Page 23 of Too Close To Home

How’d that happen?

He shifted his weight, boots grinding damp grit into the verge, and drifted his gaze back towards the treeline where Black was speaking with Calder. Even at a distance, the bloke stood out. Partly because of the height. Partly because of the posture. Mostly because he carried himself as if the world expected him to be there. Straight-backed and composed, coat collar turned up against the wind, every line of him neat and deliberate. Nothing wasted. Nothing careless. A man people instinctively listened to.

The sort of man Jake generally avoided.

Which might’ve been easier if he wasn’t so bloody attractive.

Black wasn’t his usual type. Not that Jake really had a type anymore. More a selection. Whatever willing bloke crossed his path after a gig or too many pints. Sharp tongues, quick smiles, no expectations. Easy. Temporary.

DI Harrison Black was none of those things.

For a start, he was older.

And that did something to Jake he’d rather not examine too closely.

But he looked again. The man had one of those faces that was unfairly put together. Sharp cheekbones beneath windswept light hair, longer on top than regulations probably preferred. A neatly trimmed beard softened the edges enough to stop him looking severe, though not enough to make him approachable. His eyes were dark from this distance, but Jake had seen them up close to know they were brown. Warm. Calm. And he was lean rather than bulky, carrying himself with a quiet sort of strength. Not the obvious kind built in gyms or shouted about in pubs. More controlled. As if he were permanently holding himself back.

Authority without needing to raise his voice.

Confidence without the arrogance.

Most coppers Jake knew came at him all sharp corners and suspicion. Either spoiling for a fight or waiting for him to give them an excuse to start one. Inside had been worse. Hard eyes. Harder hands. A constant push to see if he’d crack first.

Black hadn’t pushed.

He’d stepped in. Slowed it. Taken the heat out of Jake’s chest without making him feel small. That alone was enough to put him on edge.

He scrubbed a hand through his curls, pacing a few steps along the verge, and caught Black glancing over, then turning back to Calder. Listening. Being filled in. Probably hearing all the headlines of Jake laid out in bullet points.

Whitton.

GBH.

Temper.

Three years inside.

The paperwork always spoke louder than anything else. But it didn’t say what it felt like to watch a search team comb this same path thirteen years ago and come up empty. Didn’t say what it did to a family when the wrong man got questioned, then released, and the real one walked free under everyone’s noses. Didn’t say how anger seeped into his flesh and stayed there because it had nowhere else to go.

Anyone would be like him after that.

Anyone who’d stood in these trees shouting their big sister’s name into the mist until their throat bled would’ve done worse than he had.

Jake exhaled hard, nostrils flaring as he dragged his gaze away from Black before it lingered too long. Cause it didn’t matter how composed the bloke looked, or that he spoke differently, moved differently. Eventually, he’d be the same as the rest of them. Procedure over people. Caution over urgency. Too late over never again.

Fuck.

He raked a hand through his hair, scraping his nails into his scalp as if he could dig the noise out of his head. Restless energy skittered under his skin, sharp and electric. Standing here, staring at trees and trampled grass, wouldn’t conjure a miracle.

It hadn’t brought Robyn back.

He spat into the grass, jaw tight enough to ache.

If this was happening again…

He turned and yanked open the van door. The white Transit sat crooked on the verge, as rough and stubborn as he was. He climbed in and slammed the door, then grabbed his phone from the seat and scrolled. Nothing online yet. No headlines. No breathless speculation. No blurry school photo doing the rounds on social media and splashed under the word MISSING in block capitals.

Good.