Page 97 of Too Close To Home

Jesus. Brodie didn’t know when to stop.

“I’m here for you, Jake. Whenever you need.”

“Aye.” Jake attempted the humouring tactic. “Maybe don’t wait up.”

Brodie sighed, then spun and sauntered off back into the pub. Jake huffed out a breath. Yeah, there were definite side effects to casual hookups. He’d had enough bad Grindr encounters to know that by now. Nothing dangerous, but there had been a few awkward endings and the occasional bloke who didn’t quite understand the word casual. Brodie had been clingy from day one. Deacon had clocked it early; in the same way he spotted the warning signs in overzealous fans after gigs.

Still, for a while there, Brodie had been something.

Jake sighed and rounded the van, reaching for the driver’s door.

Then he stopped. Across the car park, beyond the row of darkened shopfronts, the High Street stretched away under pools of yellow streetlight, and at the far end lay the path. The one Emily Fisher had taken Wednesday night.

The same path Robyn had walked thirteen years ago.

Jake felt the familiar pull in his gut.

That tight knot of need to know.

So he leaned into the van and yanked out his jacket. It was little more than a fashion piece, thin black leather and useless against the creeping mist, but it was all he had. Gigging meant sweat, and coats stayed at home to make way for the kit. But he shrugged it on, slammed the door, locked it, and headed across the car park.

The village was quieter the further he walked. Saturday noise fading behind him. Ahead, the path cut between two hedgerows before dipping into the woodland. There’d been police tape tied across it for the last two days. Now it hung loose around the post, pushed aside. Which meant the path was now open. The route Emily had taken was no longer a crime scene. It was a shortcut again. Evidence bagged, photographed, catalogued. Nothing left to find.

Jake stepped past it.

The gravel path crunched under his boots as he followed it downhill. Mist rolled low along the ground, curling through the hedges and slipping between the trees ahead. The woodland rose dark and dense beyond the path, branches knitted overhead like black veins in the faint glow of the village lights.

Jake knew every inch of this place.

He’d walked it every night for a year after Robyn vanished. Sometimes twice. Sometimes until morning. Until his feet blistered and his shoes cracked. Searching. Hoping. Letting the trees swallow the last of the streetlight as he stepped beneath them, and tried to imagine what it must have felt like for a young woman, vulnerable and alone, to walk in this darkness. And why they’d taken such a daring risk with their lives for a ten-minute shortcut.

The air changed the further in he walked. Cooler. Damp earth and moss thick in his lungs. The path narrowed, roots breaking through the soil, leaves whispering underfoot. And somewhere deeper in the woods, an owl called.

Jake shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and followed the curve of the trail. Then he reached the break in the trees where the path opened out into a rough clearing. It was the spot locals used to pull in and turn around. Dog walkers sometimes parked there, headlights cutting through the dark before disappearing again. Tyres had chewed the earth into a muddy track curving back towards the road.

Jake slowed.

Then stopped.

A figure crouched near the edge of the track. It was almost pitch dark beneath the canopy, but Jake’s eyes had adjusted enough to make out the glow of a phone torch angled at the ground. The beam lit a small circle of damp soil, catching the outline of a man’s shoulders as he studied the mud. Jake recognised the coat. Maybe the man too.

Which was…strange.

He took a step forward, meaning to announce himself, but a twig snapped sharply beneath his boot. Harrison stood instantly and turned in the same motion, swinging the torch up so the beam hit Jake square in the face, blinding him.

“Hey, it’s me.” He threw up a hand, squinting in the sudden light. “Jake Whitton.”

Harrison let out a breath fogging in the cold air. The tension dropped from his shoulders as he lowered the torch.

“What the hell are you doing out here, Jake?”

“Was about to ask you the same thing.” Jake blinked until the glare softened enough for him to make Harrison out properly. “Thought you said you were heading home.”

Harrison glanced back at the dirt track for a moment before looking at him again. “I was.”

“I know you’re new around here, but that path there—” he pointed towards the dirt track cutting through the clearing “—doesn’t take you to Larkspur Lane.” He held Harrison’s gaze in the dim spill of torchlight. “Not unless you fancy getting yourself properly lost.”

Harrison nodded. “I know.” He kept the phone light angled at the ground, the beam catching the churned mud and faint tyre tracks. “I’ve seen the land registry maps. Walked the boundaries in daylight.” He paused, studying the earth a moment longer before glancing back at Jake. “But there’s something to be said for retracing steps at the same time of night the victim did.”