Page 65 of Too Close To Home

He could dismantle a lie in seconds. Rebuild timelines from fragments. But this…this simple, ordinary thing refused to give. Then Jake hit the ground. And suddenly he was there. Close.

Too close.

Heat lifted from his rain-soaked skin despite the cold. The scent of slate, damp air, and something distinctly him cut through the morning. Harrison’s thoughts faltered, and the key slipped from his grip, clattering onto the step.

New lock. New key.

He hadn’t used it enough yet. That was all. It needed… lubricating. No. Not that. It needed time. Familiarity. Care and attention and fucking patience.

“You just talking about the lock there, Harry?”

Harrison ignored the ghost of that voice outright as Jake crouched, retrieving the key before he could react. Then he straightened and stepped in, close enough for Harrison to give ground, and slid the key into the lock in one clean motion. As if he’d done it a thousand times. As if all doors opened for him without hesitation.

He then unlocked it and pushed it open. “There you go.”

Simple.

Effortless.

Harrison cleared his throat, stepping aside, telling himself it meant nothing. That it was just a lock. Just a door. But as Jake crossed the threshold, water dripping from his curls and bringing the outside in with him, Harrison had the faint, unwelcome sense that some other things might open just as easily for this man.

He wasn’t nearly as ready for that as his front door apparently was.

Harrison then switched on the living room light and was, maybe fortunately, confronted with a different problem. “Fuck.”

The rain coming in from the roof had soaked through his boxes; the cardboard collapsing in on itself. The carpet was dark and saturated; the bowl he’d left beneath the leak had overflowed hours ago. It was a flood. A real fucking flood in his new living room.

Jake winced, coming up behind him. “Fuck. Sorry. Should’ve come round yesterday morning.”

“It’s fine.” Harrison shrugged out of his coat and dropped it over the banister. “It’s only things.” He knelt by one of the less-damaged boxes, rummaging until he found what he was looking for. Towels. He tossed one at Jake, then stood. “Tea? Coffee?”

“Love a brew, aye.” Jake patted the towel through his hair, curls springing looser around his face. “If you got time?”

“I have time. It’s sort of all I have at the moment.” Harrison retreated to the kitchen before his composure could falter again, then he braced his hands on the counter to exhale.

His pulse raced.

Ridiculous.

He had a missing girl, a compromised search perimeter, and a town poised to fracture, yet he was reacting as if a damp roofer in his hallway were the most pressing variable.

Focus.

So he worked through the boxes with the same methodical focus he’d applied to the search grid at midnight. Kettle first. Then two mugs wrapped in newspaper. Then the small canvas bag he’d brought from the rental, containing the tea bags, instant coffee, and sugar folded into a paper twist. And the milk he’d thankfully bought the morning he moved in. Mundane steps. Boil. Pour. Steep. Breathe.

He then carried the mugs back into the living room where Jake crouched over the damp cardboard, using the towel he’d given him not to dry himself, but to clear the mess on his floor and boxes. He’d already moved the worst-soaked stuff away from the spreading patch on the carpet and blotted the edges, pressing firmly rather than wiping, drawing water up instead of pushing it deeper.

“You don’t have to do that.” Harrison stood over him, offering him the mug.

Jake peered up. “Sorta feel responsible.”

“For the rain?”

He gave a short huff of laughter. “No. For the roof.” He sat back on his heels, taking the mug from Harrison, and he did not, absolutely did not, feel any reaction to Jake’s fingers brushing his. “Used to patch it up for the woman before you. Mrs Garraway. Lived alone after her husband died. Couldn’t afford a full strip and re-felt.” He pointed a finger up at the ceiling. “Whole thing needs doing properly. New underlay, new battens in places. Ridge line’s soft. So I kept it weather-tight. Replaced what I could. Slipped in membrane where it’d hold. Bought her a couple winters. Never charged her.” He stood and shrugged, as if that were nothing. “So when she listed it, I told Deacon it was holding. Which it was—for her. Deac left my card for whoever moved in, knowing it’d need doing right. Said it’d be someone professional. White collar. Someone with…” He gestured vaguely. “Money.”

“Me, in other words.”

“Aye.” Jake blew gently over the surface of his tea before taking a careful sip. “Rain like last night was always gonna find the weak spots. If I’d known you’d be out on a missing person on your day one, I wouldn’t have left it.”