Page 20 of Too Close To Home

It had to be adrenaline. First day. High-risk missing child. The body reacting to tension the way bodies sometimes did. Trauma rewiring responses, misfiring signals. He’d spent long enough understanding that in theory.

It had to be that.

Because it couldn’t be what it felt like.

He straightened his shoulders. “Good morning, sir.”

Both men turned towards him, and Jake Whitton locked his gaze onto his. And there it was again. That sharp, electric spark. Harrison suppressed it with effort.

“I’m DI Black.” He extended his hand. “Senior Investigative Officer.”

Jake blinked. Thrown by the civility, maybe. Or maybe it was the accent. Or maybe because Harrison wasn’t matching his heat the way Calder was. There was clear animosity there and Harrison didn’t need his training to decipher it. But he did need to diffuse it.

“Whitton.” Jake took his offered hand. “Jake Whitton.”

The contact was brief, firm. Calloused. Warm. And Harrison felt the jolt clean through his spine. Christ. He released first and stepped back. Giving himself distance. Definitely adrenaline. First live job in a new force. Emotional scene. Old ghosts sitting too close to the surface. He was projecting; that was all. Translating tension into something easier to categorise.

It was not attraction.

It was not.

So he stepped back into procedure. “I understand you’re concerned, but this area is part of an active search. You can’t be inside the cordon.”

Jake let out a sharp breath, clenching his fists, then unclenching them as if working through the urge to break something.

“I’m not inside it,” he snapped. “I’m standing exactly where any normal person with a functioning brain would stand when a kid goes missing.”

Calder sighed. “Jake—”

“No.” Jake jabbed a finger at him, eyes flashing. “Not today.”

Harrison arched an eyebrow. That wasn’t anger. That was fear. Old fear. And it didn’t belong solely to this morning either. And whilst Jake wasn’t a direct threat as such, he was edging close to obstruction. Another step forward, another shove against the tape, and Harrison would have to act. His first hour in Hartswick and arresting a local man at a live search scene wasn’t how he’d intended to introduce himself. Especially not to this man. Someone who might be able to fix his roof, perhaps.

He let the real reason die on his tongue.

So Harrison adjusted his approach. “Do you know Emily Fisher?”

Jake shook his head. “No.”

Harrison let a beat sit, studying him properly. If not personal connection, then what had drawn him here? Vigilance? Habit? A need to watch an investigation unfold because of morbid fascination. A bloody true-crime podcaster.

Or something else entirely.

They were trained to watch for it. The overly invested civilian. The one who hovered. Asked too many questions. Wanted updates no ordinary bystander should care about. Sometimes the keenest volunteers were simply measuring how close an investigation was getting to them. So Harrison scanned the details automatically: the mud on Jake’s boots. Old, not fresh. The tension in his jaw. Anger, yes, but not the jittery watchfulness of someone fearing discovery. His stance wasn’t forward-leaning curiosity.

It wasn’t defensive.

It was protective.

Still, instinct didn’t replace protocol, and Harrison pointed at Jake’s chest, where a streak of red cut across the faded business logo on his hoodie.

“I hope that’s not what I think it is.”

Jake glanced down at himself and, for a split second, a sheepishness crossing his face as he scrubbed the stain with his thumb. “It’s ketchup. Just had a bacon buttie.”

“I see.”

Jake looked up again, catching the thread of suspicion in Harrison’s voice. “What?” He cocked his head. “You think I start my morning with a ritual sacrifice, then come stand in front of police wearing the evidence?”