaze to wander across the room. The tables stretched out before us, dressed in fine white linens that seemed to glow under the soft light of the candles. Each set of four seats was complemented by small, tasteful arrangements of blue and white flowers, creating an ambiance of understated elegance.

Charlie's laughter, hearty and sincere, filled the space between us. "I can't say I can take the credit for any of that," he admitted, his humility punctuating the air. "But yes," he continued, a note of pride in his voice, "Mr. Bedding and his crew have done a spectacular job."

His acknowledgment of the effort put into the evening's preparations allowed a smile to break through my previously guarded demeanour. Perhaps I could allow myself to enjoy tonight after all. Even if just a little, I thought, a flicker of optimism threading through my apprehension.

"I must say, Ms. Cramer," Charlie then turned his attention directly to me, his gaze appraising. "That is a stunning black dress you have on. I'm sure Sandra would love to see it."

"His wife," Jarod's voice came in a soft whisper, close enough for only me to hear. His brief interjection served as a guidepost, illuminating the social landscape I was navigating.

"I'll let her know when she's done gossiping," Charlie added, his voice dropping to a softer chuckle. The comment, light-hearted on the surface, hinted at the layers of interaction and relationship dynamics at play within the event. It served as a reminder of the complex web of social cues and expectations that surrounded us, a dance of communication and appearance.

"Oh, this is for you," Jarod's voice cut through the hum of conversation, his hand extending the small, brown package towards Charlie. "It's a gift from Beatrix," he added, his tone imbuing the moment with a significance that felt both exaggerated and necessary.

"A gift?" Charlie's response was laced with surprise, his eyebrows lifting as he accepted the package. His reaction, a mix of curiosity and unexpected delight, echoed loudly in the charged atmosphere of the event.

"It is your charity event. I thought it might be the charitable thing to do," I found myself saying, trying to infuse my words with a blend of sincerity and casualness. Despite my efforts, Jarod's reaction—a poorly concealed smirk—betrayed his skepticism. His disbelief was palpable, yet it mattered little to me. My focus was solely on Charlie's acceptance of the gesture.

"Thank you," Charlie responded, his smile genuine and warm, cutting through the tension I felt. "If you'll excuse me, I'll just go and pop this over at my table. Save me carrying it around." His practicality, framed by politeness, offered me a graceful exit from the interaction, a momentary reprieve from the evening's complexities.

"Of course," I replied, the words automatic. "It was nice to finally meet you," I added almost reflexively, instantly regretting the addition. The phrase, so commonly exchanged in such settings, now felt like an awkward appendage to the conversation, one I wished I could retract as soon as it had been uttered.

Charlie's response was an awkward nod, a nonverbal acknowledgment that perhaps he too felt the strangeness of the moment. Yet, as he began to walk away, he paused, turning back towards me. "Thank you again, Ms. Cramer," he called out, lifting the gift slightly as if to underscore his appreciation.

My reply was an awkward wave, a gesture that felt inadequate in the face of Charlie's graciousness. Watching him disappear into the crowd, I let out a sigh of relief, the weight of the interaction lifting as he melded with the ever-growing throng of guests.

"Well, that was a bit—" Jarod's voice trailed off, prompting me to fill in the blanks with a guess that felt uncomfortably accurate given the circumstances.

"Stalkerish?" I offered, the word hanging between us like a cloud about to burst.

Jarod took a deep breath, an audible sign of his attempt to choose his words carefully. "I was going to say clumsy, but yeah, stalkerish will do nicely," he conceded. His agreement, meant to be lighthearted, only served to amplify my growing sense of unease.

"Shit," I whispered under my breath, a succinct summary of my thoughts. The situation, already tangled, seemed to knot tighter with each passing second.

"Don't worry about it. I'm sure the Sergeant didn't think anything of it," Jarod tried to reassure me, but his words had the opposite effect.

"Sergeant?" I echoed, my voice barely above a whisper as my heart skipped into overdrive. The title added a layer of complexity I hadn't anticipated, transforming an awkward social interaction into a potentially precarious situation.

"Yeah, Sergeant Charlie Claiborne, Hobart's most decorated officer," Jarod replied, his grin suggesting he found some amusement in the revelation. But for me, there was nothing amusing about it. The information jarred, sending a ripple of panic through me. Shit. What the hell was Leigh thinking? The question echoed in my mind, a silent scream for clarity in the midst of confusion.

It's time to enact my exit strategy. Now! The thought was a clarion call, a directive that brooked no delay. Yet, before I could formulate any semblance of a plan, Jarod's voice broke through my thoughts.

"Come on," he said, his hand finding my arm again, guiding me with an assurance I felt slipping from my grasp. "Let's go find our seats."

I grimaced, my feet moving of their own accord, following Jarod towards our designated seating, each step a reluctant march into an evening that promised to be anything but straightforward. The fear that it was going to be a very long evening wasn't just a premonition; it felt like a guaranteed prophecy.

As the evening's formalities drew to a close, the atmosphere in the room shifted from structured to a more relaxed mingling. Jarod, ever the social butterfly, seemed energised by the prospect. He grabbed his glass of beer with a casual ease, the liquid gold reflecting the dim lights of the function room. "I'm going to mingle. Care to join me?" he asked, rising from his seat with a readiness that contrasted sharply with my own feelings.

"Not particularly," I replied without hesitation. The dinner, while pleasant, hadn't done much to alter my desire for solitude—or at least, a respite from the forced socialisation the evening demanded. My response was honest, albeit blunt; the prospect of further conversations, especially under the guise of casual socialising, held little appeal.

Jarod's reaction was immediate, his lips forming a playful pout—a look I remembered well from our past interactions. "Suit yourself then," he said, the lightness in his voice doing little to mask his disappointment. With that, he turned and walked away, no doubt in search of those who were more amenable to the evening's social opportunities.

I couldn't help but give a little scoff as I watched him go. He always had been the more social of us, I mused, a hint of envy intermingled with my relief at being left alone. It was a familiar dynamic, one that had defined much of our interaction over the years.

Allowing myself a moment of respite, I casually glanced at the watch on the wrist of the man seated beside me. The action was instinctive, a habitual check on the time, but the result was a jolt of panic. "Shit," I mumbled under my breath, the word slipping out before I could catch it. It was already ten-thirty. The realisation hit me with the force of a physical blow. I have to collect Gladys.

The once orderly room, with its carefully arranged tables and chairs, had transformed into a bustling, animated space. My objective remained singular: to find a discreet opportunity for escape without Jarod noticing. I caught sight of him at the centre of a small group. His engagement with animated gestures and the rapt attention he commanded, were all too familiar. Centre of attention as usual.

With a decisive motion, I pushed back my chair, its legs scraping softly against the floor. My movements were swift, a silent excuse me whispered as I navigated through clusters of guests, each absorbed in their own bubble of interaction. My destination was clear—the staircase in the far corner of the room, my escape route from the evening's obligations.

A final, sweeping glance across the room confirmed that Jarod's attention remained firmly anchored away from me, his back to my stealthy retreat. This observation bolstered my resolve, ensuring he wouldn't notice my departure. With that assurance, I quickened my pace, ascending the stairs with a blend of relief and urgency.

Upon reaching the lobby, the contrast was stark. The space, though not as congested, still held guests in scattered groups, their conversations a muted echo of the din I'd left behind. My strategy was simple: keep a low profile, avoid engaging, and make a swift exit. My gaze was fixed on the floor, a deliberate attempt to avoid any accidental eye contact that might delay my departure.

As I passed through the lobby, the presence of the ushers, now familiar figures in their shiny tuxedos, marked the threshold to freedom. Their doors held open were like gates to the outside world, a world I was eager to rejoin. A quick, barely perceptible nod was all I could afford them in my haste—a silent gesture of thanks for their unnoticed but essential role in the evening's choreography.

Stepping through those doors, the brisk night air was an immediate contrast to the buzz and warmth I had just left behind in the function room. As I navigated through the small, dimly lit carpark with a sense of purpose, the silhouette of my 4WD became a beacon in the darkness, urging my steps to quicken.

"Psst, Beatrix," came a soft, unexpected whisper, cutting through the silence like a knife. My reaction was instinctive, a mix of surprise and defence, as I spun around, my purse swinging through the air as a makeshift shield.

Before I could register what was happening, a long arm emerged from the shadow of my vehicle, pulling me in close with a familiarity that was both startling and oddly comforting. "You really think hitting someone with that thing is going to make any difference?" Leigh's voice, tinged with a mix of amusement and rebuke, grounded me back to reality.

"What do you want?" I hissed, the irritation clear in my voice, my heart still racing from the unexpected encounter.

"Did you deliver the package?" Leigh's inquiry, still whispered, carried a weight of urgency.

"Yeah," I replied, my frustration mounting. "So, why me? Why couldn't you do it yourself? And why make me come here?" The questions spilled out, each one underscored by a growing sense of irritation and confusion over his motives and the night's events.

"I just wanted to see you dressed up all pretty," Leigh quipped, his attempt at humour ill-timed and poorly received.

His comment, intended or not, ignited a spark of anger within me, prompting a reaction that was both immediate and visceral—a solid whack with my purse. "Seriously!" I exclaimed, the volume of my voice a reflection of my annoyance.

"Shh," Leigh insisted, a finger pressed to his lips, his eyes scanning the surroundings with a caution that suggested the need for discretion.

"Then why?" The question burst from me, a mix of curiosity and rising irritation, as I struggled to maintain a whisper. The night had taken a turn towards the surreal, and with each word Leigh spoke, the depth of the intrigue seemed to grow.

"I couldn't do it myself. Their eyes and ears are everywhere. Besides, he's seen me before. I needed someone he didn't—" Leigh's explanation was cut short by my sudden realisation, a piece of the puzzle clicking into place, albeit with a few edges still missing.

"Hang on," I couldn't help but interrupt, the implications of his words dawning on me. "You mean he knows who you are? He knows about your... thing?" My voice trailed off as I pointed subtly at his pocket, the location of his Portal Key—a secret that felt too volatile for the openness of our current setting.

A coy small smile crossed Leigh's face, and I recognised my slip of subtle innuendo.

Reacting to his immaturity, I gave him another hard whack across the arm with my purse, an action driven more by impulse than any real expectation of answers. "What was that for?" he asked, his voice tinged with amusement, a slight chuckle breaking through.

"You know what," I growled back, my frustration no longer contained. "I was trying not to say Portal—" My words were abruptly silenced by Leigh's hand, which covered my mouth with a swift, cautionary motion.

"Best you don't say them now," he advised, his voice low, a serious undertone cutting through the lightness of his previous demeanour. As he removed his hand, the gravity of his expression matched the weight of his words. "And no. I don't think he knows that much. He is connected somehow, I just haven't been able to work out how yet," Leigh continued, his brow furrowing in thought.

"So, what was the package? Why so important? And why here?" The questions spilled out of me, a torrent of curiosity and concern that I could no longer contain.

"Haven't you ever heard of hiding in plain sight?" Leigh countered, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, as if the answer was obvious to anyone willing to see it.

"Ah," I responded, the pieces beginning to fit together in my mind, albeit slowly. "I get it. I think. But it would make more sense if you answered my other questions." My insistence on understanding the full scope of the situation was driven by more than mere curiosity; it was a need to grasp the potential consequences of my actions.

"I will," Leigh assured me, though his response offered little in the way of immediate comfort.

"You're not even going to say goodbye?" Jarod's voice, carrying across the carpark, interrupted our hushed conversation. The casual call out, laden with an undercurrent of jest, felt jarringly out of place in the tension of the moment.

Leigh's reaction was immediate, crouching even lower, a clear indication of his desire to remain unseen. Instinctively, I mirrored his action, ready to blend into the shadows alongside him.

"No," Leigh hissed. "Stand up. Go," he whispered, urging me into the open with a gentle push. His insistence, firm yet fraught with an unspoken urgency, left no room for protest.

"But..." I stammered, my glare a silent accusation of his sudden decision to abandon me, alone and adrift in the aftermath of unshared secrets.

"Tomorrow," Leigh promised, his voice a whisper of assurance. "I'll find you and explain." The promise hung between us, a lifeline thrown in the uncertainty of the night.

Reluctantly, I acquiesced, stepping out from behind the safety of the vehicle to face the remainder of the evening alone. My heart raced as I moved to open the front door of my 4WD. Jarod's proximity was a surprise, his figure looming unexpectedly close in the dim light of the carpark. The sudden transition from the secrecy of Leigh's company to the potential scrutiny of Jarod's presence sent a jolt of adrenaline through me, a stark reminder of the delicate balance between the night's hidden agendas and the façade of normality I was compelled to maintain.

"No," I replied sharply to Jarod, the firmness in my voice belying the tumult of emotions roiling beneath the surface as I opened the car door. His plea, however, was unexpected and struck a chord within me, disarming my resolve momentarily.

"Come to Wrest Point tomorrow night. For old time's sake," he implored, his hands clasped together in a gesture that spoke volumes of our shared past, of risks taken and moments lived on the edge of adrenaline and chance.

The suggestion, audacious as it was, cracked the stern façade I had maintained throughout the evening. A cheeky smile involuntarily split my clenched jaw, a reaction that surprised even me. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach, a sensation I hadn't felt in what seemed like ages. The thought of returning to the casino, the very place that had been the foundation of Brody's and my venture into the antique store, sparked an unexpected thrill. The funds we had "acquired" there had been the start of something new for us. Or rather, I'd taken them.

"You have to admit we made a fine team, you and I," Jarod continued, his voice laced with nostalgia. "You have quick, deceptive hands."

"And you have a fine, deceptive mouth," I scoffed softly, the retort slipping out with a mix of fondness and reproach. Memories of those reckless nights—filled with laughter, the clink of glasses, and the thrill of discreetly disappearing chips—flooded back, painting a picture of a past life that seemed worlds away from the present.

"We never did get caught. We didn't have to stop," Jarod mused, a hint of regret, or perhaps wistfulness, colouring his words.

"Yes, we did have to stop. You know we did. It was all about the numbers. We knew that from the start," I reminded him, my voice steady, a testament to the lessons learned from those heady days. "As easily as we helped people to misplace their chips without them even knowing, we could have easily been caught," I added, the weight of my unspoken confession—I did get caught!—hanging heavily between us, unacknowledged yet palpable.

"Just one more time?" Jarod tried again, his request a siren call to a part of me I thought I had left behind.

I bit my lower lip, a gesture of hesitation and the weight of memories long buried but never forgotten. The casino, a place of exhilarating victories and bitter truths, hadn't seen my shadow since the day before Brody's life was cruelly snatched away. He had confronted me, his eyes filled with a mixture of disappointment and disbelief, about the origins of the money that had seemed to appear out of thin air. Brody never fully understood the depths of my talents—or perhaps, more accurately, my deceit. But he knew enough to be troubled, and that knowledge had been a dividing chasm between us, one that we never had the chance to bridge.

"Fine," I finally conceded, the word escaping me like a sigh of resignation. "But not tomorrow. Let's do Friday night." There was a part of me, perhaps the reckless part that I thought I had left behind, that couldn't outright refuse the lure of the past, even though it was wrapped in danger and draped in the shadows of what once was.

"Deal," Jarod responded, his grin spreading wide across his face, a mirror to the excitement I remembered so well. He extended his hand, an offer of agreement, a pact of sorts that felt both familiar and foreboding.

I rubbed the goosebumps that prickled along my arms, a physical testament to the cold that seeped into my bones and the unease that nestled into my heart. "It's freezing out here. I need to go," I stated bluntly, the need to escape the night, Jarod, and the flood of memories overwhelming me. Slipping into the car, I brought the engine to life, its hum a welcome barrier against the night's chill.

Jarod stood back, offering a cheery wave that seemed so at odds with the turmoil churning inside me. I took a deep breath, an attempt to steady the riot of emotions and the drumming of my heart against my ribs.

As I drove past the grapevines, their rows standing sentinel along the large property's main road, a glance in the rearview mirror revealed Jarod still in the carpark, his figure a solitary silhouette against the dim lighting, staring after me. The sight of him there, alone yet undeterred, sent a shiver down my spine. He was going to get me into more trouble than I needed. The thought was a cold whisper, a premonition that danced dangerously close to certainty.

"Shit!" The exclamation burst from me as I slammed on the brakes, my heart leaping into my throat at the sudden appearance of a small wallaby on the road. The headlights caught the creature in a stark, frozen moment before it, with seeming reluctance, moved on to the vines on the other side. The incident, brief as it was, served as a jarring reminder of the unpredictability of life, of the dangers that lurked in the shadows, and of the fine line I was walking—once again—on the edge of disaster.