Page 47 of Too Close To Home

Jake held up his middle finger to him, which only made Deacon laugh more.

“Aye, that’s it. Subtle as a brick.”

Jake shook his head then watched Harrison outside the window. Lingering. Scanning the street, maybe. Or thinking. Waiting. Jake’s pulse kicked again, low and insistent. So he crossed the office and shoved through the door before he could overthink it, stepping out onto the pavement. “Hey.”

Harrison turned. “Mr Whitton.”

“Jake. Call me Jake. S’weird otherwise.”

“Jake.”

And that…God. That shouldn’t have done anything. It was just his name. One bloody syllable. One beat. A single kick drum through a silent room. No build-up. No fill. A clean, resonant thud that he felt in his chest. Precise. Controlled. Perfect fucking timing.

But the way Harrison said it, soft on the inhale and clipped on the release, landed dead centre, as if he’d hit Jake right on the downbeat. And he hated how it rattled him. He rarely went for older men. He went for easy. Available. Loud. Blokes who laughed quick and left quicker. Not men with wedding rings and measured voices and eyes looking as if they were filing him away for later.

This was different.

Unsettling.

He shook himself, irritated at his own reaction. And how Deacon’d sussed him before he did.

“Can I see the picture of her?”

There was a brief assessment in those brown eyes. Calculating, weighing purpose against impulse. Then Harrison reached into his jacket and withdrew the photograph and handed it over.

The image was glossy and slightly overexposed, taken from what looked like a social media profile. Emily stood in front of a mirror, phone angled, long, blonde hair falling over one shoulder. She had big blue eyes. A hopeful smile that hadn’t quite found its confidence yet. Seventeen trying to look older. Trying to look certain of herself. Pretty.

For a second, the street noise dropped away.

Robyn had stood in front of their mum’s hallway mirror once, adjusting her eyeliner before going out. Laughing at Jake for watching her and asking if she’d put some on him. Same tilt of the head. Same half-defiant, half-nervous expression, as if daring the world to see her.

“She looks…” Jake gripped the edge of the photograph as thirteen years collapsed into one brutal heartbeat. “Young.”

“She is.”

For a second, the present fractured. He saw Robyn at nineteen. Too-bright lipstick, long, bouncy curls that changed colour most weeks, a stubborn chin, pretending she knew more about the world than she did. He scrubbed a hand down his face as if he could wipe the memory away, but it clung. In the girl’s eyes. In the bravado that didn’t quite hide the fear.

“You think she left on her own?” Jake handed the photo back before it could burn through his fingers.

“I don’t form conclusions without evidence.” Harrison slid it neatly into the inside pocket of his blazer.

“You’re a detective, though, right? Seasoned?”

Harrison quirked an eyebrow. “If that’s your word for old.”

Jake snapped his head up. “No—Christ, no. I meant…” He shook his head, searching for footing. “You’ve come from somewhere else, aye? Down south. London?”

“The Met.”

“Aye.” Jake nodded, quicker, filling the space. “So you’ve seen proper crime. Murders. Terror stuff. Big-city shit.”

“Correct.”

“So you’re… experienced?”

Harrison held his gaze. “I’ll take experienced.”

Jake swallowed.