Page 335 of Cold Case, Warm Hearts

The town had easily doubled since he was little and was almost a small city now. He could see the sky between the downtown office buildings from his apartment windows. Hopefully, Benson didn’t get too big it obscured his view of Mt. Rainier.

Naomi was an RN now and on staff here. Though usually she didn’t wear a nervous look on her face. She shoved the book she’d been reading under the lip of the counter where he was supposed to not be able to see it.Too late.

Jacob swallowed. “I’m here to see?—”

“Mr. Harris, that’s right.” She handed him the clipboard so he could check in. “He’s expecting you.”

He signed his name on the entry log. Tried not to let on that this was the most conversation he’d had in four days. Talking to Mr. Harris was going to have him right back at his apartment with only the ambient noise of city traffic for company. His two cats were the only living creatures he spent time with until he was ready to venture downstairs.

He’d given up expecting people to understand why he was the way he was or how he managed it, especially when people insisted on reading that book.

Sure, it’d been a bestseller. The library next door to the elementary school a block from his building had sixteen copies, and most of them were usually checked out. He’d heard lately they were thinking about putting it on the high school English curriculum.

Someone had made a ton of money writing about the worst two days of his life. Whoever it was never got any information about what’d happened aside from compiling hearsay. Then again, he’d refused an interview and heard from his lawyer that everyone else involved did the same. None of them wanted to relive any of it.

People thought what they wanted to. Jacob just went home to his solitude.

He left Naomi to her bestseller and headed for Mr. Harris. He was eighty-seven next month and had some dementia but had agreed to talk. Jacob could take all the photos he needed.

When he reached the room and saw Mr. Harris in his high-backed chair looking out the window, the light caught Jacob’s attention.

He dug out his camera and slipped the bags off his shoulder.

Jacob lifted the Nikon to his eye and looked at the man through the lens Grandpa had given him. A way for him to see the beauty in the world, the way Grandpa always did. The truth people tried to hide or walk away from—the good below the surface.

So he could experience it for himself, at least from a distance.

He’d needed it after all those hours at the whim of a man whose intention was to torture them until they broke. And that had only been the beginning of his plan.

Jacob had spent every day since—a span of more than fifteen years—purposely not thinking about it. Trying to find peace and see the good in what God had made. After all, he’d seen the bad. There was nothing worse left.

The click of the shutter reassured him. Like waking up to the relentless mew of hungry felines, waiting for him to dish out breakfast.

After getting a handful of good shots, he lowered the camera and took his things in. A pat on the shoulder jolted Mr. Harris out of his musing. The old guy roused as though he’d been sleeping, smacked his lips, and blinked.

Jacob pulled over a stool that might not bear his weight for long and sat opposite him. Mr. Harris wore brown slacks, wool slippers with tan rubber soles, and a threadbare blue shirt. Bumps ran up the older man’s arms.

Jacob grabbed a blanket from the end of the twin bed. “Here.” He waited for a second just in case the older man wanted to object, then settled it over his legs.

Mr. Harris clenched the edge of the blanket with knuckly hands. “Ah, yes. Our chat.”

“If that’s okay with you,” Jacob said. “It doesn’t have to be today.”

Mr. Harris lifted his hand and waved away Jacob’s comment. “I should tell someone.”

The comment was plenty loaded, but Jacob wasn’t about to ask questions on the man’s situation. Mrs. Harris had passed away in the ’90s—so coming up on thirty years nearly. Three children, seven grandchildren. They all lived in Seattle, and none had visited recently.

Whether that was due to them, or Mr. Harris, Jacob wasn’t about to get into it. He was more interested in Mr. Harris’s life as a young man. The stories were forgotten as the years passed, which he then compiled into a book. It was Jacob’s way of givinga voice to too many who were overlooked. Silenced or simply neglected.

“Was there a specific time you wanted to tell me about?”

Jacob preferred to leave the interviewee to decide what to reveal. He wasn’t worried about prejudice or corroborating stories to get to the truth. He wasn’t a reporter. He simply wanted people to talk in their own words. He’d developed a radar for stories that were genuine and held back what he thought might be fabricated or embellished. Out of the thousands of hours of interviews he did for a book, only a fraction would be printed about the person.

And still, people insisted on reading the drivel published about him.

Jacob let Mr. Harris think about his question. He needed a subject for his new book and hadn’t found the right person yet. The process had gone on so long it had set his schedule back.

God, is it Mr. Harris…or someone else?

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