Page 33 of Too Close To Home

The thought landed heavily. Hard. And he had to let it sit for a moment before pushing it back where it belonged.

But Jake’s reactions didn’t feel like interference.

They felt… personal.

Not towards Harrison. Nor even the investigation. But at the ground itself. The woodland. The history pressed into it. So Harrison drifted his gaze once more to the empty doorway. Professional assessment. Pattern recognition.

Nothing more than that.

And he didn’t want to look too closely at why the man unsettled him in a way that had nothing to do with operational threat.

“No?” Harrison asked mildly.

Pete shook his head. “He’s wound tight, aye. But that’s not his usual setting.”

Harrison hadn’t meant to stare. Hadn’t meant to follow the line of Jake’s shoulders as he’d walked out, anger radiating off him in contained waves. But something about the man lingered. It wasn’t the temper.

It was the restraint.

The way Jake swallowed whatever sharp instinct he had instead of saying or doing it. The way his jaw had locked, as if holding himself together required force. Harrison knew that posture. Knew the discipline of not breaking in public. The temper that flared at the wrong moments. He knew all about it. Because he lived with his own. Functioning was hard enough after such tremendous loss, let alone when the grief never truly ended.

He knew how much damage that did in private.

Harrison put his coffee down, pressing his thumbnail into the raised perforations on the cardboard cup. “I imagine he’s on edge.”

“Aye.” Pete scratched his beard. “More than most.”

“Hm.” Harrison lowered his gaze, then picked up the business card Jake had left behind.

J. Whitton Roofing and Repairs.

His wedding band caught the light as he turned it over, and he absently twisted the ring with his thumb. The gold had worn smooth along the edges, where years of habit had polished it down. And suddenly, it felt heavier in Yorkshire than it ever had in London. As if he were conscious of it constantly. As if the ring were a question rather than a fact.

An exit he hadn’t been ready for.

He twisted it again, a reflex born of sleepless nights and unspoken apologies. Usually, when he did this, his thoughts stayed where they belonged. With grief. Guilt. The man he’d failed to save. But this time they went somewhere else. To broad shoulders disappearing through the pub’s back doors. A contained anger Harrison knew all too well. Grief worn differently, but no less deeply.

He stilled his thumb over the gold.

As if the ring itself objected to such thoughts.

“I don’t object, Harry. I left you so you could live. Not die with me.”

God. This was absurd.

He’d come to Hartswick to rid himself of the ghost. The past. Not because he was ready to step into anything new. Professional or otherwise. He’d come because there was nowhere left in London that didn’t echo. Didn’t carry the imprint of what he couldn’t fix. And didn’t remind him that sometimes love wasn’t enough. That he wasn’t enough.

He knew that now.

He didn’t need reminding.

“Don’t let the card fool ya.” Pete pointed to the card. “Jake’s a damn good roofer. If he were on them trade sites, he’d have five-star reviews coming out of his lugholes. He’s almost as good a tradesman as he is drummer. Though I know what he’d prefer. But if you need a roof fixing…”

Harrison slipped the card into his pocket. “I have more pressing concerns at present. But thank you.”

Because he was here. He was SIO.

And a seventeen-year-old girl was missing.