Page 65 of Rich Little Liars

‘That’s common. More common than people admit.’

‘I suppose. But it doesn’t make it feel less like a failure.’ I stare into my cup, watching the dark liquid swirl. ‘I keep thinking about what I could have done differently. Whether things might have changed if I’d tried harder. Been better.’

‘Hindsight’s a cruel thing. Makes you second-guess every choice you ever made.’

‘Do you do that? Second-guess?’

‘All the time.’ He checks his watch – a quick, automatic gesture – then returns his attention to me. ‘Every case I didn’t solve. Every victim I couldn’t help. Every time I chose work over Hattie. The list goes on and on.’

‘Hattie’s your daughter?’

‘Yes. She’s at university now. Studying psychology.’ A genuine warmth enters his voice when he talks about her. ‘Says she wants to understand why people do the things they do. I told her she should just become a detective, but apparently that’s not the same thing.’

‘How old is she?’

‘Let’s just say she’s not a child anymore.’ He shakes his head slowly. ‘I don’t know where the time went. One minute she was learning to ride a bike, the next she’s miles away analysing Freud.’

‘Do you see her much?’

‘Not as much as I’d like. We text. Have video calls once a week. She even came to visit last month.’ The smile fades slightly. ‘I wasn’t a good father when she was young. Too focused on the job. Her mother left when Hattie was young and took our daughter with her – said she couldn’t be married to someone who was never home. Fair point, really.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. It was a long time ago. And she was right to leave. I wasn’t a good husband either, if I’m honest. Too convinced that nothing mattered except making detective, getting promoted, climbing the ladder.’ He takes a long sip of coffee. ‘By the time I realised what I was losing, she’d already packed her bags.’

There’s no self-pity in his voice. Just the wry acceptance of someone who’s had years to come to terms with his own failures.

‘Hattie told me once that talking to me felt like being cross-examined,’ he continues. ‘That I couldn’t just listen without analysing everything she said. Made me realise I’d let the job infect every part of my life.’

‘Did things get better? Between you?’

‘Slowly. It took work. A lot of work. Learning to ask questions without interrogating. To listen without looking for inconsistencies.’ He glances at me. ‘That’s why I owe you an apology, actually. When we first met, I was treating you like a case to solve rather than a person going through hell. Old habits.’

‘Like I said, you were doing your job.’

‘Like I said, that’s not an excuse. There’s a way to do my job and still be human about it. I forgot that for a while.’

The honesty of it makes something in me loosen. Here is a man who has clearly made mistakes, clearly carries regrets, and isn’t trying to pretend otherwise. There’s something liberating about that. Something that makes me feel less alone in my own mess.

We sit in comfortable silence for a while, drinking our coffee, watching the evening deepen beyond the kitchen window. The fear that gripped me earlier has faded to something more manageable. Still present, still lurking at the edges, but no longer the all-consuming force it was.

‘How are you feeling?’ Harvey asks eventually. ‘Calmer?’

I consider the question properly. ‘Better,’ I admit. ‘Thank you. For all of this.’

‘It’s nothing.’

‘It’s not nothing. You didn’t have to be kind to me.’

‘Yes, I did.’ He says it simply, like it’s obvious. ‘That’s what this job is supposed to be about. Helping people. I just dropped the ball for a spell.’

The clock on the kitchen wall shows half past nine. Not late, not really, but the exhaustion is starting to creep back in. Settling into my bones with familiar weight. I’ve been running on adrenaline for so long that now, in this pocket of safety, my body is finally registering how depleted it actually is.

‘I think I might try to sleep,’ I say. ‘For real this time.’

‘Good idea. You need the rest.’

I stand, gathering the empty cups and setting them in the sink. Harvey stands too, stretching, his joints cracking to speak of many hours in uncomfortable positions.