Chapter 22
NOW
The house descends into silence.
Forensics have been and gone. The patrol car has made its first pass. And Harvey is still here, standing in my kitchen like he’s not quite sure what to do with himself now that the official business is finished.
‘I could throw a little liquor in the coffee,’ I offer. ‘If you’re staying.’
‘I’m off duty.’ He shrugs. ‘Why not.’
‘Decaf okay? I’ve learned the hard way that caffeine after six means I’m staring at the ceiling until three in the morning.’
‘Decaf is fine. I get it. At my age, the real stuff gives me palpitations.’
‘You don’t want it then?’
‘No, I still do.’
I smile and move around the kitchen. Keep my hands busy. Find the liquor. The simple ritual of making coffee feels grounding. Normal. Like something a person with an ordinary life might do on an ordinary evening.
‘You’re not obligated to stay,’ I say, not looking at him. ‘I know you’ve already gone above and beyond. If you need to get home…’
‘My apartment is empty. My daughter’s three hundred miles away, living with her mother. And the only thing waiting for me is a microwave meal and whatever’s on TV.’ He leans against the counter, arms folded. ‘Unless you’d rather be alone?’
The question hangs there. I consider it properly – the option of solitude, of retreating into myself the way I’ve done for months. But the thought of being alone right now, with the red letters still painted on my window boards and the knowledge that someone was here while I was gone…
‘No,’ I admit. ‘I’d rather not be alone.’
‘Then I’ll stay.’
The machine beeps, spitting out the last dribble of boiling water over the grounds.
I watch the dark liquid bloom behind the pot’s glass.
When I turn back, Harvey has settled into one of the kitchen chairs, his posture relaxed in a new way.
Less like a police officer and more like a man at the end of a hard shift.
‘Can I ask you something?’ I say. ‘Off the record?’
‘I’m off duty, remember? Everything’s off the record.’ He almost smiles. ‘Ask away.’
‘Why did you become a police officer? What made you choose this?’
He’s quiet for a moment, turning his hands over on the table like he’s examining them for answers. ‘My mother,’ he says finally. ‘She was killed when I was sixteen. Home invasion. They never caught the person who did it.’
‘God. I’m so sorry.’
‘It was a long time ago. But it shaped everything that came after. I spent years being angry. At the police who couldn’t solve it.
At the universe for letting it happen. At myself for not being there to protect her.
’ He shrugs. ‘Eventually I realised the only way to channel that anger was to do something useful with it. So I joined up. Thought maybe I could give other families the help I never got.’
‘Does it help?’
‘Sometimes. When I solve a case. When I can look a victim’s family in the eye and tell them we found the person responsible.’ He pauses. ‘Other times… other times I wonder if I’m just filling a hole that can never actually be filled.’
I take the coffee pot and pour two cups. Set one in front of him and add the liquor, then take the seat opposite.
‘What about you? Before your husband, I mean. What was your life like?’ He holds up a hand before I can respond. ‘Strictly off the record. I’m not wearing my detective hat right now. Just making conversation.’
The clarification helps. Makes this feel less like an interrogation and more like what it appears to be – two people talking in a quiet kitchen after a difficult day.
‘Ordinary,’ I say after a moment. ‘Boring, probably. I worked from home. Did freelance copywriting. Made enough to get by but never enough to feel secure. Then I met Daniel. Not knowing he was filthy rich, of course.’ I wrap my hands around the cup, letting the warmth seep into my palms.
‘So you’re what they call “new money”?’
I smile thinly. ‘You could say that.’
‘It must have taken some adjustment.’
‘God, I almost broke Google with all the research. I had to learn about party etiquette, the way people treat each other, and even how to have a maid without forming a friendship with her. It’s a certain way of life I wasn’t used to.
’ A sigh escapes me. ‘Daniel used to say I was a fish out of water but I grew feet. But to be honest, I never really got used to the grandeur. I tried to live a normal life – make my own food and clean my own house. Against my husband’s wishes, of course. ’
‘Seems confusing. How did you meet?’
‘At a party when I was twenty-eight. He was charming. Confident. The kind of man who made you feel like the most interesting person in the room.’
‘Love at first sight?’
‘Something like that. Or at least what I thought was love. Looking back, I don’t think I knew what love was supposed to feel like. I just knew he made me feel less alone.’
Harvey nods like he understands. Like maybe he’s been there too.
‘And the marriage?’
‘Good at first. Then… complicated.’ I take a sip of coffee. It’s weaker than regular, but still warming. Still grounding. ‘We drifted. The way couples do when they stop paying attention. By the end, we were more like housemates than partners. Sharing a space but not really sharing anything else.’
‘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.
‘Thank you,’ I say again. ‘I mean it. Having you here tonight… it helped. More than you know.’
‘I’m glad.’ He pulls his jacket from the back of his chair. ‘I’ll let myself out in half an hour or so. Want to make sure the patrol car does another pass before I leave.’
‘Half an hour?’ I raise an eyebrow. ‘That’s very precise.’
‘Force of habit. I time everything.’
‘Well, just make sure you lock the door behind you,’ I say softly, almost teasing. ‘I’d hate to survive a stalker only to be burgled because a police officer forgot basic security.’
Harvey smiles. A real smile this time – something softer. Warmer. It changes his whole face, makes him look younger somehow.
‘I think I can manage that.’
‘I’m trusting you. My entire sense of safety is now in your hands.’
‘No pressure then.’
We stand there for a moment, neither quite ready to break the spell. The kitchen feels different than it did hours ago. Less like a crime scene and more like a space where two people have shared something honest.
‘Goodnight, Ms Reynolds,’ he says finally.
‘Kelly,’ I correct him. ‘You’ve listened to me ramble about my marriage. I think we’re past surnames.’
‘Kelly, then.’ He nods. ‘Goodnight, Kelly.’
‘Goodnight, um…’
‘Joseph.’
I nod then climb the stairs slowly, aware of him moving around downstairs, the soft sounds of someone making sure things are secure.
The bedroom feels less threatening with him in the house.
The shadows less ominous. I climb into bed without even taking the time to undress, pulling the comforter up to my chin.
From below, I hear him checking the back door. Testing the lock. The simple domestic sounds of someone caring enough to be thorough.
Sleep comes without a fight for once. It steals over me gently, softly, like being lowered into warm water. The last thing I’m conscious of is the distant click of the front door locking.
He remembered.
And somewhere in the fog of approaching sleep, I find myself thinking that maybe – just maybe – I’m not as alone as I thought. That kindness can come from unexpected places. That even in the middle of a nightmare, there are moments of grace.