Page 105 of Too Close To Home

Christ.

He could tell himself it’d been impulse. A lapse. Wrong place, wrong time. But the truth sat heavier than that. He’d chosen it. He might not have planned it. Certainly, hadn’t considered it. But he’d chosen it all the same. Because Jake had been standing too close. Talking too openly. Apologising for something as small as a blanket as if it mattered. As if Harrison mattered. And there’d been something in it, unguarded and earnest, slipping past the careful walls Harrison had spent years building. It’d caught him off balance. And instead of stepping back, he’d stepped forward. Into it. Into him.

He could still feel it. The exact moment the line gave way. As if something inside him, long quiet and tightly held, had shifted enough to let it happen. And when Jake’s hand came to rest at the back of his neck, and he heard the sound Jake had made as Harrison kissed him, low, almost surprised, Harrison pulled him closer and deepened it without thinking. That had been the point of no return. Not the kiss itself. But the way it hadn’t stopped there. The way, for a few seconds, Harrison had let himself want it.

It had been a long time since he’d had a kiss like that.

Long enough that he’d almost forgotten what it felt like.

And that was the problem. Because liking it was one thing. But wanting it again…

That was dangerous territory.

Harrison stared at the evidence board, forcing his thoughts back into the room. He was the senior investigating officer on a live missing person case. Jake Whitton was a witness. And Harrison Black was still very much a man whose husband had died. Grief didn’t vanish because someone else’s mouth had fit his unexpectedly well.

“Good kisser, was he, Harry?”

Harrison straightened the stack of CCTV prints in front of him.

Focus.

Work.

Procedure.

If he kept moving, the rest of it could stay where it belonged. Compartmentalised. Contained.

A knock on the glass partition broke his train of thought, and DS Calder stepped into the office carrying his laptop and a mug of something smelling aggressively like instant coffee. “Morning, sir.”

Harrison nodded without looking up. “Morning.”

Calder set his laptop on the desk and opened it. “We’ve got something.”

That pulled Harrison’s attention. “What kind of something?”

“CCTV from the King’s Arms. Roughly the window you suggested.”

“That was quick.”

“Landlord’s cooperative.” Calder turned the laptop towards him and leaned in to press play.

The grainy footage filled the screen. Timestamp: 18:23:11 – Wednesday. Andy Mitchell walked into the pub.

Harrison leaned forward to watch.

Andy paused inside the doorway, scanning the room without quite committing to stepping fully inside. Harrison swallowed as he recognised the hesitation for what it likely was: Jake Whitton. With only one pub in the high street, Peter had never barred either of them outright. But the unspoken rule around town had been clear enough—Andy and Jake didn’t share the same space. On gig nights, when Jake’s band played, Andy made himself scarce.

Yet there he was.

Why? Had he needed a pint that badly? Or was there some other reason?

Harrison watched Andy on the screen make his way to the bar and take a stool near the end. A moment later Brodie appeared behind the taps. Even through the poor resolution, Harrison recognised him easily enough. Lean build. Blond hair. Glitter ball smile permanently ready for customers. Harrison didn’t know why his chest pulled, the edges of jealousy cutting in, but it did.

He ignored it.

Andy then said something. Brodie nodded, turned, and pulled a pint. They spoke while the drink settled beneath the pump. Longer than the few seconds it took to pour. Long enough to register. To remember. Then Brodie slid the pint across the bar. Andy took it and continued talking. Harrison watched the clock in the corner tick forward.

Twenty seconds.