CHAPTER 4

I Have Heavy Heartstrings

I jolt awake, reality bringing me away from the horrors of my past. My hands are clammy, my breaths are shaky, and you'd think I'd run a marathon by how sweaty and exhausted I feel.

It's an anxiety attack, Henry. Completely normal for someone with CPTSD , Dr. Bennett would say, and I hate that she's right. Ever since I started going to therapy and getting shit out of my head, I've been at the mercy of my emotions more and more. For years, I ignored everything: my pain, my worry, my anger. All of it. I could go into situations that would remind me of my mother and not freak out like I did last night. But now I'm in a place where I can't ignore my problems, and those problems are apparently hiding in the recesses of my mind.

I'm currently lying on my back, with my arm hugging on to a passed-out Beth, who is using my stomach as a pillow and is snoring incredibly loud. It's cute, and as much as I don't want to leave this position, she and I have work to do.

I shake her gently a couple times, then I watch her eyes peel open and her throat catch on a snore, making her choke and jerk awake. "Wasat?" she asks, stuck between sleep and wakefulness.

"It's nine-thirty in the morning," I inform her, glancing at the neon-colored clock on her nightstand. "We've got to prepare for my next assignment. I leave tomorrow."

She rubs her eyes and sits up, letting out a big yawn. "Are you sure you should go? After last night—"

"Last night won't happen again," I say with conviction. "I'm perfectly fine."

"Are you really, though?" Her eyes search mine, and for the first time in three years, I hate how well she can read me.

"Leave it alone, B," I beg, trying to convey with my eyes how badly I want to forget the last twelve hours. She nods, but I know she isn't happy about brushing this under the rug.

"I'm going to drive back to my apartment and get changed," I tell her, slipping out from under her multicolored blanket. "I'll meet you at the office?"

She nods again, her expression still one of concern, but she holds her tongue. "Will do."

Unable to help myself, I lean down and kiss her forehead, turning her expression from worry to shock within a blink. Her face is akin to the one I wore when she kissed me, and I hope she spends hours wondering what it means like I did.

"About my clothes from yesterday?" I start, running a hand through my mussed black hair.

"Yeah?"

"Keep them, sell them, burn them. They're all yours."

She looks down at the ridiculous shirt she picked out for me. "Those clothes aren't yours, though. I want my avocado shirt back in one piece."

Leave it to Beth to be concerned over a smiling avocado. "Copy that."

"Jacob Harrison and his twin, Johnathon, were born July 2 nd , 1984, in Surry," Beth reports, referring to the research she's acquired over the last couple days. "Their father died before they were born, and their mother died when they were only three years old. They spent a few years in a group home before being adopted by a very wealthy couple from south London: Quinten and Irina Samuels."

"Either of them have a record?" I ask, rubbing my chin in thought. I'm pacing the length of our office while Beth sits at her desk, reclined in her leather swivel chair with an iPad in her lap.

She nods. "Quinten was convicted of tax evasion and insurance fraud when the boys were teenagers and Irina lost custody of them after it came out that she was physically abusive to them. Jacob and Johnathon were put back into a group home for the last two years of their adolescence."

I shake my head, feeling just a hint of pity. "If only society cared more about the lives of those that need help the most."

Beth does a motorboat with her lips, scrolling down on her iPad. "Look straight at me and you see yourself," she mumbles.

I pause in my pacing, titling my head her way. "What?"

She meets my eyes. "‘Look down at me and you see a fool / Look up at me and you see a God / Look straight at me and you see yourself.' Charles Manson said that. I learned about it in an English class, and it's always stuck with me. He spent most of his childhood in juvie and in homes, just like the Harrison brothers and dozens of other criminals. Our upbringing isn't an excuse for how we behave as adults, but I think it's an explanation for how we become who we are. And the lack of care shown to children in the system is one of many reasons why people like Johnathon and Jacob Harrison exist."

I don't want to give Charles Manson any credit, nor do I want to agree with a racist, murdering fucker like him, but I must agree with that observation. Jacob and Johnathon Harrison weren't born the way they were; they were made into the monsters they are today by the people who promised to protect them.

The same could be said for me.

"Continue," I direct, starting up my pace again.

"Johnathon enlisted in the British army when he turned eighteen. He was deployed in Iraq for five years before being medically discharged. This didn't deter him though, because he became a part of MI6 a year after his discharge. He stayed there for fifteen years, then he retired to become the protection detail for his brother. Jacob, on the other hand, got a scholarship to Queen Mary University of London. He studied law and became an assistant for a law practice after he graduated. He ended up inheriting it when the attorney who owned it retired. He made a name for himself as a lawyer, which helped him when he ran for a cabinet position in Parliament. He won, obviously, and has been a terror to justice ever since. He and his brother have allegedly killed nearly two dozen people, all political rivals."

I nod, crossing my arms over my chest as I think. "If Johnathon is Jacob's protection detail, then they would both live in the same house. Did you find an address?"

Beth makes an aghast noise and raises her brows. "It's me! Of course, I did. Ye have such little faith."

She beckons me over towards her, so I go round her desk and grab the iPad she holds out to me. I stare down at the floor plan of the Harrison mansion, which is tucked away behind a large iron gate and protected by a complex system of cameras and alarms. There's a small house off to the back-west side of the mansion that functions as the hub for the security system and guards; the property is quite small compared to other estates I've seen, but it makes up for it in height, having six floors. Jacob's bedroom and office are right beside each other on the second floor, and I'd bet money he's in one of those rooms ninety percent of the time.

"Simon, our client, has been doing some surveillance on Jacob since he found out about his sister's death, and according to him, the brothers return home every day around 6 p.m., eat dinner at 6:30 p.m., then Johnathon goes to the guard house for the next two hours while Jacob works in his office. Johnathon does rounds from 9:00 p.m. until 11:00 p.m., then he goes to bed. Jacob usually is in bed by 10:00 p.m.."

"So, we have to act while he's in his office or in his bedroom. How's the alarm system look in both rooms?"

She reaches up and swipes on the iPad I'm holding, going to another photo she took of the security mainframe, which is the same one Johnathon and his cronies have access to. It looks like there are cameras in every room, and when the clock strikes ten, the alarm system for the windows turns on, which makes it harder to strike when he's asleep. Theoretically Beth could hack into the cameras and the alarm, but why force her to do more work when there's a two-hour window where he's in his office and we only have to take care of one or two cameras?

"So, we'll do this while he's in his office?" Beth asks, glancing at her CGM receiver to check her blood sugar.

I hand her back the iPad once she places the receiver down. "You're the boss."

She chuckles, smug as ever. "You finally abdicate your crown, sir? Has the mighty king of the kingdom been defeated?"

I poke her in the ribs, making her squirm. "I am undefeatable."

She snickers, poking me right back, but instead of the ribs, she goes for my stomach. "I know all of your weaknesses, Henry Cai. I could steal your kingdom no problem."

"Oh yeah? What are my weaknesses?"

She sighs, faking contemplation. "Well, there's your love for Italian food, your obsession with fictional British nobles, and most of all, your inability to deny my charm and wit."

She tries to poke me again as she finishes speaking, but I grab on to her hand and tug, pulling her off her feet. She nearly stumbles into me, but I lock my other arm around her back, keeping her steady. "That headset has really gotten to your head."

She shrugs, giving me an innocent smile. "I have no idea what you mean."

"Mhm." I smirk down at her, putting slight pressure on her back, pushing her closer to me. "You couldn't be boss. Power would get to your head."

"Agree to disagree." Her voice has grown quieter, her bravado starting to dwindle. Her eyes search mine, like she's trying to decipher a puzzle, and it might be the only thing I don't like about her. In a professional sense, her being able to read my emotions and my reactions is good, but ever since we became friends? I can't hide anything from her. It's fucking terrifying.

"What's your weakness, Beth?" I murmur, looking down at where our bodies connect.

I watch her chest rise and fall a little quicker than normal, and when I reconnect my gaze with hers, she answers me in a defeated whisper, "My attraction to bad ideas."

She takes a step back from me, her expression filled with a painful yearning that I don't have the mental capacity to analyze. I drop my arm and my hand, physically aching to reconnect with her, but I refrain. I force my arms to my sides and flex my fingers, still feeling the heat from her skin.

"I'll call you tomorrow when I land in the UK," I tell her, starting to walk around her desk and towards the door. I'm just about to graze the doorknob when I hear Beth's feet shuffle across the floor.

I look over my shoulder to see her standing on the other side of her desk. "Be safe, H."

I give her a small smile. "Always am."