Page 39 of Too Close To Home

The woodland.

The families.

The secrets.

And, Harrison suspected, the people he had absolutely no business noticing.

Chapter six

Static in the Walls

Jake mounted the kerb without easing off the accelerator, the van jolting hard as the tyres climbed the pavement. He left it at an angle, nose half blocking the walkway.

He did not give a single fuck.

Cutting the engine, he gripped the steering wheel, breath shallow, knuckles bleaching white against the worn black leather, and gave himself a stern talking to.

He was being irrational.

He knew that.

He didn’t even know Emily Fisher. Couldn’t have picked her out of a lineup. She was another barmaid in a town full of them. He had no claim to her. No reason to feel anything. So why was he wound this tight? Why did it feel as if a knife had been driven straight through his ribs?

He dropped his forehead onto the wheel.

Because it was the same stretch.

The same time of night.

The same bloody script.

He shoved the door open before he could talk himself down. Jumped out. Slammed it hard. Cold air hit his face. Which didn’t help. So he raked a hand through his hair and looked up at the estate agent’s window. It was all glass and polish and aspirational lies dotting the electronic posters sifting through properties on offer. Detached cottages with Aga-style kitchens. Smiling couples holding keys they hadn’t earned yet. Drone shots of land that would never belong to someone like him. Land that swallowed girls and called it countryside.

His own reflection stared back.

Christ.

He looked wrecked. Hair loose in dark waves to his shoulders, last night’s stubble shadowing his jaw, skin drawn tight from lack of sleep. Hoodie stained with ketchup. Mud drying along the hems of his jeans. He looked exactly like what half this town thought he was. Rough, angry, one bad decision from being back inside.

Normally, after a gig, he’d look similar and not give a toss.

Today, it pinched.

Because behind the glass, in the same reflection, he could almost see the DI’s sharp lines and pressed collar. Perfect hair. Measured voice. Calm as if the ground didn’t hold bones and secrets buried alongside them.

No.

Fuck that.

He tore his gaze away from his own reflection and focused on the office behind the glass instead. Deacon lounged in his leather chair, shirt crisp, tie loosened just enough to look deliberate, dark hair arranged into the sort of effortless mess that probably took longer than Jake’s entire morning. He had the phone tucked beneath his chin as he flipped a pen between his fingers and smiled that syrup-slick, butter-wouldn’t-melt smile that sold houses almost as easily as it got him laid.

That was Deacon. Charisma in human form.

On stage, he was much the same. Guitar slung low, lazy Yorkshire drawl sharpened by too many Arctic Monkeys interviews, utterly convinced he was Hartswick’s answer to Alex Turner. He could hold a packed pub with a crooked smile and a well-timed wink, and by the end of most sets already knew who’d be waiting for him afterwards. Deacon wasn’t chasing fame. He liked the attention, the women and the almost guaranteed shag at the end of the night.

But for all the ego and rock-star bullshit, he was decent.

He’d been there from the beginning, back when it was him, Jake and Raff freezing their bollocks off in lock-ups with borrowed amps. Before the potential of Neon Arcade had taken Jake from them. And when Jake went inside, Deacon could’ve replaced him. Plenty of drummers had offered. Instead, he’d kept Jake’s stool empty and his name on the posters until he came home. Jake had never forgotten that. Deacon had stood by him when plenty of other people had decided a violent ex-con wasn’t worth waiting for. Which made this whole thing considerably harder to swallow.