Page 112 of Too Close To Home

On paper, the pieces lined up.

Timeline. Location. Opportunity.

Enough to bring Andy Mitchell in.

Harrison glanced back through the glass at the interview room. Men who had something to hide usually carried it somewhere in their bodies. In the eyes, the hands, the restless shifting in the chair. Even those who thought they were clever rarely masked it completely. Andy showed none of it. All he had was an irritation at being there at all. As if the whole thing were a waste of his time.

Harrison frowned.

Either the man sitting in that room was a far better liar than most, or he was exactly what he appeared to be. A man who knew nothing.

Calder leaned against the opposite desk, folding his arms. “Duty solicitor’s signed the custody sheet. We’re ready whenever you are.”

Harrison nodded, smoothing his tie, getting himself in check.

Calder drifted his attention out of the window. “Jesus Christ…” He scraped a hand over his scalp. “How the fuck did he find out already?”

Harrison turned slowly in his chair.

Calder stepped closer to the window, peering down at the front entrance. “When will he learn?”

A cold weight landed low in Harrison’s stomach. He stood and crossed the room in two strides. From the second-floor window, he could see the small car park and the pavement beyond the station gates. Jake Whitton stood in the middle of it. Even from this distance, Harrison recognised him. The rigid line of his shoulders. The mass of dark curls whipping loose around his face in the wind. The way his whole body seemed wound tight, carrying a tension that had nowhere else to go.

Two uniformed officers had positioned themselves between Jake and the station doors and Jake was saying something Harrison couldn’t quite hear through the glass, but the sharp movements of his hands, the way he cut the air with them, told Harrison everything he needed to know.

Anger.

Not the simmering, controlled kind either.

Raw. Volatile. Barely held together.

Harrison’s chest squeezed.

It was a world away from the Jake Whitton who’d pinned him against a tree the night before, kissing him so softly Harrison had felt that carefully bolted box inside him, where he kept everything that could hurt him, splinter open at the seams.

This Jake was something else entirely.

All sharp edges and fury.

And the last thing Harrison needed right now was him making a scene outside his station while Andy Mitchell sat upstairs waiting to be interviewed.

Calder let out a sigh beside him. “I’ll get uniform to move him along.”

Harrison shook his head. “No.”

Because that would only make it worse. Jake had been hauled through this building in cuffs before, been charged and sentenced to three years. The last thing Harrison wanted was to watch uniformed officers handle him like a problem again. So if anyone was going to deal with him…

It had to be him.

“I’ll sort it.”

Calder glanced at him. “Sir—”

But Harrison was already moving. Down the stairwell. Through the coded door leading to the front desk, where the voices grew louder. Raised. Frustrated.

“—I’m not leaving until someone tells me what the fuck is going on!”

Even through the glass doors, Harrison could hear the strain in Jake’s voice.